and he seemed to feel it all through him. Then he returned to the mossy
bank. He did not reply to Joe. In fact, all his faculties were absorbed
in watching and feeling, and he lay there long after Joe went off to
the village. The murmur of water, the hum of bees, the songs of
strange birds, the sweet, warm air, the dreamy summer somnolence of the
valley--all these added drowsiness to Shefford's weary lassitude, and he
fell asleep. When he awoke Nas Ta Bega was sitting near him and Joe was
busy near a camp-fire.
“Hello, Nas Ta Bega!” said Shefford. “Was there any one trailing us?”
The Navajo nodded.
Joe raised his head and with forceful brevity said, “Shadd.”
“Shadd!” echoed Shefford, remembering the dark, sinister face of his
visitor that night in the Sagi. “Joe, is it serious--his trailing us?”
“Well, I don't know how durn serious it is, but I'm scared to death,”
replied Lake. “He and his gang will hold us up somewhere on the way
home.”
Shefford regarded Joe with both concern and doubt. Joe's words were at
variance with his looks.
“Say, pard, can you shoot a rifle?” queried Joe.
“Yes. I'm a fair shot at targets.”
The Mormon nodded his head as if pleased. “That's good. These
outlaws are all poor shots with a rifle. So 'm I. But I can handle a
six-shooter. I reckon we'll make Shadd sweat if he pushes us.”
Withers returned, driving the burros, all of which had been unpacked
down to the saddles. Two gray-bearded men accompanied him. One of them
appeared to be very old and venerable, and walked with a stick. The
other had a sad-lined face and kind, mild blue eyes. Shefford observed
that Lake seemed unusually respectful. Withers introduced these Mormons
merely as Smith and Henninger. They were very cordial and pleasant in
their greetings to Shefford. Presently another, somewhat younger, man
joined the group, a stalwart, jovial fellow with ruddy face. There was
certainly no mistaking his kindly welcome as he shook Shefford's hand.
His name was Beal. The three stood round the camp-fire for a while,
evidently glad of the presence of fellow-men and to hear news from the
outside. Finally they went away, taking Joe with them. Withers took up
the task of getting supper where Joe had been made to leave it.
“Shefford, listen,” he said, presently, as he knelt before the fire. “I
told them right out that you'd been a Gentile clergyman--that you'd gone
back on your religion. It impressed them and you've been well received.
I'll tell the same thing over at Stonebridge. You'll get in right. Of
course I don't expect they'll make a Mormon of you. But they'll try to.
Meanwhile you can be square and friendly all the time you're trying to
find your Fay Larkin. To-morrow you'll meet some of the women. They're
good souls, but, like any women, crazy for news. Think what it is to be
shut up in here between these walls!”
“Withers, I'm intensely interested,” replied Shefford, “and excited,
too. Shall we stay here long?”
“I'll stay a couple of days, then go to Stonebridge with Joe. He'll
come back here, and when you both feel like leaving, and if Nas Ta Bega
thinks it safe, you'll take a trail over to some Indian hogans and pack
me out a load of skins and blankets.... My boy, you've all the time
there is, and I wish you luck. This isn't a bad place to loaf. I always
get sentimental over here. Maybe it's the women. Some of them are
pretty, and one of them--Shefford, they call her the Sago Lily. Her
first name is Mary, I'm told. Don't know her last name. She's lovely.
And I'll bet you forget Fay Larkin in a flash. Only--be careful. You
drop in here with rather peculiar credentials, so to speak--as my helper
and as a man with no religion! You'll not only be fully trusted, but
you'll be welcome to these lonely women. So be careful. Remember it's
my secret belief they are sealed wives and are visited occasionally at
night by their husbands. I don't know this, but I believe it. And you're
not supposed to dream of that.”
“How many men in the village?” asked Shefford.
“Three. You met them.”
“Have they wives?” asked Shefford, curiously.
“Wives! Well, I guess. But only one each that I know of. Joe Lake is the
only unmarried Mormon I've met.”
“And no men--strangers, cowboys, outlaws--ever come to this village?”
“Except to Indians, it seems to be a secret so far,” replied the trader,
earnestly. “But it can't be kept secret. I've said that time after time
over in Stonebridge. With Mormons it's 'sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof.'”
“What'll happen when outsiders do learn and ride in here?”
“There'll be trouble--maybe bloodshed. Mormon women are absolutely good,
but they're human, and want and need a little life. And, strange to say,
Mormon men are pig-headedly jealous.... Why, if some of the cowboys I
knew in Durango would ride over here there'd simply be hell. But that's
a long way, and probably this village will be deserted before news of it
ever reaches Colorado. There's more danger of Shadd and his gang coming
in. Shadd's half Piute. He must know of this place. And he's got some
white outlaws in his gang.... Come on. Grub's ready, and I'm too hungry
to talk.”
Later, when shadows began to gather in the valley and the lofty peaks
above were gold in the sunset glow, Withers left camp to look after the
straying mustangs, and Shefford strolled to and fro under the cedars.
The lights and shades in the Sagi that first night had moved him to
enthusiastic watchfulness, but here they were so weird and beautiful
that he was enraptured. He actually saw great shafts of gold and shadows
of purple streaming from the peaks down into the valley. It was day on
the heights and twilight in the valley. The swiftly changing colors were
like rainbows.
While he strolled up and down several women came to the spring and
filled their buckets. They wore shawls or hoods and their garments were
somber, but, nevertheless, they appeared to have youth and comeliness.
They saw him, looked at him curiously, and then, without speaking,
went back on the well-trodden path. Presently down the path appeared a
woman--a girl in lighter garb. It was almost white. She was shapely and
walked with free, graceful step, reminding him of the Indian girl,
Glen Naspa. This one wore a hood shaped like a huge sunbonnet and it
concealed her face. She carried a bucket. When she reached the spring
and went down the few stone steps Shefford saw that she did not have on
shoes. As she braced herself to lift the bucket her bare foot clung to
the mossy stone. It was a strong, sinewy, beautiful foot, instinct with
youth. He was curious enough, he thought, but the awakening artist in
him made him more so. She dragged at the full bucket and had difficulty
in lifting it out of the hole. Shefford strode forward and took the
bucket-handle from her.
“Won't you let me help you?” he said, lifting the bucket. “Indeed--it's
very heavy.”
“Oh--thank you,” she said, without raising her head. Her voice seemed
singularly young and sweet. He had not heard a voice like it. She moved
down the path and he walked beside her. He felt embarrassed, yet more
curious than ever; he wanted to say something, to turn and look at her,
but he kept on for a dozen paces without making up his mind.
Finally he said: “Do you really carry this heavy bucket? Why, it makes
my arm ache.”
“Twice every day--morning and evening,” she replied. “I'm very strong.”
Then he stole a look out of the corner of his eye, and, seeing that her
face was hidden from him by the hood, he turned to observe her at better
advantage. A long braid of hair hung down her back. In the twilight it
gleamed dull gold. She came up to his shoulder. The sleeve nearest him
was rolled up to her elbow, revealing a fine round arm. Her hand, like
her foot, was brown, strong, and well shaped. It was a hand that had
been developed by labor. She was full-bosomed, yet slender, and she
walked with a free stride that made Shefford admire and wonder.
They passed several of the little stone and log houses, and women
greeted them as they went by and children peered shyly from the doors.
He kept trying to think of something to say, and, failing in that,
determined to have one good look under the hood before he left her.
“You walk lame,” she said, solicitously. “Let me carry the bucket
now--please. My house is near.”
“Am I lame?... Guess so, a little,” he replied. “It was a hard ride for
me. But I'll carry the bucket just the same.”
They went on under some pinyon-trees, down a path to a little house
identical with the others, except that it had a stone porch. Shefford
smelled fragrant wood-smoke and saw a column curling from the low, flat,
stone chimney. Then he set the bucket down on the porch. “Thank you,
Mr. Shefford,” she said. “You know my name?” he asked. “Yes. Mr. Withers
spoke to my nearest neighbor and she told me.”
“Oh, I see. And you--”
He did not go on and she did not reply. When she stepped upon the porch
and turned he was able to see under the hood. The face there was in
shadow, and for that very reason he answered to ungovernable impulse and
took a step closer to her. Dark, grave, sad eyes looked down at him, and
he felt as if he could never draw his own glance away. He seemed not
to see the rest of her face, and yet felt that it was lovely. Then a
downward movement of the hood hid from him the strange eyes and the
shadowy loveliness.
“I--I beg your pardon,” he said, quickly, drawing back. “I'm rude. ...
Withers told me about a girl he called--he said looked like a sago-lily.
That's no excuse to stare under your hood. But I--I was curious. I
wondered if--”
He hesitated, realizing how foolish his talk was. She stood a moment,
probably watching him, but he could not be sure, for her face was
hidden.
“They call me that,” she said. “But my name is Mary.”
“Mary--what?” he asked.
“Just Mary,” she said, simply. “Good night.”
He did not say good night and could not have told why. She took up the
bucket and went into the dark house. Shefford hurried away into the
gathering darkness.
VI. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY
Shefford had hardly seen her face, yet he was more interested in a woman
than he had ever been before. Still, he reflected, as he returned to
camp, he had been under a long strain, he was unduly excited by this new
and adventurous life, and these, with the mystery of this village, were
perhaps accountable for a state of mind that could not last.
He rolled in his blankets on the soft bed of moss and he saw the stars
through the needle-like fringe of the pinyons. It seemed impossible
to fall asleep. The two domed peaks split the sky, and back of them,
looming dark and shadowy, rose the mountain. There was something cold,
austere, and majestic in their lofty presence, and they made him feel
alone, yet not alone. He raised himself to see the quiet forms of
Withers and Nas Ta Bega prone in the starlight, and their slow, deep
breathing was that of tired men. A bell on a mustang rang somewhere off
in the valley and gave out a low, strange, reverberating echo from
wall to wall. When it ceased a silence set in that was deader than
any silence he had ever felt, but gradually he became aware of the low
murmur of the brook. For the rest there was no sound of wind, no bark of
dog or yelp of coyote, no sound of voice in the village.
He tried to sleep, but instead thought of this girl who was called the
Sago Lily. He recalled everything incident to their meeting and the
walk to her home. Her swift, free step, her graceful poise, her shapely
form--the long braid of hair, dull gold in the twilight, the beautiful
bare foot and the strong round arm--these he thought of and recalled
vividly. But of her face he had no idea except the shadowy, haunting
loveliness, and that grew more and more difficult to remember. The tone
of her voice and what she had said--how the one had thrilled him and the
other mystified! It was her voice that had most attracted him. There was
something in it besides music--what, he could not tell--sadness, depth,
something like that in Nas Ta Bega's beauty springing from disuse. But
this seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice one that had not
been used as freely as any other woman's? She was a Mormon; very likely,
almost surely, she was a sealed wife. His interest, too, was absurd, and
he tried to throw it off, or imagine it one he might have felt in any
other of these strange women of the hidden village.
But Shefford's intelligence and his good sense, which became operative
when he was fully roused and set the situation clearly before his eyes,
had no effect upon his deeper, mystic, and primitive feelings. He saw
the truth and he felt something that he could not name. He would not be
a fool, but there was no harm in dreaming. And unquestionably,
beyond all doubt, the dream and the romance that had lured him to the
wilderness were here; hanging over him like the shadows of the great
peaks. His heart swelled with emotion when he thought of how the
black and incessant despair of the past was gone. So he embraced any
attraction that made him forget and think and feel; some instinct
stronger than intelligence bade him drift.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Joe's rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singular
zest. When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautiful
place? Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted by
memories of Surprise Valley. The morning was clear, cool, sweet; the
peaks were dim and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shot
down into the purple shadows. Mocking-birds were singing. His body was
sore and tired from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was full,
happy. His spirit wanted to run, and he knew there was something out
there waiting to meet it. The Indian and the trader and the Mormon all
meant more to him this morning. He had grown a little overnight. Nas Ta
Bega's deep “Bi Nai” rang in his ears, and the smiles of Withers and
Joe were greetings. He had friends; he had work; and there was rich,
strange, and helpful life to live. There was even a difference in
the mustang Nack-yal. He came readily; he did not look wild; he had a
friendly eye; and Shefford liked him more.
“What is there to do?” asked Shefford, feeling equal to a hundred tasks.
“No work,” replied the trader, with a laugh, and he drew Shefford aside,
“I'm in no hurry. I like it here. And Joe never wants to leave. To-day
you can meet the women. Make yourself popular. I've already made you
that. These women are most all young and lonesome. Talk to them. Make
them like you. Then some day you may be safe to ask questions. Last
night I wanted to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the name
Fay Larkin. But I thought better of it. If there's a girl here or at
Stonebridge of that name we'll learn it. If there's mystery we'd better
go slow. Mormons are hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into their
affairs is to queer yourself. My advice is--just be as nice as you can
be, and let things happen.”
Fay Larkin! All in a night Shefford had forgotten her. Why? He pondered
over the matter, and then the old thrill, the old desire, came back.
“Shefford, what do you think Nas Ta Bega said to me last night?” asked
Withers in lower voice.
“Haven't any idea,” replied Shefford, curiously.
“We were sitting beside the fire. I saw you walking under the cedars.
You seemed thoughtful. That keen Indian watched you, and he said to me
in Navajo, 'Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a wife. Nas
Ta Bega is his brother.'... He meant he'll find both God and wife for
you. I don't know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks he
is--your brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife used
to tell me about him. He's a sage and a poet--the very spirit of this
desert. He's worth cultivating for his own sake. But more--remember,
if Fay Larkin is still shut in that valley the Navajo will find her for
you.”
“I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother--and be proud,” replied
Shefford.
“There's another thing. Do you intend to confide in Joe?”
“I hadn't thought of that.”
“Well, it might be a good plan. But wait until you know him better and
he knows you. He's ready to fight for you now. He's taken your trouble
to heart. You wouldn't think Joe is deeply religious. Yet he is. He may
never breathe a word about religion to you.... Now, Shefford, go ahead.
You've struck a trail. It's rough, but it'll make a man of you. It'll
lead somewhere.”
“I'm singularly fortunate--I--who had lost all friends. Withers, I am
grateful. I'll prove it. I'll show--”
Withers's upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized that
beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling.
These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom up
large in Shefford's mind.
The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women
of the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made
friendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down the
path he poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other,
and with his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, “Reckon I've got
to get me a woman like her.”
Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously
watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last
he saw her--the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A
little shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was
explicable about it was something associated with regret.
Joe Lake whistled and stared.
“I haven't met her,” he muttered.
“That's the Sago Lily,” said Withers.
“Reckon I'm going to carry that bucket,” went on Joe.
“And queer yourself with all the other women who've been to the spring?
Don't do it, Joe,” advised the trader.
“But her bucket's bigger,” protested Joe, weakly.
“That's true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she'd come first, all
right. As she didn't--why, don't single her out.”
Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low “good morning”
came from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home.
Shefford observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the
heavy bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague,
inexplicable sensation of regret.
Joe Lake breathed heavily. “Reckon I've got to get me a woman like
her,” he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared
thoughtful.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It was
somewhat larger than the other houses, had only one room with two doors
and several windows. It was full of children, of all sizes and ages,
sitting on rude board benches.
There were half a hundred of them, sturdy, healthy, rosy boys and girls,
clad in home-made garments. The young woman teacher was as embarrassed
as her pupils were shy, and the visitors withdrew without having heard a
word of lessons.
Withers then called upon Smith, Henninger, and Beal, and their wives.
Shefford found himself cordially received, and what little he did say
showed him how he would be listened to when he cared to talk. These folk
were plain and kindly, and he found that there was nothing about them to
dislike. The men appeared mild and quiet, and when not conversing seemed
austere. The repose of the women was only on the surface; underneath he
felt their intensity. Especially in many of the younger women, whom
he met in the succeeding hour, did he feel this power of restrained
emotion. This surprised him, as did also the fact that almost every
one of them was attractive and some of them were exceedingly pretty.
He became so interested in them all as a whole that he could not
individualize one. They were as widely different in appearance and
temperament as women of any other class, but it seemed to Shefford that
one common trait united them--and it was a strange, checked yearning for
something that he could not discover. Was it happiness? They certainly
seemed to be happy, far more so than those millions of women who were
chasing phantoms. Were they really sealed wives, as Withers believed,
and was this unnatural wife-hood responsible for the strange intensity?
At any rate he returned to camp with the conviction that he had stumbled
upon a remarkable situation.
He had been told the last names of only three women, and their husbands
were in the village. The names of the others were Ruth, Rebecca,
Joan--he could not recall them all. They were the mothers of these
beautiful children. The fathers, as far as he was concerned, were as
intangible as myths. Shefford was an educated clergyman, a man of the
world, and, as such, knew women in his way. Mormons might be strange and
different, yet the fundamental truth was that all over the world mothers
of children were wives; there was a relation between wife and mother
that did not need to be named to be felt; and he divined from this
that, whatever the situation of these lonely and hidden women, they knew
themselves to be wives. Shefford absolutely satisfied himself on that
score. If they were miserable they certainly did not show it, and the
question came to him how just was the criticism of uninformed men? His
judgment of Mormons had been established by what he had heard and read,
rather than what he knew. He wanted now to have an open mind. He had
studied the totemism and exogamy of the primitive races, and here was
his opportunity to understand polygamy. One wife for one man--that was
the law. Mormons broke it openly; Gentiles broke it secretly. Mormons
acknowledged all their wives and protected their children; Gentiles
acknowledged one wife only. Unquestionably the Mormons were wrong, but
were not the Gentiles still more wrong?
. . . . . . . . . . .
The following day Joe Lake appeared reluctant to start for Stonebridge
with Withers.
“Joe, you'd better come along,” said the trader, dryly. “I reckon you've
seen a little too much of the Sago Lily.”
Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face that
Withers had not hit short of the mark. Withers rode off, with a parting
word to Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay and trotted
down the valley. As Nas Ta Bega had gone off somewhere to visit Indians,
Shefford was left alone.
He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable. He
made friends with the children and he talked to the women until he was
hoarse. Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in
his life had he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed no
curiosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had
noted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with them
that Withers had predicted.
By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest and
friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them.
He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freely
gave, and not with selfish motive. He liked these women; he liked to see
the somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten. He had met
the girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yet
seen her face. He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, and
confessed to himself that the best of the day for him were the morning
and evening visits she made to the spring. Nevertheless, for some reason
hard to divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.
Always while he had listened to her neighbors' talk, he had hoped they
might let fall something about her. But they did not. He received
an impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had
supposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a little
outside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merely
felt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent
reason. Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.