Produced by Doug Levy
THE RAINBOW TRAIL, a Romance
by ZANE GREY.
CONTENTS.
FOREWORD
CHAPTER.
I. RED LAKE.
II. THE SAGI.
III. KAYENTA.
IV. NEW FRIENDS.
V. ON THE TRAIL.
VI. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY.
VII. SAGO-LILIES.
VIII. THE HOGAN OF NAS TA BEGA.
IX. IN THE DESERT CRUCIBLE.
X. STONEBRIDGE.
XI. AFTER THE TRIAL.
XII. THE REVELATION.
XIII. THE STORY OF SURPRISE VALLEY.
XIV. THE NAVAJO.
XV. WILD JUSTICE.
XVI. SURPRISE VALLEY.
XVII. THE TRAIL TO NONNEZOSHE.
XVIII. AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.
XIX. THE GRAND CANYON OF THE COLORADO.
XX. WILLOW SPRINGS.
EPILOGUE
FOREWORD
The spell of the desert comes back to me, as it always will come. I see
the veils, like purple smoke, in the cañon, and I feel the silence. And
it seems that again I must try to pierce both and to get at the strange
wild life of the last American wilderness--wild still, almost, as it
ever was.
While this romance is an independent story, yet readers of “Riders of
the Purple Sage” will find in it an answer to a question often asked.
I wish to say also this story has appeared serially in a different
form in one of the monthly magazines under the title of “The Desert
Crucible.” ZANE GREY.
June, 1915.
THE RAINBOW TRAIL
I. RED LAKE
Shefford halted his tired horse and gazed with slowly realizing eyes.
A league-long slope of sage rolled and billowed down to Red Lake, a dry
red basin, denuded and glistening, a hollow in the desert, a lonely and
desolate door to the vast, wild, and broken upland beyond.
All day Shefford had plodded onward with the clear horizon-line a thing
unattainable; and for days before that he had ridden the wild bare flats
and climbed the rocky desert benches. The great colored reaches and
steps had led endlessly onward and upward through dim and deceiving
distance.
A hundred miles of desert travel, with its mistakes and lessons and
intimations, had not prepared him for what he now saw. He beheld what
seemed a world that knew only magnitude. Wonder and awe fixed his gaze,
and thought remained aloof. Then that dark and unknown northland flung
a menace at him. An irresistible call had drawn him to this seamed and
peaked border of Arizona, this broken battlemented wilderness of Utah
upland; and at first sight they frowned upon him, as if to warn him not
to search for what lay hidden beyond the ranges. But Shefford thrilled
with both fear and exultation. That was the country which had been
described to him. Far across the red valley, far beyond the ragged line
of black mesa and yellow range, lay the wild cañon with its haunting
secret.
Red Lake must be his Rubicon. Either he must enter the unknown to seek,
to strive, to find, or turn back and fail and never know and be always
haunted. A friend's strange story had prompted his singular journey; a
beautiful rainbow with its mystery and promise had decided him. Once in
his life he had answered a wild call to the kingdom of adventure
within him, and once in his life he had been happy. But here in the
horizon-wide face of that up-flung and cloven desert he grew cold; he
faltered even while he felt more fatally drawn.
As if impelled Shefford started his horse down the sandy trail, but he
checked his former far-reaching gaze. It was the month of April, and the
waning sun lost heat and brightness. Long shadows crept down the slope
ahead of him and the scant sage deepened its gray. He watched the
lizards shoot like brown streaks across the sand, leaving their slender
tracks; he heard the rustle of pack-rats as they darted into their
brushy homes; the whir of a low-sailing hawk startled his horse.
Like ocean waves the slope rose and fell, its hollows choked with sand,
its ridge-tops showing scantier growth of sage and grass and weed. The
last ridge was a sand-dune, beautifully ribbed and scalloped and lined
by the wind, and from its knife-sharp crest a thin wavering sheet of
sand blew, almost like smoke. Shefford wondered why the sand looked red
at a distance, for here it seemed almost white. It rippled everywhere,
clean and glistening, always leading down.
Suddenly Shefford became aware of a house looming out of the bareness
of the slope. It dominated that long white incline. Grim, lonely,
forbidding, how strangely it harmonized with the surroundings! The
structure was octagon-shaped, built of uncut stone, and resembled a
fort. There was no door on the sides exposed to Shefford's gaze, but
small apertures two-thirds the way up probably served as windows and
port-holes. The roof appeared to be made of poles covered with red
earth.
Like a huge cold rock on a wide plain this house stood there on the
windy slope. It was an outpost of the trader Presbrey, of whom Shefford
had heard at Flagstaff and Tuba. No living thing appeared in the
limit of Shefford's vision. He gazed shudderingly at the unwelcoming
habitation, at the dark eyelike windows, at the sweep of barren slope
merging into the vast red valley, at the bold, bleak bluffs. Could any
one live here? The nature of that sinister valley forbade a home there,
and the spirit of the place hovered in the silence and space. Shefford
thought irresistibly of how his enemies would have consigned him to
just such a hell. He thought bitterly and mockingly of the narrow
congregation that had proved him a failure in the ministry, that had
repudiated his ideas of religion and immortality and God, that had
driven him, at the age of twenty-four, from the calling forced upon him
by his people. As a boy he had yearned to make himself an artist; his
family had made him a clergyman; fate had made him a failure. A failure
only so far in his life, something urged him to add--for in the lonely
days and silent nights of the desert he had experienced a strange birth
of hope. Adventure had called him, but it was a vague and spiritual
hope, a dream of promise, a nameless attainment that fortified his
wilder impulse.
As he rode around a corner of the stone house his horse snorted and
stopped. A lean, shaggy pony jumped at sight of him, almost displacing
a red long-haired blanket that covered an Indian saddle. Quick thuds
of hoofs in sand drew Shefford's attention to a corral made of peeled
poles, and here he saw another pony.
Shefford heard subdued voices. He dismounted and walked to an open door.
In the dark interior he dimly descried a high counter, a stairway, a
pile of bags of flour, blankets, and silver-ornamented objects, but the
persons he had heard were not in that part of the house. Around another
corner of the octagon-shaped wall he found another open door, and
through it saw goat-skins and a mound of dirty sheep-wool, black and
brown and white. It was light in this part of the building. When he
crossed the threshold he was astounded to see a man struggling with
a girl--an Indian girl. She was straining back from him, panting, and
uttering low guttural sounds. The man's face was corded and dark with
passion. This scene affected Shefford strangely. Primitive emotions were
new to him.
Before Shefford could speak the girl broke loose and turned to flee. She
was an Indian and this place was the uncivilized desert, but Shefford
knew terror when he saw it. Like a dog the man rushed after her. It was
instinct that made Shefford strike, and his blow laid the man flat. He
lay stunned a moment, then raised himself to a sitting posture, his
hand to his face, and the gaze he fixed upon Shefford seemed to combine
astonishment and rage.
“I hope you're not Presbrey,” said Shefford, slowly. He felt awkward,
not sure of himself.
The man appeared about to burst into speech, but repressed it. There
was blood on his mouth and his hand. Hastily he scrambled to his feet.
Shefford saw this man's amaze and rage change to shame. He was tall and
rather stout; he had a smooth tanned face, soft of outline, with a weak
chin; his eyes were dark. The look of him and his corduroys and his soft
shoes gave Shefford an impression that he was not a man who worked hard.
By contrast with the few other worn and rugged desert men Shefford had
met this stranger stood out strikingly. He stooped to pick up a soft
felt hat and, jamming it on his head, he hurried out. Shefford followed
him and watched him from the door. He went directly to the corral,
mounted the pony, and rode out, to turn down the slope toward the south.
When he reached the level of the basin, where evidently the sand was
hard, he put the pony to a lope and gradually drew away.
“Well!” ejaculated Shefford. He did not know what to make of this
adventure. Presently he became aware that the Indian girl was sitting on
a roll of blankets near the wall. With curious interest Shefford studied
her appearance. She had long, raven-black hair, tangled and disheveled,
and she wore a soiled white band of cord above her brow. The color of
her face struck him; it was dark, but not red nor bronzed; it almost
had a tinge of gold. Her profile was clear-cut, bold, almost stern. Long
black eyelashes hid her eyes. She wore a tight-fitting waist garment of
material resembling velveteen. It was ripped along her side, exposing
a skin still more richly gold than that of her face. A string of silver
ornaments and turquoise-and-white beads encircled her neck, and it moved
gently up and down with the heaving of her full bosom. Her skirt was
some gaudy print goods, torn and stained and dusty. She had little feet,
incased in brown moccasins, fitting like gloves and buttoning over the
ankles with silver coins.
“Who was that man? Did he hurt you?” inquired Shefford, turning to gaze
down the valley where a moving black object showed on the bare sand.
“No savvy,” replied the Indian girl.
“Where's the trader Presbrey?” asked Shefford.
She pointed straight down into the red valley.
“Toh,” she said.
In the center of the basin lay a small pool of water shining brightly in
the sunset glow. Small objects moved around it, so small that Shefford
thought he saw several dogs led by a child. But it was the distance
that deceived him. There was a man down there watering his horses. That
reminded Shefford of the duty owing to his own tired and thirsty beast.
Whereupon he untied his pack, took off the saddle, and was about ready
to start down when the Indian girl grasped the bridle from his hand.
“Me go,” she said.
He saw her eyes then, and they made her look different. They were as
black as her hair. He was puzzled to decide whether or not he thought
her handsome.
“Thanks, but I'll go,” he replied, and, taking the bridle again, he
started down the slope. At every step he sank into the deep, soft sand.
Down a little way he came upon a pile of tin cans; they were everywhere,
buried, half buried, and lying loose; and these gave evidence of how
the trader lived. Presently Shefford discovered that the Indian girl
was following him with her own pony. Looking upward at her against the
light, he thought her slender, lithe, picturesque. At a distance he
liked her.
He plodded on, at length glad to get out of the drifts of sand to the
hard level floor of the valley. This, too, was sand, but dried and baked
hard, and red in color. At some season of the year this immense flat
must be covered with water. How wide it was, and empty! Shefford
experienced again a feeling that had been novel to him--and it was that
he was loose, free, unanchored, ready to veer with the wind. From the
foot of the slope the water hole had appeared to be a few hundred rods
out in the valley. But the small size of the figures made Shefford
doubt; and he had to travel many times a few hundred rods before those
figures began to grow. Then Shefford made out that they were approaching
him.
Thereafter they rapidly increased to normal proportions of man and
beast. When Shefford met them he saw a powerful, heavily built young man
leading two ponies.
“You're Mr. Presbrey, the trader?” inquired Shefford.
“Yes, I'm Presbrey, without the Mister,” he replied.
“My name's Shefford. I'm knocking about on the desert. Rode from beyond
Tuba to-day.”
“Glad to see you,” said Presbrey. He offered his hand. He was a stalwart
man, clad in gray shirt, overalls, and boots. A shock of tumbled light
hair covered his massive head; he was tanned, but not darkly, and there
was red in his cheeks; under his shaggy eyebrows were deep, keen eyes;
his lips were hard and set, as if occasion for smiles or words was rare;
and his big, strong jaw seemed locked.
“Wish more travelers came knocking around Red Lake,” he added. “Reckon
here's the jumping-off place.”
“It's pretty--lonesome,” said Shefford, hesitating as if at a loss for
words.
Then the Indian girl came up. Presbrey addressed her in her own
language, which Shefford did not understand. She seemed shy and would
not answer; she stood with downcast face and eyes. Presbrey spoke again,
at which she pointed down the valley, and then moved on with her pony
toward the water-hole.
Presbrey's keen eyes fixed on the receding black dot far down that oval
expanse.
“That fellow left--rather abruptly,” said Shefford, constrainedly. “Who
was he?”
“His name's Willetts. He's a missionary. He rode in to-day with this
Navajo girl. He was taking her to Blue Cañon, where he lives and
teaches the Indians. I've met him only a few times. You see, not many
white men ride in here. He's the first white man I've seen in six
months, and you're the second. Both the same day!... Red Lake's getting
popular! It's queer, though, his leaving. He expected to stay all night.
There's no other place to stay. Blue Cañon is fifty miles away.”
“I'm sorry to say--no, I'm not sorry, either--but I must tell you I was
the cause of Mr. Willetts leaving,” replied Shefford.
“How so?” inquired the other.
Then Shefford related the incident following his arrival.
“Perhaps my action was hasty,” he concluded, apologetically. “I didn't
think. Indeed, I'm surprised at myself.”
Presbrey made no comment and his face was as hard to read as one of the
distant bluffs.
“But what did the man mean?” asked Shefford, conscious of a little
heat. “I'm a stranger out here. I'm ignorant of Indians--how they're
controlled. Still I'm no fool.... If Willetts didn't mean evil, at least
he was brutal.”
“He was teaching her religion,” replied Presbrey. His tone held faint
scorn and implied a joke, but his face did not change in the slightest.
Without understanding just why, Shefford felt his conviction justified
and his action approved. Then he was sensible of a slight shock of
wonder and disgust.
“I am--I was a minister of the Gospel,” he said to Presbrey. “What you
hint seems impossible. I can't believe it.”
“I didn't hint,” replied Presbrey, bluntly, and it was evident that
he was a sincere, but close-mouthed, man. “Shefford, so you're a
preacher?... Did you come out here to try to convert the Indians?”
“No. I said I WAS a minister. I am no longer. I'm just a--a wanderer.”
“I see. Well, the desert's no place for missionaries, but it's good for
wanderers.... Go water your horse and take him up to the corral. You'll
find some hay for him. I'll get grub ready.”
Shefford went on with his horse to the pool. The water appeared thick,
green, murky, and there was a line of salty crust extending around the
margin of the pool. The thirsty horse splashed in and eagerly bent his
head. But he did not like the taste. Many times he refused to drink, yet
always lowered his nose again. Finally he drank, though not his fill.
Shefford saw the Indian girl drink from her hand. He scooped up a
handful and found it too sour to swallow. When he turned to retrace his
steps she mounted her pony and followed him.
A golden flare lit up the western sky, and silhouetted dark and lonely
against it stood the trading-post. Upon his return Shefford found the
wind rising, and it chilled him. When he reached the slope thin gray
sheets of sand were blowing low, rising, whipping, falling, sweeping
along with soft silken rustle. Sometimes the gray veils hid his boots.
It was a long, toilsome climb up that yielding, dragging ascent, and he
had already been lame and tired. By the time he had put his horse away
twilight was everywhere except in the west. The Indian girl left her
pony in the corral and came like a shadow toward the house.
Shefford had difficulty in finding the foot of the stairway. He climbed
to enter a large loft, lighted by two lamps. Presbrey was there,
kneading biscuit dough in a pan.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
The huge loft was the shape of a half-octagon. A door opened upon the
valley side, and here, too, there were windows. How attractive the place
was in comparison with the impressions gained from the outside! The
furnishings consisted of Indian blankets on the floor, two beds, a
desk and table, several chairs and a couch, a gun-rack full of rifles,
innumerable silver-ornamented belts, bridles, and other Indian articles
upon the walls, and in one corner a wood-burning stove with teakettle
steaming, and a great cupboard with shelves packed full of canned foods.
Shefford leaned in the doorway and looked out. Beneath him on a roll of
blankets sat the Indian girl, silent and motionless. He wondered what
was in her mind, what she would do, how the trader would treat her. The
slope now was a long slant of sheeted moving shadows of sand. Dusk had
gathered in the valley. The bluffs loomed beyond. A pale star twinkled
above. Shefford suddenly became aware of the intense nature of the
stillness about him. Yet, as he listened to this silence, he heard
an intermittent and immeasurably low moan, a fitful, mournful murmur.
Assuredly it was only the wind. Nevertheless, it made his blood run
cold. It was a different wind from that which had made music under
the eaves of his Illinois home. This was a lonely, haunting wind, with
desert hunger in it, and more which he could not name. Shefford listened
to this spirit-brooding sound while he watched night envelop the valley.
How black, how thick the mantle! Yet it brought no comforting sense
of close-folded protection, of walls of soft sleep, of a home. Instead
there was the feeling of space, of emptiness, of an infinite hall down
which a mournful wind swept streams of murmuring sand.
“Well, grub's about ready,” said Presbrey.
“Got any water?” asked Shefford.
“Sure. There in the bucket. It's rain-water. I have a tank here.”
Shefford's sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off
the sand and alkali dust.
“Better not wash your face often while you're in the desert. Bad plan,”
went on Presbrey, noting how gingerly his visitor had gone about his
ablutions. “Well, come and eat.”
Shefford marked that if the trader did live a lonely life he fared well.
There was more on the table than twice two men could have eaten. It was
the first time in four days that Shefford had sat at a table, and he
made up for lost opportunity.
His host's actions indicated pleasure, yet the strange, hard face never
relaxed, never changed. When the meal was finished Presbrey declined
assistance, had a generous thought of the Indian girl, who, he said,
could have a place to eat and sleep down-stairs, and then with the skill
and despatch of an accomplished housewife cleared the table, after which
work he filled a pipe and evidently prepared to listen.
It took only one question for Shefford to find that the trader was
starved for news of the outside world; and for an hour Shefford fed that
appetite, even as he had been done by. But when he had talked himself
out there seemed indication of Presbrey being more than a good listener.
“How'd you come in?” he asked, presently.
“By Flagstaff--across the Little Colorado--and through Moencopie.”
“Did you stop at Moen Ave?”
“No. What place is that?”
“A missionary lives there. Did you stop at Tuba?”
“Only long enough to drink and water my horse. That was a wonderful
spring for the desert.”
“You said you were a wanderer.... Do you want a job? I'll give you one.”
“No, thank you, Presbrey.”
“I saw your pack. That's no pack to travel with in this country. Your
horse won't last, either. Have you any money?”
“Yes, plenty of money.”
“Well, that's good. Not that a white man out here would ever take a
dollar from you. But you can buy from the Indians as you go. Where are
you making for, anyhow?”
Shefford hesitated, debating in mind whether to tell his purpose or not.
His host did not press the question.
“I see. Just foot-loose and wandering around,” went on Presbrey. “I can
understand how the desert appeals to you. Preachers lead easy, safe,
crowded, bound lives. They're shut up in a church with a Bible and good
people. When once in a lifetime they get loose--they break out.”
“Yes, I've broken out--beyond all bounds,” replied Shefford, sadly.
He seemed retrospective for a moment, unaware of the trader's keen and
sympathetic glance, and then he caught himself. “I want to see some wild
life. Do you know the country north of here?”
“Only what the Navajos tell me. And they're not much to talk. There's
a trail goes north, but I've never traveled it. It's a new trail every
time an Indian goes that way, for here the sand blows and covers old
tracks. But few Navajos ride in from the north. My trade is mostly with
Indians up and down the valley.”
“How about water and grass?”
“We've had rain and snow. There's sure to be, water. Can't say about
grass, though the sheep and ponies from the north are always fat....
But, say, Shefford, if you'll excuse me for advising you--don't go
north.”
“Why?” asked Shefford, and it was certain that he thrilled.
“It's unknown country, terribly broken, as you can see from here, and
there are bad Indians biding in the cañon. I've never met a man who had
been over the pass between here and Kayenta. The trip's been made, so
there must be a trail. But it's a dangerous trip for any man, let alone
a tenderfoot. You're not even packing a gun.”
“What's this place Kayenta?” asked Shefford.
“It's a spring. Kayenta means Bottomless Spring. There's a little
trading-post, the last and the wildest in northern Arizona. Withers, the
trader who keeps it, hauls his supplies in from Colorado and New Mexico.
He's never come down this way. I never saw him. Know nothing of him
except hearsay. Reckon he's a nervy and strong man to hold that post. If
you want to go there, better go by way of Keams Cañon, and then around
the foot of Black Mesa. It'll be a long ride--maybe two hundred miles.”
“How far straight north over the pass?”
“Can't say. Upward of seventy-five miles over rough trails, if there are
trails at all.... I've heard rumors of a fine tribe of Navajos living in
there, rich in sheep and horses. It may be true and it may not. But I do
know there are bad Indians, half-breeds and outcasts, hiding in there.
Some of them have visited me here. Bad customers! More than that,
you'll be going close to the Utah line, and the Mormons over there are
unfriendly these days.”
“Why?” queried Shefford, again with that curious thrill.
“They are being persecuted by the government.”
Shefford asked no more questions and his host vouchsafed no more
information on that score. The conversation lagged. Then Shefford
inquired about the Indian girl and learned that she lived up the valley
somewhere. Presbrey had never seen her before Willetts came with her
to Red Lake. And this query brought out the fact that Presbrey was
comparatively new to Red Lake and vicinity. Shefford wondered why a
lonely six months there had not made the trader old in experience.
Probably the desert did not readily give up its secrets. Moreover, this
Red Lake house was only an occasionally used branch of Presbrey's main
trading-post, which was situated at Willow Springs, fifty miles westward
over the mesa.
“I'm closing up here soon for a spell,” said Presbrey, and now his
face lost its set hardness and seemed singularly changed. It was a
difference, of light and softness. “Won't be so lonesome over at Willow
Springs.... I'm being married soon.”
“That's fine,” replied Shefford, warmly. He was glad for the sake of
this lonely desert man. What good a wife would bring into a trader's
life!
Presbrey's naive admission, however, appeared to detach him from his
present surroundings, and with his massive head enveloped by a cloud of
smoke he lived in dreams.
Shefford respected his host's serene abstraction. Indeed, he was
grateful for silence. Not for many nights had the past impinged so
closely upon the present. The wound in his soul had not healed, and to
speak of himself made it bleed anew. Memory was too poignant; the past
was too close; he wanted to forget until he had toiled into the heart of
this forbidding wilderness--until time had gone by and he dared to face
his unquiet soul. Then he listened to the steadily rising roar of the
wind. How strange and hollow! That wind was freighted with heavy sand,
and he heard it sweep, sweep, sweep by in gusts, and then blow with
dull, steady blast against the walls. The sound was provocative of
thought. This moan and rush of wind was no dream--this presence of his
in a night-enshrouded and sand-besieged house of the lonely desert was
reality--this adventure was not one of fancy. True indeed, then, must
be the wild, strange story that had led him hither. He was going on to
seek, to strive, to find. Somewhere northward in the broken fastnesses
lay hidden a valley walled in from the world. Would they be there, those
lost fugitives whose story had thrilled him? After twelve years would
she be alive, a child grown to womanhood in the solitude of a beautiful
cañon? Incredible! Yet he believed his friend's story and he indeed
knew how strange and tragic life was. He fancied he heard her voice
on the sweeping wind. She called to him, haunted him. He admitted the
improbability of her existence, but lost nothing of the persistent
intangible hope that drove him. He believed himself a man stricken in
soul, unworthy, through doubt of God, to minister to the people who had
banished him. Perhaps a labor of Hercules, a mighty and perilous work of
rescue, the saving of this lost and imprisoned girl, would help him in
his trouble. She might be his salvation. Who could tell? Always as a boy
and as a man he had fared forth to find the treasure at the foot of the
rainbow.
II. THE SAGI
Next morning the Indian girl was gone and the tracks of her pony led
north. Shefford's first thought was to wonder if he would overtake her
on the trail; and this surprised him with the proof of how unconsciously
his resolve to go on had formed.
Presbrey made no further attempt to turn Shefford back. But he insisted
on replenishing the pack, and that Shefford take weapons. Finally
Shefford was persuaded to accept a revolver. The trader bade him good-by
and stood in the door while Shefford led his horse down the slope
toward the water-hole. Perhaps the trader believed he was watching the
departure of a man who would never return. He was still standing at the
door of the post when Shefford halted at the pool.
Upon the level floor of the valley lay thin patches of snow which
had fallen during the night. The air was biting cold, yet stimulated
Shefford while it stung him. His horse drank rather slowly and
disgustedly. Then Shefford mounted and reluctantly turned his back upon
the trading-post.
As he rode away from the pool he saw a large flock of sheep approaching.
They were very closely, even densely, packed, in a solid slow-moving
mass and coming with a precision almost like a march. This fact
surprised Shefford, for there was not an Indian in sight. Presently he
saw that a dog was leading the flock, and a little later he discovered
another dog in the rear of the sheep. They were splendid, long-haired
dogs, of a wild-looking shepherd breed. He halted his horse to watch the
procession pass by. The flock covered fully an acre of ground and the
sheep were black, white, and brown. They passed him, making a little
pattering roar on the hard-caked sand. The dogs were taking the sheep in
to water.
Shefford went on and was drawing close to the other side of the basin,
where the flat red level was broken by rising dunes and ridges, when he
espied a bunch of ponies. A shrill whistle told him that they had seen
him. They were wild, shaggy, with long manes and tails. They stopped,
threw up their heads, and watched him. Shefford certainly returned the
attention. There was no Indian with them. Presently, with a snort, the
leader, which appeared to be a stallion, trotted behind the others,
seemed to be driving them, and went clear round the band to get in the
lead again. He was taking them in to water, the same as the dogs had
taken the sheep.
These incidents were new and pleasing to Shefford. How ignorant he had
been of life in the wilderness! Once more he received subtle intimations
of what he might learn out in the open; and it was with a less weighted
heart that he faced the gateway between the huge yellow bluffs on his
left and the slow rise of ground to the black mesa on his right. He
looked back in time to see the trading-post, bleak and lonely on the
bare slope, pass out of sight behind the bluffs. Shefford felt no
fear--he really had little experience of physical fear--but it was
certain that he gritted his teeth and welcomed whatever was to come to
him. He had lived a narrow, insulated life with his mind on spiritual
things; his family and his congregation and his friends--except that
one new friend whose story had enthralled him--were people of quiet
religious habit; the man deep down in him had never had a chance. He
breathed hard as he tried to imagine the world opening to him, and
almost dared to be glad for the doubt that had sent him adrift.
The tracks of the Indian girl's pony were plain in the sand. Also there
were other tracks, not so plain, and these Shefford decided had been
made by Willetts and the girl the day before. He climbed a ridge, half
soft sand and half hard, and saw right before him, rising in striking
form, two great yellow buttes, like elephant legs. He rode between them,
amazed at their height. Then before him stretched a slowly ascending
valley, walled on one side by the black mesa and on the other by low
bluffs. For miles a dark-green growth of greasewood covered the valley,
and Shefford could see where the green thinned and failed, to give place
to sand. He trotted his horse and made good time on this stretch.
The day contrasted greatly with any he had yet experienced. Gray clouds
obscured the walls of rock a few miles to the west, and Shefford saw
squalls of snow like huge veils dropping down and spreading out. The
wind cut with the keenness of a knife. Soon he was chilled to the bone.
A squall swooped and roared down upon him, and the wind that bore the
driving white pellets of snow, almost like hail, was so freezing bitter
cold that the former wind seemed warm in comparison. The squall passed
as swiftly as it had come, and it left Shefford so benumbed he could not
hold the bridle. He tumbled off his horse and walked. By and by the sun
came out and soon warmed him and melted the thin layer of snow on the
sand. He was still on the trail of the Indian girl, but hers were now
the only tracks he could see.
All morning he gradually climbed, with limited view, until at last he
mounted to a point where the country lay open to his sight on all sides
except where the endless black mesa ranged on into the north. A rugged
yellow peak dominated the landscape to the fore, but it was far away.
Red and jagged country extended westward to a huge flat-topped wall of
gray rock. Lowering swift clouds swept across the sky, like drooping
mantles, and darkened the sun. Shefford built a little fire out of dead
greasewood sticks, and with his blanket round his shoulders he hung over
the blaze, scorching his clothes and hands. He had been cold before in
his life but he had never before appreciated fire. This desert blast
pierced him. The squall enveloped him, thicker and colder and windier
than the other, but, being better fortified, he did not suffer so much.
It howled away, hiding the mesa and leaving a white desert behind.
Shefford walked on, leading his horse, until the exercise and the sun
had once more warmed him.
This last squall had rendered the Indian girl's trail difficult to
follow. The snow did not quickly melt, and, besides, sheep tracks and
the tracks of horses gave him trouble, until at last he was compelled to
admit that he could not follow her any longer. A faint path or trail
led north, however, and, following that, he soon forgot the girl. Every
surmounted ridge held a surprise for him. The desert seemed never to
change in the vast whole that encompassed him, yet near him it was
always changing. From Red Lake he had seen a peaked, walled, and
canyoned country, as rough as a stormy sea; but when he rode into that
country the sharp and broken features held to the distance.
He was glad to get out of the sand. Long narrow flats, gray with grass
and dotted with patches of greasewood, and lined by low bare ridges of
yellow rock, stretched away from him, leading toward the yellow peak
that seemed never to be gained upon.
Shefford had pictures in his mind, pictures of stone walls and wild
valleys and domed buttes, all of which had been painted in colorful and
vivid words by his friend Venters. He believed he would recognize the
distinctive and remarkable landmarks Venters had portrayed, and he was
certain that he had not yet come upon one of them. This was his second
lonely day of travel and he had grown more and more susceptible to the
influence of horizon and the different prominent points. He attributed
a gradual change in his feelings to the loneliness and the increasing
wildness. Between Tuba and Flagstaff he had met Indians and an
occasional prospector and teamster. Here he was alone, and though he
felt some strange gladness, he could not help but see the difference.
He rode on during the gray, lowering, chilly day, and toward evening
the clouds broke in the west, and a setting sun shone through the
rift, burnishing the desert to red and gold. Shefford's instinctive
but deadened love of the beautiful in nature stirred into life, and the
moment of its rebirth was a melancholy and sweet one. Too late for the
artist's work, but not too late for his soul!
For a place to make camp he halted near a low area of rock that lay like
an island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead greasewood
for a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he found little
pools of melted snow in the depressions. He took off the saddle and
pack, watered his horse, and, hobbling him as well as his inexperience
permitted, he turned him loose on the grass.
Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down upon
him. In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind, but
the air, was bitter cold. He gathered all the dead greasewood in the
vicinity, replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to the
blaze. The loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this night.
He was too tired and cold. He went to sleep at once and did not awaken
until the fire died out. Then he rebuilt it and went to sleep again.
Every half-hour all night long he repeated this, and was glad indeed
when the dawn broke.
The day began with misfortune. His horse was gone; it had been stolen,
or had worked out of sight, or had broken the hobbles and made off. From
a high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes, all
to no purpose. Then he tried to track the horse, but this was equally
futile. He had expected disasters, and the first one did not daunt him.
He tied most of his pack in the blanket, threw the canteen across his
shoulder, and set forth, sure at least of one thing--that he was a very
much better traveler on foot than on horseback.
Walking did not afford him the leisure to study the surrounding country;
however, from time to time, when he surmounted a bench he scanned the
different landmarks that had grown familiar. It took hours of steady
walking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had been a kind of
goal. He saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in the vicinity of this
mountain, and once he was sure he espied an Indian watching him from a
bold ridge-top.
The day was bright and warm, with air so clear it magnified objects
he knew to be far away. The ascent was gradual; there were many narrow
flats connected by steps; and the grass grew thicker and longer. At noon
Shefford halted under the first cedar-tree, a lonely, dwarfed shrub that
seemed to have had a hard life. From this point the rise of ground was
more perceptible, and straggling cedars led the eye on to a purple slope
that merged into green of pinyon and pine. Could that purple be the
sage Venters had so feelingly described, or was it merely the purple of
deceiving distance? Whatever it might be, it gave Shefford a thrill and
made him think of the strange, shy, and lovely woman Venters had won out
here in this purple-sage country.
He calculated that he had ridden thirty miles the day before and had
already traveled ten miles today, and therefore could hope to be in the
pass before night. Shefford resumed his journey with too much energy and
enthusiasm to think of being tired. And he discovered presently that
the straggling cedars and the slope beyond were much closer than he
had judged them to be. He reached the sage to find it gray instead of
purple. Yet it was always purple a little way ahead, and if he half shut
his eyes it was purple near at hand. He was surprised to find that he
could not breathe freely, or it seemed so, and soon made the discovery
that the sweet, pungent, penetrating fragrance of sage and cedar had
this strange effect upon him. This was an exceedingly dry and odorous
forest, where every open space between the clumps of cedars was choked
with luxuriant sage. The pinyons were higher up on the mesa, and the
pines still higher. Shefford appeared to lose himself. There were no
trails; the black mesa on the right and the wall of stone on the left
could not be seen; but he pushed on with what was either singular
confidence or rash impulse. And he did not know whether that slope was
long or short. Once at the summit he saw with surprise that it broke
abruptly and the descent was very steep and short on that side. Through
the trees he once more saw the black mesa, rising to the dignity of a
mountain; and he had glimpses of another flat, narrow valley, this time
with a red wall running parallel with the mesa. He could not help but
hurry down to get an unobstructed view. His eagerness was rewarded by a
splendid scene, yet to his regret he could not force himself to believe
it had any relation to the pictured scenes in his mind. The valley was
half a mile wide, perhaps several miles long, and it extended in a curve
between the cedar-sloped mesa and a looming wall of red stone. There was
not a bird or a beast in sight. He found a well-defined trail, but it
had not been recently used. He passed a low structure made of peeled
logs and mud, with a dark opening like a door. It did not take him many
minutes to learn that the valley was longer than he had calculated.
He walked swiftly and steadily, in spite of the fact that the pack had
become burdensome. What lay beyond the jutting corner of the mesa had
increasing fascination for him and acted as a spur. At last he turned
the corner, only to be disappointed at sight of another cedar slope.
He had a glimpse of a single black shaft of rock rising far in the
distance, and it disappeared as his striding forward made the crest of
the slope rise toward the sky.
Again his view became restricted, and he lost the sense of a slow and
gradual uplift of rock and an increase in the scale of proportion.
Half-way up this ascent he was compelled to rest; and again the sun was
slanting low when he entered the cedar forest. Soon he was descending,
and he suddenly came into the open to face a scene that made his heart
beat thick and fast.
He saw lofty crags and cathedral spires, and a wonderful cañon winding
between huge beetling red walls. He heard the murmur of flowing water.
The trail led down to the cañon floor, which appeared to be level and
green and cut by deep washes in red earth. Could this cañon be the
mouth of Deception Pass? It bore no resemblance to any place Shefford
had heard described, yet somehow he felt rather than saw that it was the
portal to the wild vastness he had traveled so far to enter.
Not till he had descended the trail and had dropped his pack did he
realize how weary and footsore he was. Then he rested. But his eyes
roved to and fro, and his mind was active. What a wild and lonesome
spot! The low murmur of shallow water came up to him from a deep, narrow
cleft. Shadows were already making the cañon seem full of blue haze. He
saw a bare slope of stone out of which cedar-trees were growing. And as
he looked about him he became aware of a singular and very perceptible
change in the lights and shades. The sun was setting; the crags were
gold-tipped; the shadows crept upward; the sky seemed to darken swiftly;
then the gold changed to red, slowly dulled, and the grays and purples
stood out. Shefford was entranced with the beautiful changing effects,
and watched till the walls turned black and the sky grew steely and a
faint star peeped out. Then he set about the necessary camp tasks.
Dead cedars right at hand assured him a comfortable night with steady
fire; and when he had satisfied his hunger he arranged an easy seat
before the blazing logs, and gave his mind over to thought of his weird,
lonely environment.
The murmur of running water mingled in harmonious accompaniment with the
moan of the wind in the cedars--wild, sweet sounds that were balm to his
wounded spirit! They seemed a part of the silence, rather than a break
in it or a hindrance to the feeling of it. But suddenly that silence
did break to the rattle of a rock. Shefford listened, thinking some wild
animal was prowling around. He felt no alarm. Presently he heard the
sound again, and again. Then he recognized the crack of unshod hoofs
upon rock. A horse was coming down the trail. Shefford rather resented
the interruption, though he still had no alarm. He believed he was
perfectly safe. As a matter of fact, he had never in his life been
anything but safe and padded around with wool, hence, never having
experienced peril, he did not know what fear was.
Presently he saw a horse and rider come into dark prominence on the
ridge just above his camp. They were silhouetted against the starry
sky. The horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent black
statue, somehow wild and strange, in Shefford's sight. Then he came on,
vanished in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge into the
circle of camp-fire light.
He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse was
dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run. The rider appeared to be an
Indian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy. At once
Shefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds. A little
shock, inexplicable to Shefford, rippled over him.
He greeted his visitor, but received no answer. Shefford saw a dark,
squat figure bending forward in the saddle. The man was tense. All about
him was dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle. The face
under the sombrero was only a shadow. Shefford kicked the fire-logs and
a brighter blaze lightened the scene. Then he saw this stranger a little
more clearly, and made out an unusually large head, broad dark face, a
sinister tight-shut mouth, and gleaming black eyes.
Those eyes were unmistakably hostile. They roved searchingly over
Shefford's pack and then over his person. Shefford felt for the gun that
Presbrey had given him. But it was gone. He had left it back where he
had lost his horse, and had not thought of it since. Then a strange,
slow-coming cold agitation possessed Shefford. Something gripped his
throat.
Suddenly Shefford was stricken at a menacing movement on the part of
the horseman. He had drawn a gun. Shefford saw it shine darkly in the
firelight. The Indian meant to murder him. Shefford saw the grim, dark
face in a kind of horrible amaze. He felt the meaning of that drawn
weapon as he had never felt anything before in his life. And he
collapsed back into his seat with an icy, sickening terror. In a second
he was dripping wet with cold sweat. Lightning-swift thoughts flashed
through his mind. It had been one of his platitudes that he was not
afraid of death. Yet here he was a shaking, helpless coward. What had
he learned about either life or death? Would this dark savage plunge
him into the unknown? It was then that Shefford realized his hollow
philosophy and the bitter-sweetness of life. He had a brain and a soul,
and between them he might have worked out his salvation. But what were
they to this ruthless night-wanderer, this raw and horrible wildness of
the desert?
Incapable of voluntary movement, with tongue cleaving to the roof of his
mouth, Shefford watched the horseman and the half-poised gun. It was not
yet leveled. Then it dawned upon Shefford that the stranger's head was
turned a little, his ear to the wind. He was listening. His horse was
listening. Suddenly he straightened up, wheeled his horse, and trotted
away into the darkness. But he did not climb the ridge down which he had
come.
Shefford heard the click of hoofs upon the stony trail. Other horses and
riders were descending into the cañon. They had been the cause of his
deliverance, and in the relaxation of feeling he almost fainted. Then he
sat there, slowly recovering, slowly ceasing to tremble, divining that
this situation was somehow to change his attitude toward life.
Three horses, two with riders, moved in dark shapes across the skyline
above the ridge, disappeared as had Shefford's first visitor, and then
rode into the light. Shefford saw two Indians--a man and a woman; then
with surprise recognized the latter to be the Indian girl he had met at
Red Lake. He was still more surprised to recognize in the third horse
the one he had lost at the last camp. Shefford rose, a little shaky on
his legs, to thank these Indians for a double service. The man slipped
from his saddle and his moccasined feet thudded lightly. He was tall,
lithe, erect, a singularly graceful figure, and as he advanced Shefford
saw a dark face and sharp, dark eyes. The Indian was bareheaded, with
his hair bound in a band. He resembled the girl, but appeared to have a
finer face.
“How do?” he said, in a voice low and distinct. He extended his hand,
and Shefford felt a grip of steel. He returned the greeting. Then
the Indian gave Shefford the bridle of the horse, and made signs that
appeared to indicate the horse had broken his hobbles and strayed.
Shefford thanked him. Thereupon the Indian unsaddled and led the horses
away, evidently to water them. The girl remained behind. Shefford
addressed her, but she was shy and did not respond. He then set about
cooking a meal for his visitors, and was busily engaged at this when the
Indian returned without the horses. Presently Shefford resumed his seat
by the fire and watched the two eat what he had prepared. They certainly
were hungry and soon had the pans and cups empty. Then the girl drew
back a little into the shadow, while the man sat with his legs crossed
and his feet tucked under him.
His dark face was smooth, yet it seemed to have lines under the surface.
Shefford was impressed. He had never seen an Indian who interested him
as this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared young, wild, silent,
locked in his primeval apathy, just a healthy savage; but looked at more
attentively, he appeared matured, even old, a strange, sad, brooding
figure, with a burden on his shoulders. Shefford found himself growing
curious.
“What place?” asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark opening
between the black cliffs.
“Sagi,” replied the Indian.
That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was the
pass, but the Indian shook his head.
“Wife?” asked Shefford, pointing to the girl.
The Indian shook his head again. “_Bi-la_,” he said.
“What you mean?” asked Shefford. “What _bi-la_?”
“Sister,” replied the Indian. He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the
white man's language did not please him, but the clearness and correct
pronunciation surprised Shefford.
“What name--what call her?” he went on.
“Glen Naspa.”
“What your name?” inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian.
“Nas Ta Bega,” answered the Indian.
“Navajo?”
The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.
“My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come stay
here long.”