that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. But
neither the Indian's eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.
“Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ,” said the Indian, and his voice rolled
out low and deep.
Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a
missionary.
“No!... Me no missionary,” cried Shefford, and he flung up a
passionately repudiating hand.
A singular flash shot from the Indian's dark eyes. It struck Shefford
even at this stinging moment when the past came back.
“Trade--buy wool--blanket?” queried Nas Ta Bega.
“No,” replied Shefford. “Me want ride--walk far.” He waved his hand to
indicate a wide sweep of territory. “Me sick.”
Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.
“No,” replied Shefford. “Me strong. Sick here.” And with motions of his
hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.
Shefford received instant impression of this Indian's intelligent
comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the
feeling. Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow. Shefford
heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had probably gone
to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering crash, which was
followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he was astounded to
see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the whole cedar-tree,
trunk first. Shefford would have doubted the ability of two men to drag
that tree, and here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it easily. He laid the
trunk on the fire, and then proceeded to break off small branches, to
place them advantageously where the red coals kindled them into a blaze.
The Indian's next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meant
to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, lay
down upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-haired
saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. His
sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther away
from the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. It
appeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.
Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he
could soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.
There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had
not experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling--the
aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy
grip. Nas Ta Bega's arrival had frightened away that dark and silent
prowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved
his life. The measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him.
Had he cared so much for life? Yes--he had, when face to face with
death. That was something to know. It helped him. And he gathered from
his strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought him
into the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbid
bitterness of heart.
With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was very
pleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire. There
was a deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones. What joy it was to rest!
He had felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the pang of hunger.
How wonderful to learn the real meaning of water and food! He had just
finished the longest, hardest day's work of his life! Had that anything
to do with a something almost like peace which seemed to hover near in
the shadows, trying to come to him? He had befriended an Indian girl,
and now her brother had paid back the service. Both the giving and
receiving were somehow sweet to Shefford. They opened up hitherto vague
channels of thought. For years he had imagined he was serving people,
when he had never lifted a hand. A blow given in the defense of an
Indian girl had somehow operated to make a change in John Shefford's
existence. It had liberated a spirit in him. Moreover, it had worked its
influence outside his mind. The Indian girl and her brother had followed
his trail to return his horse, perhaps to guide him safely, but,
unknowingly perhaps, they had done infinitely more than that for him. As
Shefford's eye wandered over the dark, still figures of the sleepers he
had a strange, dreamy premonition, or perhaps only a fancy, that there
was to be more come of this fortunate meeting.
For the rest, it was good to be there in the speaking silence, to feel
the heat on his outstretched palms and the cold wind on his cheek, to
see the black wall lifting its bold outline and the crags reaching for
the white stars.
III. KAYENTA
The stamping of horses awoke Shefford. He saw a towering crag, rosy
in the morning light, like a huge red spear splitting the clear blue
of sky. He got up, feeling cramped and sore, yet with unfamiliar
exhilaration. The whipping air made him stretch his hands to the fire.
An odor of coffee and broiled meat mingled with the fragrance of wood
smoke. Glen Naspa was on her knees broiling a rabbit on a stick over the
red coals. Nas Ta Bega was saddling the ponies. The cañon appeared
to be full of purple shadows under one side of dark cliffs and golden
streaks of mist on the other where the sun struck high up on the walls.
“Good morning,” said Shefford.
Glen Naspa shyly replied in Navajo.
“How,” was Nas Ta Bega's greeting.
In daylight the Indian lost some of the dark somberness of face that had
impressed Shefford. He had a noble head, in poise like that of an eagle,
a bold, clean-cut profile, and stern, close-shut lips. His eyes were the
most striking and attractive feature about him; they were coal-black
and piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to come from a keen and
inquisitive mind.
Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the few
preparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointed
to horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made by
Shefford's threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explained
by word and sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had been
in danger. Nas Ta Bega followed the tracks a little way and presently
returned.
“Shadd,” he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did not
understand whether he meant the name of his visitor or something else,
but the menace connected with the word was clear enough.
Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased
Shefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas Ta
Bega got up and pointed northward.
“Kayenta?” he inquired.
Shefford nodded and then they were off, with Glen Naspa in the lead.
They did not climb the trail which they had descended, but took one
leading to the right along the base of the slope. Shefford saw down into
the red wash that bisected the cañon floor. It was a sheer wall of
red clay or loam, a hundred feet high, and at the bottom ran a swift,
shallow stream of reddish water. Then for a time a high growth of
greasewood hid the surroundings from Shefford's sight. Presently the
trail led out into the open, and Shefford saw that he was at the neck of
a wonderful valley that gradually widened with great jagged red peaks on
the left and the black mesa, now a mountain, running away to the right.
He turned to find that the opening of the Sagi could no longer be seen,
and he was conscious of a strong desire to return and explore that
cañon.
Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and her
followers did likewise. As they got outward into the valley Shefford
lost the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness of
the huge walls and crags. The trail appeared level underfoot, but at a
distance it was seen to climb. Shefford found where it disappeared over
the foot of a slope that formed a graceful rising line up to the
cedared flank of the mesa. The valley floor, widening away to the north,
remained level and green. Beyond rose the jagged range of red peaks,
all strangely cut and slanting. These distant deceiving features of
the country held Shefford's gaze until the Indian drew his attention
to things near at hand. Then Shefford saw flocks of sheep dotting
the gray-green valley, and bands of beautiful long-maned, long-tailed
ponies.
For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford imagined
he came to see where the upland plain ended or at least broke its level.
He was right, for presently the Indian pointed, and Shefford went on to
halt upon the edge of a steep slope leading down into a valley vast in
its barren gray reaches.
“Kayenta,” said Nas Ta Bega.
Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley reaching
far to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff. Then close
under the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone houses with red
roofs, and a corral with a pool of water shining in the sun.
The trail leading down was steep and sandy, but it was not long.
Shefford's sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once--the
crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty
wool, the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses,
little lazy burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles, blankets,
guns, and packs.
Then a white man came out of the door. He waved a hand and shouted.
Dust and wool and flour were thick upon him. He was muscular and
weather-beaten, and appeared young in activity rather than face. A gun
swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in his
belt. Shefford looked into a face that he thought he had seen before,
until he realized the similarity was only the bronze and hard line and
rugged cast common to desert men. The gray searching eyes went right
through him.
“Glad to see you. Get down and come in. Just heard from an Indian that
you were coming. I'm the trader Withers,” he said to Shefford. His voice
was welcoming and the grip of his hand made Shefford's ache.
Shefford told his name and said he was as glad as he was lucky to arrive
at Kayenta.
“Hello! Nas Ta Bega!” exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a surprise
his face did not show. “Did this Indian bring you in?”
Withers shook hands with the Navajo while Shefford briefly related what
he owed to him. Then Withers looked at Nas Ta Bega and spoke to him in
the Indian tongue.
“Shadd,” said Nas Ta Bega. Withers let out a dry little laugh and his
strong hand tugged at his mustache.
“Who's Shadd?” asked Shefford.
“He's a half-breed Ute--bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He's in with
a gang of outlaws who hide in the San Juan country.... Reckon you're
lucky. How'd you come to be there in the Sagi alone?”
“I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against
it, but I came anyway.”
“Well.” Withers's gray glance was kind, if it did express the
foolhardiness of Shefford's act. “Come into the house.... Never mind the
horse. My wife will sure be glad to see you.”
Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was the
trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was large,
with logs smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets covering every
foot of floor space, and Indian baskets and silver ornaments everywhere,
and strange Indian designs painted upon the whitewashed walls. Withers
called his wife and made her acquainted with Shefford. She was a slight,
comely little woman, with keen, earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be
serious and quiet, but she made Shefford feel at home immediately. He
refused, however, to accept the room offered him, saying that he me
meant to sleep out under the open sky. Withers laughed at this and said
he understood. Shefford, remembering Presbrey's hunger for news of the
outside world, told this trader and his wife all he could think of; and
he was listened to with that close attention a traveler always gained in
the remote places.
“Sure am glad you rode in,” said Withers, for the fourth time. “Now you
make yourself at home. Stay here--come over to the store--do what you
like. I've got to work. To-night we'll talk.”
Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as
Presbrey's, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of
everything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a narrow
aisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a high counter
on the other. Behind this counter Withers stood to wait upon the buying
Indians. They sold blankets and skins and bags of wool, and in exchange
took silver money. Then they lingered and with slow, staid reluctance
bought one thing and then another--flour, sugar, canned goods, coffee,
tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never without two or three Indians
leaning on their dark, silver-braceleted arms. But as they were slow to
sell and buy and go, so were others slow to come in. Their voices were
soft and low and it seemed to Shefford they were whispering. He liked
to hear them and to look at the banded heads, the long, twisted rolls
of black hair tied with white cords, the still dark faces and watchful
eyes, the silver ear-rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the lean
and sinewy shapes, the corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small,
close-fitting buckskin moccasins buttoned with coins. These Indians
all appeared young, and under the quiet, slow demeanor there was fierce
blood and fire.
By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The former
was a huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if not
jolly.
She had the corners of a blanket tied under her chin, and in the folds
behind on her broad back was a naked Indian baby, round and black of
head, brown-skinned, with eyes as bright as beads. When the youngster
caught sight of Shefford he made a startled dive into the sack of the
blanket. Manifestly, however, curiosity got the better of fear, for
presently Shefford caught a pair of wondering dark eyes peeping at him.
“They're good spenders, but slow,” said Withers. “The Navajos are
careful and cautious. That's why they're rich. This squaw, Yan As Pa,
has flocks of sheep and more mustangs than she knows about.”
“Mustangs. So that's what you call the ponies?” replied Shefford.
“Yep. They're mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits.”
Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers's helper,
a Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past maturity, and
his sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open desert. He was
engaged in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the Indians. Near by
stood a framework of poles from which an immense bag was suspended. From
the top of this bag protruded the head and shoulders of an Indian who
appeared to be stamping and packing wool with his feet. He grinned at
the curious Shefford. But Shefford was more interested in the Mormon. So
far as he knew, Whisner was the first man of that creed he had ever met,
and he could scarcely hide his eagerness. Venters's stories had been
of a long-past generation of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, and
unchangeable. Shefford did not expect to meet Mormons of this kind.
But any man of that religion would have interested him. Besides this,
Whisner seemed to bring him closer to that wild secret cañon he had
come West to find. Shefford was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have
his polite and friendly overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an
Indian. He was cold, incommunicative, aloof; and there was something
about him that made the sensitive Shefford feel his presence was
resented.
Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy
mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish that
he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes, and then
he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and after a
while any of them. Shefford did not understand himself, but he fought
his natural instinctive reluctance to meet obstacles, peril, suffering.
He traced the white-bordered little stream that made the pool in the
corral, and when he came to where it oozed out of the sand under the
bluff he decided that was not the spring which had made Kayenta famous.
Presently down below the trading-post he saw a trough from which burros
were drinking. Here he found the spring, a deep well of eddying water
walled in by stones, and the overflow made a shallow stream meandering
away between its borders of alkali, like a crust of salt. Shefford
tasted the water. It bit, but it was good.
Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyed
burros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but the
mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; they
raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.
Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake.
Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were others
riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported out
of the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed road
led off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away to
the north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.
Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so across
the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildness
and loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It held
something for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl from
a wild cañon.
. . . . . . . . . . .
That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before
the blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on
Shefford's and said, with directness and force:
“I've lived my life in the desert. I've met many men and have been a
friend to most.... You're no prospector or trader or missionary?”
“No,” replied Shefford.
“You've had trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Have you come in here to hide? Don't be afraid to tell me. I won't give
you away.”
“I didn't come to hide.”
“Then no one is after you? You've done no wrong?”
“Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else,” replied Shefford, steadily.
“I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret--it's all one to me.”
Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong,
persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.
“You're welcome in Kayenta,” went on Withers. “Stay as long as you like.
I take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it aplenty.”
“Thank you. That is good. I need to work. We'll talk of it later. ...
But just yet I can't tell you why I came to Kayenta, what I want to
do, how long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem so
like dreams. Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I'm only chasing a
phantom--perhaps I'm only hunting the treasure at the foot of the
rainbow.”
“Well, this is the country for rainbows,” laughed Withers. “In summer
from June to August when it storms we have rainbows that'll make you
think you're in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains,
rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure is
rainbow country.”
That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was
again--something tangible at the bottom of his dream.
Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if
he read his visitor's mind he began to talk about the wild country he
called home.
He had lived at Kayenta for several years--hard and profitless years by
reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but
for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly
with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been
brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection
by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of
the Indians' habits, religion, and life than any white person in the
West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad
Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a venture
Withers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move and
intended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and Colorado
were a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads were
impassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was situated a
Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah line. Withers
did some business with this village, but scarcely enough to warrant
the risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost several
pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it left
Stonebridge.
“Stonebridge!” exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that
name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village
Shefford longed to speak of to this trader.
“Yes--Stonebridge,” replied Withers. “Ever heard the name?”
“I think so. Are there other villages in--in that part of the country?”
“A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and
Monticello are far north across the San Juan.... There used to be
another village--but that wouldn't interest you.”
“Maybe it would,” replied Shefford, quietly.
But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a
semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.
“Withers, pardon an impertinence--I am deeply serious.... Are you a
Mormon?”
“Indeed I'm not,” replied the trader, instantly.
“Are you for the Mormons or against them?”
“Neither. I get along with them. I know them. I believe they are a
misunderstood people.”
“That's for them.”
“No. I'm only fair-minded.”
Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too
strong.
“You said there used to be another village.... Was the name of
it--Cottonwoods?”
Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank
astonishment.
“Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?” he queried,
sharply.
“So far as I went,” replied Shefford.
“You're no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?”
“Absolutely not. I don't even know what you mean by sealed wives.”
“Well, it's damn strange that you'd know the name Cottonwoods.... Yes,
that's the name of the village I meant--the one that used to be. It's
gone now, all except a few stone walls.”
“What became of it?”
“Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away. I've
heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once. It's gone,
too. Its name was--let me see--”
“Amber Spring,” interrupted Shefford.
“By George, you're right!” rejoined the trader, again amazed. “Shefford,
this beats me. I haven't heard that name for ten years. I can't help
seeing what a tenderfoot--stranger--you are to the desert. Yet, here you
are--speaking of what you should know nothing of.... And there's more
behind this.”
Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.
“Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?”
“Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name.”
“Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with
increasing emotion.
“No.”
“Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named--Jane Withersteen?”
“No.”
Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam--he had caught
a fleeting glimpse of it.
“Did you ever hear of a child--a girl--a woman--called Fay Larkin?”
Withers rose slowly with a paling face.
“If you're a spy it'll go hard with you--though I'm no Mormon,” he said,
grimly.
Shefford lifted a shaking hand.
“I WAS a clergyman. Now I'm nothing--a wanderer--least of all a spy.”
Withers leaned closer to see into the other man's eyes; he looked long
and then appeared satisfied.
“I've heard the name Fay Larkin,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that's all
I'll say till you tell your story.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of
his hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected him
strangely. What was the meaning of the trader's somber gravity? Why was
the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and secret?
“My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four,” began Shefford. “My
family--”
Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford.
“Come in,” called Withers.
The door opened and like a shadow Nas Ta Bega slipped in. He said
something in Navajo to the trader.
“How,” he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, but
there was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before the
fire, doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with dark
eyes on the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation.