always visits me like this.... Don't mind him. Go on with your story.”
“My family were plain people, well-to-do, and very religious,” went on
Shefford. “When I was a boy we moved from the country to a town called
Beaumont, Illinois. There was a college in Beaumont and eventually I was
sent to it to study for the ministry. I wanted to be---- But never mind
that.... By the time I was twenty-two I was ready for my career as a
clergyman. I preached for a year around at different places and then got
a church in my home town of Beaumont. I became exceedingly good friends
with a man named Venters, who had recently come to Beaumont. He was a
singular man. His wife was a strange, beautiful woman, very reserved,
and she had wonderful dark eyes. They had money and were devoted to each
other, and perfectly happy. They owned the finest horses ever seen in
Illinois, and their particular enjoyment seemed to be riding. They were
always taking long rides. It was something worth going far for to see
Mrs. Venters on a horse.
“It was through my own love of horses that I became friendly with
Venters. He and his wife attended my church, and as I got to see more
of them, gradually we grew intimate. And it was not until I did get
intimate with them that I realized that both seemed to be haunted by the
past. They were sometimes sad even in their happiness. They drifted
off into dreams. They lived back in another world. They seemed to be
listening. Indeed, they were a singularly interesting couple, and I grew
genuinely fond of them. By and by they had a little girl whom they named
Jane. The coming of the baby made a change in my friends. They were
happier, and I observed that the haunting shadow did not so often
return.
“Venters had spoken of a journey west that he and his wife meant to
take some time. But after the baby came he never mentioned his wife in
connection with the trip. I gathered that he felt compelled to go to
clear up a mystery or to find something--I did not make out just what.
But eventually, and it was about a year ago, he told me his story--the
strangest, wildest, and most tragic I ever heard. I can't tell it all
now. It is enough to say that fifteen years before he had been a
rider for a rich Mormon woman named Jane Withersteen, of this village
Cottonwoods. She had adopted a beautiful Gentile child named Fay Larkin.
Her interest in Gentiles earned the displeasure of her churchmen, and as
she was proud there came a breach. Venters and a gunman named Lassiter
became involved in her quarrel. Finally Venters took to the cañon. Here
in the wilds he found the strange girl he eventually married. For a long
time they lived in a wonderful hidden valley, the entrance to which was
guarded by a huge balancing rock. Venters got away with the girl. But
Lassiter and Jane Withersteen and the child Fay Larkin were driven into
the cañon. They escaped to the valley where Venters had lived. Lassiter
rolled the balancing rock, and, crashing down the narrow trail, it
loosened the weathered walls and closed the narrow outlet for ever.”
IV. NEW FRIENDS
Shefford ended his narrative out of breath, pale, and dripping with
sweat. Withers sat leaning forward with an expression of intense
interest. Nas Ta Bega's easy, graceful pose had succeeded to one
of strained rigidity. He seemed a statue of bronze. Could a few
intelligible words, Shefford wondered, have created that strange,
listening posture?
“Venters got out of Utah, of course, as you know,” went on Shefford. “He
got out, knowing--as I feel I would have known--that Jane, Lassiter, and
little Fay Larkin were shut up, walled up in Surprise Valley. For years
Venters considered it would not have been safe for him to venture
to rescue them. He had no fears for their lives. They could live in
Surprise Valley. But Venters always intended to come back with Bess and
find the valley and his friends. No wonder he and Bess were haunted.
However, when his wife had the baby that made a difference. It meant he
had to go alone. And he was thinking seriously of starting when--when
there were developments that made it desirable for me to leave Beaumont.
Venters's story haunted me as he had been haunted. I dreamed of that
wild valley--of little Fay Larkin grown to womanhood--such a woman
as Bess Venters was. And the longing to come was great.... And,
Withers--here I am.”
The trader reached out and gave Shefford the grip of a man in whom
emotion was powerful, but deep and difficult to express.
“Listen to this.... I wish I could help you. Life is a queer deal. ...
Shefford, I've got to trust you. Over here in the wild cañon country
there's a village of Mormons' sealed wives. It's in Arizona, perhaps
twenty miles from here, and near the Utah line. When the United States
government began to persecute, or prosecute, the Mormons for polygamy,
the Mormons over here in Stonebridge took their sealed wives and moved
them out of Utah, just across the line. They built houses, established
a village there. I'm the only Gentile who knows about it. And I pack
supplies every few weeks in to these women. There are perhaps fifty
women, mostly young--second or third or fourth wives of Mormons--sealed
wives. And I want you to understand that sealed means SEALED in all that
religion or loyalty can get out of the word. There are also some old
women and old men in the village, but they hardly count. And there's a
flock of the finest children you ever saw in your life.
“The idea of the Mormons must have been to escape prosecution. The
law of the government is one wife for each man--no more. All over Utah
polygamists have been arrested. The Mormons are deeply concerned. I
believe they are a good, law-abiding people. But this law is a direct
blow at their religion. In my opinion they can't obey both. And
therefore they have not altogether given up plural wives. Perhaps they
will some day. I have no proof, but I believe the Mormons of Stonebridge
pay secret night visits to their sealed wives across the line in the
lonely, hidden village.
“Now once over in Stonebridge I overheard some Mormons talking about a
girl who was named Fay Larkin. I never forgot the name. Later I heard
the name in this sealed-wife village. But, as I told you, I never heard
of Lassiter or Jane Withersteen. Still, if Mormons had found them I
would never have heard of it. And Deception Pass--that might be the
Sagi.... I'm not surprised at your rainbow-chasing adventure. It's
a great story.... This Fay Larkin I've heard of MIGHT be your Fay
Larkin--I almost believe so. Shefford, I'll help you find out.”
“Yes, yes--I must know,” replied Shefford. “Oh, I hope, I pray we can
find her! But--I'd rather she was dead--if she's not still hidden in the
valley.”
“Naturally. You've dreamed yourself into rescuing this lost Fay
Larkin.... But, Shefford, you're old enough to know life doesn't work
out as you want it to. One way or another I fear you're in for a bitter
disappointment.”
“Withers, take me to the village.”
“Shefford, you're liable to get in bad out here,” said the trader,
gravely.
“I couldn't be any more ruined than I am now,” replied Shefford,
passionately.
“But there's risk in this--risk such as you never had,” persisted
Withers.
“I'll risk anything.”
“Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,”
continued Withers. “Shefford, I like you. I've a mind to see you through
this. It's a damn strange story.... I'll tell you what--I will help you.
I'll give you a job packing supplies in to the village. I meant to turn
that over to a Mormon cowboy--Joe Lake. The job shall be yours, and I'll
go with you first trip. Here's my hand on it.... Now, Shefford, I'm more
curious about you than I was before you told your story. What ruined
you? As we're to be partners, you can tell me now. I'll keep your
secret. Maybe I can do you good.”
Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been so
agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader was a
man--a man of the desert--he would understand.
“I told you I was a clergyman,” said Shefford in low voice. “I didn't
want to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed.... I had
doubts of religion--of the Bible--of God, as my Church believed in them.
As I grew older thought and study convinced me of the narrowness of
religion as my congregation lived it. I preached what I believed. I
alienated them. They put me out, took my calling from me, disgraced me,
ruined me.”
“So that's all!” exclaimed Withers, slowly. “You didn't believe in the
God of the Bible.... Well, I've been in the desert long enough to know
there IS a God, but probably not the one your Church worships. ...
Shefford, go to the Navajo for a faith!”
Shefford had forgotten the presence of Nas Ta Bega, and perhaps Withers
had likewise. At this juncture the Indian rose to his full height, and
he folded his arms to stand with the somber pride of a chieftain while
his dark, inscrutable eyes were riveted upon Shefford. At that moment
he seemed magnificent. How infinitely more he seemed than just a common
Indian who had chanced to befriend a white man! The difference was
obscure to Shefford. But he felt that it was there in the Navajo's
mind. Nas Ta Bega's strange look was not to be interpreted. Presently he
turned and passed from the room.
“By George!” cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his
fist. “I'd forgotten.”
“What?” ejaculated Shefford.
“Why, that Indian understood every word we said. He knows English. He's
educated. Well, if this doesn't beat me.... Let me tell you about Nas Ta
Bega.”
Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.
“Years ago, in fifty-seven, I think, Kit Carson with his soldiers chased
the Navajo tribes and rounded them up to be put on reservations. But he
failed to catch all the members of one tribe. They escaped up into wild
cañon like the Sagi. The descendants of these fugitives live there now
and are the finest Indians on earth--the finest because unspoiled by the
white man. Well, as I got the story, years after Carson's round-up one
of his soldiers guided some interested travelers in here. When they
left they took an Indian boy with them to educate. From what I know of
Navajos I'm inclined to think the boy was taken against his parents'
wish. Anyway, he was taken. That boy was Nas Ta Bega. The story goes
that he was educated somewhere. Years afterward, and perhaps not long
before I came in here, he returned to his people. There have been
missionaries and other interested fools who have given Indians a white
man's education. In all the instances I know of, these educated Indians
returned to their tribes, repudiating the white man's knowledge, habits,
life, and religion. I have heard that Nas Ta Bega came back, laid down
the white man's clothes along with the education, and never again showed
that he had known either.
“You have just seen how strangely he acted. It's almost certain he heard
our conversation. Well, it doesn't matter. He won't tell. He can hardly
be made to use an English word. Besides, he's a noble red man, if there
ever was one. He has been a friend in need to me. If you stay long out
here you'll learn something from the Indians. Nas Ta Bega has befriended
you, too, it seems. I thought he showed unusual interest in you.”
“Perhaps that was because I saved his sister--well, to be charitable,
from the rather rude advances of a white man,” said Shefford, and he
proceeded to tell of the incident that occurred at Red Lake.
“Willetts!” exclaimed Withers, with much the same expression that
Presbrey had used. “I never met him. But I know about him. He's--well,
the Indians don't like him much. Most of the missionaries are good
men--good for the Indians, in a way, but sometimes one drifts out here
who is bad. A bad missionary teaching religion to savages! Queer, isn't
it? The queerest part is the white people's blindness--the blindness of
those who send the missionaries. Well, I dare say Willetts isn't very
good. When Presbrey said that was Willetts's way of teaching religion he
meant just what he said. If Willetts drifts over here he'll be risking
much.... This you told me explains Nas Ta Bega's friendliness toward
you, and also his bringing his sister Glen Naspa to live with relatives
up in the pass. She had been living near Red Lake.”
“Do you mean Nas Ta Bega wants to keep his sister far removed from
Willetts?” inquired Shefford.
“I mean that,” replied Withers, “and I hope he's not too late.”
Later Shefford went outdoors to walk and think. There was no moon, but
the stars made light enough to cast his shadow on the ground. The dark,
illimitable expanse of blue sky seemed to be glittering with numberless
points of fire. The air was cold and still. A dreaming silence lay over
the land. Shefford saw and felt all these things, and their effect was
continuous and remained with him and helped calm him. He was conscious
of a burden removed from his mind. Confession of his secret had been
like tearing a thorn from his flesh, but, once done, it afforded him
relief and a singular realization that out here it did not matter much.
In a crowd of men all looking at him and judging him by their standards
he had been made to suffer. Here, if he were judged at all, it would be
by what he could do, how he sustained himself and helped others.
He walked far across the valley toward the low bluffs, but they did
not seem to get any closer. And, finally, he stopped beside a stone and
looked around at the strange horizon and up at the heavens. He did not
feel utterly aloof from them, nor alone in a waste, nor a useless atom
amid incomprehensible forces. Something like a loosened mantle fell from
about him, dropping down at his feet; and all at once he was conscious
of freedom. He did not understand in the least why abasement left
him, but it was so. He had come a long way, in bitterness, in despair,
believing himself to be what men had called him. The desert and the
stars and the wind, the silence of the night, the loneliness of this
vast country where there was room for a thousand cities--these somehow
vaguely, yet surely, bade him lift his head. They withheld their secret,
but they made a promise. The thing which he had been feeling every day
and every night was a strange enveloping comfort. And it was at this
moment that Shefford, divining whence his help was to come, embraced
all that wild and speaking nature around and above him and surrendered
himself utterly.
“I am young. I am free. I have my life to live,” he said. “I'll be a
man. I'll take what comes. Let me learn here!”
When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward
his future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the
influences around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.
Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin. Could this girl be known to
the Mormons? It was possible. Fay Larkin was an unusual name. Deep into
Shefford's heart had sunk the story Venters had told. Shefford found
that he had unconsciously created a like romance--he had been loving a
wild and strange and lonely girl, like beautiful Bess Venters. It was
a shock to learn the truth, but, as it had been only a dream, it could
hardly be vital.
Shefford retraced his steps toward the post. Halfway back he espied a
tall, dark figure moving toward him, and presently the shape and the
step seemed familiar. Then he recognized Nas Ta Bega. Soon they were
face to face. Shefford felt that the Indian had been trailing him over
the sand, and that this was to be a significant meeting. Remembering
Withers's revelation about the Navajo, Shefford scarcely knew how to
approach him now. There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta
Bega's dark face and inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to be
felt in his presence. But the Indian did not speak, and turned to walk
by Shefford's side. Shefford could not long be silent.
“Nas Ta Bega, were you looking for me?” he asked.
“You had no gun,” replied the Indian.
But for his very low voice, his slow speaking of the words, Shefford
would have thought him a white man. For Shefford there was indeed an
instinct in this meeting, and he turned to face the Navajo.
“Withers told me you had been educated, that you came back to the
desert, that you never showed your training.... Nas Ta Bega, did you
understand all I told Withers?”
“Yes,” replied the Indian.
“You won't betray me?”
“I am a Navajo.”
“Nas Ta Bega, you trail me--you say I had no gun.” Shefford wanted
to ask this Indian if he cared to be the white man's friend, but the
question was not easy to put, and, besides, seemed unnecessary. “I am
alone and strange in this wild country. I must learn.”
“Nas Ta Bega will show you the trails and the water-holes and how to
hide from Shadd.”
“For money--for silver you will do this?” inquired Shefford.
Shefford felt that the Indian's silence was a rebuke. He remembered
Withers's singular praise of this red man. He realized he must change
his idea of Indians.
“Nas Ta Bega, I know nothing. I feel like a child in the wilderness.
When I speak it is out of the mouths of those who have taught me. I must
find a new voice and a new life.... You heard my story to Withers. I am
an outcast from my own people. If you will be my friend--be so.”
The Indian clasped Shefford's hand and held it in a response that
was more beautiful for its silence. So they stood for a moment in the
starlight.
“Nas Ta Bega, what did Withers mean when he said go to the Navajo for a
faith?” asked Shefford.
“He meant the desert is my mother.... Will you go with Nas Ta Bega into
the cañon and the mountains?”
“Indeed I will.”
They unclasped hands and turned toward the trading-post.
“Nas Ta Bega, have you spoken my tongue to any other white man since you
returned to your home?” asked Shefford.
“No.”
“Why do you--why are you different for me?”
The Indian maintained silence.
“Is it because of--of Glen Naspa?” inquired Shefford.
Nas Ta Bega stalked on, still silent, but Shefford divined that,
although his service to Glen Naspa would never be forgotten, still it
was not wholly responsible for the Indian's subtle sympathy.
“Bi Nai! The Navajo will call his white friend Bi Nai--brother,” said
Nas Ta Bega, and he spoke haltingly, not as if words were hard to find,
but strange to speak. “I was stolen from my mother's hogan and taken to
California. They kept me ten years in a mission at San Bernardino and
four years in a school. They said my color and my hair were all that
was left of the Indian in me. But they could not see my heart. They took
fourteen years of my life. They wanted to make me a missionary among my
own people. But the white man's ways and his life and his God are not
the Indian's. They never can be.”
How strangely productive of thought for Shefford to hear the Indian
talk! What fatality in this meeting and friendship! Upon Nas Ta Bega had
been forced education, training, religion, that had made him something
more and something less than an Indian. It was something assimilated
from the white man which made the Indian unhappy and alien in his own
home--something meant to be good for him and his kind that had ruined
him. For Shefford felt the passion and the tragedy of this Navajo.
“Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!” Nas Ta Bega's low voice was deep and
wonderful with its intensity of feeling. “The white man robbed the
Indian of lands and homes, drove him into the deserts, made him a gaunt
and sleepless spiller of blood.... The blood is all spilled now, for
the Indian is broken. But the white man sells him rum and seduces his
daughters.... He will not leave the Indian in peace with his own God!...
Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!”
. . . . . . . . . . .
That night Shefford lay in his blankets out under the open sky and the
stars. The earth had never meant much to him, and now it was a bed. He
had preached of the heavens, but until now had never studied them. An
Indian slept beside him. And not until the gray of morning had blotted
out the starlight did Shefford close his eyes.
. . . . . . . . . . .
With break of the next day came full, varied, and stirring incidents
to Shefford. He was strong, though unskilled at most kinds of outdoor
tasks. Withers had work for ten men, if they could have been found.
Shefford dug and packed and lifted till he was so sore and tired that
rest was a blessing.
He never succeeded in getting on a friendly footing with the Mormon
Whisner, though he kept up his agreeable and kindly advances. He
listened to the trader's wife as she told him about the Indians, and
what he learned he did not forget. And his wonder and respect increased
in proportion to his knowledge.
One day there rode into Kayenta the Mormon for whom Withers had been
waiting. His name was Joe Lake. He appeared young, and slipped off his
superb bay with a grace and activity that were astounding in one of his
huge bulk. He had a still, smooth face, with the color of red bronze and
the expression of a cherub; big, soft, dark eyes; and a winning smile.
He was surprisingly different from Whisner or any Mormon character that
Shefford had naturally conceived. His costume was that of the cowboy on
active service; and he packed a gun at his hip. The hand-shake he gave
Shefford was an ordeal for that young man and left him with his whole
right side momentarily benumbed.
“I sure am glad to meet you,” he said in a lazy, mild voice. And he
was taking friendly stock of Shefford when the bay mustang reached
with vicious muzzle to bite at him. Lake gave a jerk on the bridle that
almost brought the mustang to his knees. He reared then, snorted, and
came down to plant his forefeet wide apart, and watched his master with
defiant eyes. This mustang was the finest horse Shefford had ever seen.
He appeared quite large for his species, was almost red in color, had a
racy and powerful build, and a fine thoroughbred head with dark, fiery
eyes. He did not look mean, but he had spirit.
“Navvy, you've sure got bad manners,” said Lake, shaking the mustang's
bridle. He spoke as if he were chiding a refractory little boy. “Didn't
I break you better'n that? What's this gentleman goin' to think of you?
Tryin' to bite my ear off!”
Lake had arrived about the middle of the forenoon, and Withers announced
his intention of packing at once for the trip. Indians were sent out on
the ranges to drive in burros and mustangs. Shefford had his thrilling
expectancy somewhat chilled by what he considered must have been Lake's
reception of the trader's plan. Lake seemed to oppose him, and evidently
it took vehemence and argument on Withers's part to make the Mormon
tractable. But Withers won him over, and then he called Shefford to his
side.
“You fellows got to be good friends,” he said. “You'll have charge of my
pack-trains. Nas Ta Bega wants to go with you. I'll feel safer about my
supplies and stock than I've ever been.... Joe, I'll back this stranger
for all I'm worth. He's square.... And, Shefford, Joe Lake is a Mormon
of the younger generation. I want to start you right. You can trust
him as you trust me. He's white clean through. And he's the best
horse-wrangler in Utah.”
It was Lake who first offered his hand, and Shefford made haste to meet
it with his own. Neither of them spoke. Shefford intuitively felt
an alteration in Lake's regard, or at least a singular increase of
interest. Lake had been told that Shefford had been a clergyman, was now
a wanderer, without any religion. Again it seemed to Shefford that he
owed a forming of friendship to this singular fact. And it hurt him. But
strangely it came to him that he had taken a liking to a Mormon.
About one o'clock the pack-train left Kayenta. Nas Ta Bega led the way
up the slope. Following him climbed half a dozen patient, plodding,
heavily laden burros. Withers came next, and he turned in his saddle
to wave good-by to his wife. Joe Lake appeared to be busy keeping a
red mule and a wild gray mustang and a couple of restive blacks in the
trail. Shefford brought up in the rear.