first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him a
Mormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of their
religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds to
free and simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectful
attention. He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and
apparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save his
soul. Shefford knew that he could never be one any more than the other.
He was just at sea. But he listened, and he found them simple in faith,
blind, perhaps, but loyal and good. It was noteworthy that Mother Smith
happened to be the only woman in the village who had ever mentioned
religion to him. She was old, of a past generation; the young women
belonged to the present. Shefford pondered the significant difference.
Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that
was like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many
little ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest. This
last was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning more
about the villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of subtle
words and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as in all
the rest of the world where women were together, there were cliques,
quarrels, dislikes, loves, and jealousies. The truth, once known to him,
made him feel natural and fortified his confidence to meet the demands
of an increasingly interesting position. He discovered, with a somewhat
grim amusement, that a clergyman's experience in a church full of women
had not been entirely useless.
One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question
in regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. In
response he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey
of woman's jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his were
strengthened, and straightway he became thoughtful.
That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her.
But she did not come. Then he decided to go to see her. But even
the decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his
reluctance.
Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the
shadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door or
window. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the path
it rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.
“Good evening,” he said. “It's Shefford. May I stay and talk a little
while?”
She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.
“I'd be glad to have you,” she replied, finally.
There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket
on the step.
“I've been getting acquainted with everybody--except you,” he went on.
“I have been here,” she replied.
That might have been a woman's speech, but it certainly had been made in
a girl's voice. She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-conscious.
As she stood back from him he could not see her face in the dense
twilight.
“I've been wanting to call on you.”
She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knew
the moment was big and potent.
“Won't you sit here?” he asked.
She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in
the twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as had
flashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought of a
white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rare
and perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild cañon. She was only a
girl. She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to be
waiting, listening. Shefford saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom.
“I want to talk,” he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease.
“Every one here has been good to me and I've talked--oh, for hours and
hours. But the thing in my mind I haven't spoken of. I've never asked
any questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I came
out here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps help
me.... Would you?”
“Yes, if I could,” she replied.
“You see I've got to trust you, or one of these other women. You're all
Mormons. I don't mean that's anything against you. I believe you're
all good and noble. But the fact makes--well, makes a liberty of speech
impossible. What can I do?”
Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed less
strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right track
and did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted it he would have
gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mystic
force.
Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be
an artist, his renunciation to his father's hope, his career as a
clergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him a
wanderer.
“Oh--I'm sorry!” she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in her
eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemed
deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then--all
the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent and
untutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as if
they had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strange
to her.
“Thank you. It's good of you to be sorry,” he said. “My instinct guided
me right. Perhaps you'll be my friend.”
“I will be--if I can,” she said.
“But CAN you be?”
“I don't know. I never had a friend. I... But, sir, I mustn't talk of
myself.... Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you.”
How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in need
of help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgment
formed from observation of a class different from hers.
“Maybe you CAN help me. Let's see,” he said. “I don't seek to make you
talk of yourself. But--you're a human being--a girl--almost a woman.
You're not dumb. But even a nun can talk.”
“A nun? What is that?”
“Well--a nun is a sister of mercy--a woman consecrated to God--who has
renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns.
It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley.... You see--how
I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhaps
should be unsaid. And it's hard, because I feel I could unburden myself
to you.”
“Tell me what you want,” she said.
Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart.
More than anything he wanted to be fair to this girl. He saw that she
was warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him. The
starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.
“I'll tell you presently,” he said. “I've trusted you. I'll trust you
with all.... But let me have my own time. This is so strange a thing,
my wanting to confide in you. It's selfish, perhaps. I have my own ax
to grind. I hope I won't wrong you. That's why I'm going to be perfectly
frank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted. But the impulse
is on me. I've been so interested in all you Mormon women. The fact--the
meaning of this hidden village is so--so terrible to me. But that's none
of my business. I have spent my afternoons and evenings with these women
at the different cottages. You do not mingle with them. They are lonely,
but have not such loneliness as yours. I have passed here every night.
No light--no sound. I can't help thinking. Don't censure me or be afraid
or draw within yourself just because I must think. I may be all wrong.
But I'm curious. I wonder about you. Who are you? Mary--Mary what? Maybe
I really don't want to know. I came with selfish motive and now I'd like
to--to--what shall I say? Make your life a little less lonely for the
while I'm here. That's all. It needn't offend. And if you accept it, how
much easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon and I--well, I am
only a wanderer in these wilds. But--we might help each other.... Have I
made a mistake?”
“No--no,” she cried, almost wildly.
“We can be friends then. You will trust me, help me?”
“Yes, if I dare.”
“Surely you may dare what the other women would?”
She was silent.
And the wistfulness of her silence touched him. He felt contrition. He
did not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling that
once this strange situation was ended he would have food for reflection.
What struck him most now was the girl's blanched face, the strong,
nervous clasp of her hands, the visible tumult of her bosom. Excitement
alone could not be accountable for this. He had not divined the cause
for such agitation. He was puzzled, troubled, and drawn irresistibly. He
had not said what he had planned to say. The moment had given birth to
his speech, and it had flowed. What was guiding him?
“Mary,” he said, earnestly, “tell me--have you mother, father, sister,
brother? Something prompts me to ask that.”
“All dead--gone--years ago,” she answered.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen, I think. I'm not sure.”
“You ARE lonely.”
His words were gentle and divining.
“O God!” she cried. “Lonely!”
Then as a man in a dream he beheld her weeping. There was in her the
unconsciousness of a child and the passion of a woman. He gazed out into
the dark shadows and up at the white stars, and then at the bowed head
with its mass of glinting hair. But her agitation was no longer strange
to him. A few gentle and kind words had proved her undoing. He knew
then that whatever her life was, no kindness or sympathy entered it.
Presently she recovered, and sat as before, only whiter of face it
seemed, and with something tragic in her dark eyes. She was growing cold
and still again, aloof, more like those other Mormon women.
“I understand,” he said. “I'm not sorry I spoke. I felt your trouble,
whatever it is.... Do not retreat into your cold shell, I beg of you....
Let me trust you with my secret.”
He saw her shake out of the cold apathy. She wavered. He felt an
inexplicable sweetness in the power his voice seemed to have upon her.
She bowed her head in acquiescence. And Shefford began his story. Did
she grow still, like stone, or was that only his vivid imagination?
He told her of Venters and Bess--of Lassiter and Jane--of little Fay
Larkin--of the romance, and then the tragedy of Surprise Valley.
“So, when my Church disowned me,” he concluded, “I conceived the idea
of wandering into the wilds of Utah to save Fay Larkin from that cañon
prison. It grew to be the best and strongest desire of my life. I think
if I could save her that it would save me. I never loved any girl.
I can't say that I love Fay Larkin. How could I when I've never seen
her--when she's only a dream girl? But I believe if she were to become a
reality--a flesh-and-blood girl--that I would love her.”
That was more than Shefford had ever confessed to any one, and it
stirred him to his depths. Mary bent her head on her hands in strange,
stonelike rigidity.
“So here I am in the cañon country,” he continued. “Withers tells me
it is a country of rainbows, both in the evanescent air and in the
changeless stone. Always as a boy there had been for me some haunting
promise, some treasure at the foot of the rainbow. I shall expect the
curve of a rainbow to lead me down into Surprise Valley. A dreamer, you
will call me. But I have had strange dreams come true.... Mary, do you
think THIS dream will come true?”
She was silent so long that he repeated his question.
“Only--in heaven,” she whispered.
He took her reply strangely and a chill crept over him.
“You think my plan to seek to strive, to find--you think that idle,
vain?”
“I think it noble.... Thank God I've met a man like you!”
“Don't praise me!” he exclaimed, hastily. “Only help me.... Mary, will
you answer a few little questions, if I swear by my honor I'll never
reveal what you tell me?”
“I'll try.”
He moistened his lips. Why did she seem so strange, so far away? The
hovering shadows made him nervous. Always he had been afraid of the
dark. His mood now admitted of unreal fancies.
“Have you ever heard of Fay Larkin?” he asked, very low.
“Yes.”
“Was there only one Fay Larkin?”
“Only one.”
“Did you--ever see her?”
“Yes,” came the faint reply.
He was grateful. How she might be breaking faith with creed or duty!
He had not dared to hope so much. All his inner being trembled at the
portent of his next query. He had not dreamed it would be so hard to
put, or would affect him so powerfully. A warmth, a glow, a happiness
pervaded his spirit; and the chill, the gloom were as if they had never
been.
“Where is Fay Larkin now?” he asked, huskily.
He bent over her, touched her, leaned close to catch her whisper.
“She is--dead!”
Slowly Shefford rose, with a sickening shock, and then in bitter pain he
strode away into the starlight.
VII. SAGO-LILIES
The Indian returned to camp that night, and early the next day, which
was Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-bearded
personage wearing a long black coat.
“Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford,” said the trader.
Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesy
evidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clear
blue eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; he
spoke quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase; and
he had an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach at the
morning service, and then he went off into the village.
“Guess he liked your looks,” remarked Withers.
“He certainly sized me up,” replied Shefford.
“Well, what could you expect? Sure I never heard of a deal like this--a
handsome young fellow left alone with a lot of pretty Mormon women!
You'll understand when you learn to know Mormons. Bishop Kane's a square
old chap. Crazy on religion, maybe, but otherwise he's a good fellow.
I made the best stand I could for you. The Mormons over at Stonebridge
were huffy because I hadn't consulted them before fetching you over
here. If I had, of course you'd never have gotten here. It was Joe Lake
who made it all right with them. Joe's well thought of, and he certainly
stood up for you.”
“I owe him something, then,” replied Shefford. “Hope my obligations
don't grow beyond me. Did you leave Joe at Stonebridge?”
“Yes. He wanted to stay, and I had work there that'll keep him awhile.
Shefford, we got news of Shadd--bad news. The half-breed's cutting up
rough. His gang shot up some Piutes over here across the line. Then he
got run out of Durango a few weeks ago for murder. A posse of cowboys
trailed him. But he slipped them. He's a fox. You know he was trailing
us here. He left the trail, Nas Ta Bega said. I learned at Stonebridge
that Shadd is well disposed toward Mormons. It takes the Mormons to
handle Indians. Shadd knows of this village and that's why he shunted
off our trail. But he might hang down in the pass and wait for us. I
think I'd better go back to Kayenta alone, across country. You stay here
till Joe and the Indian think it safe to leave. You'll be going up on
the slope of Navajo to load a pack-train, and from there it may be well
to go down West Cañon to Red Lake, and home over the divide, the way
you came. Joe'll decide what's best. And you might as well buckle on a
gun and get used to it. Sooner or later you'll have to shoot your way
through.”
Shefford did not respond with his usual enthusiasm, and the omission
caused the trader to scrutinize him closely.
“What's the matter?” he queried. “There's no light in your eye to-day.
You look a little shady.”
“I didn't rest well last night,” replied Shefford. “I'm depressed this
morning. But I'll cheer up directly.”
“Did you get along with the women?”
“Very well indeed. And I've enjoyed myself. It's a strange, beautiful
place.”
“Do you like the women?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen much of the Sago Lily?”
“No. I carried her bucket one night--and saw her only once again. I've
been with the other women most of the time.”
“It's just as well you didn't run often into Mary. Joe's sick over her.
I never saw a girl with a face and form to equal hers. There's danger
here for any man, Shefford. Even for you who think you've turned your
back on the world! Any of these Mormon women may fall in love with you.
They CAN'T love their husbands. That's how I figure it. Religion holds
them, not love. And the peculiar thing is this: they're second, third,
or fourth wives, all sealed. That means their husbands are old, have
picked them out for youth and physical charms, have chosen the very
opposite to their first wives, and then have hidden them here in this
lonely hole.... Did you ever imagine so terrible a thing?”
“No, Withers, I did not.”
“Maybe that's what depressed you. Anyway, my hunch is worth taking. Be
as nice as you can, Shefford. Lord knows it would be good for these poor
women if every last one of them fell in love with you. That won't hurt
them so long as you keep your head. Savvy? Perhaps I seem rough and
coarse to a man of your class. Well, that may be. But human nature is
human nature. And in this strange and beautiful place you might love
an Indian girl, let alone the Sago Lily. That's all. I sure feel better
with that load off my conscience. Hope I don't offend.”
“No indeed. I thank you, Withers,” replied Shefford, with his hand
on the trader's shoulder. “You are right to caution me. I seem to be
wild--thirsting for adventure--chasing a gleam. In these unstable days
I can't answer for my heart. But I can for my honor. These unfortunate
women are as safe with me as--as they are with you and Joe.”
Withers uttered a blunt laugh.
“See here, son, look things square in the eye. Men of violent, lonely,
toilsome lives store up hunger for the love of woman. Love of a STRANGE
woman, if you want to put it that way. It's nature. It seems all the
beautiful young women in Utah are corralled in this valley. When I
come over here I feel natural, but I'm not happy. I'd like to make love
to--to that flower-faced girl. And I'm not ashamed to own it. I've told
Molly, my wife, and she understands. As for Joe, it's much harder for
him. Joe never has had a wife or sweetheart. I tell you he's sick, and
if I'd stay here a month I'd be sick.”
Withers had spoken with fire in his eyes, with grim humor on his lips,
with uncompromising brutal truth. What he admitted was astounding to
Shefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange. The trader was a man who
spoke his inmost thought. And what he said suddenly focused Shefford's
mental vision clear and whole upon the appalling significance of the
tragedy of those women, especially of the girl whose life was lonelier,
sadder, darker than that of the others.
“Withers, trust me,” replied Shefford.
“All right. Make the best of a bad job,” said the trader, and went off
about his tasks.
Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in the
school-house. Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the village
was there. The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in white and
looked exceedingly well. Manifestly they had bestowed care upon this
Sabbath morning's toilet. One thing surely this dress occasion brought
out, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were not poor, whatever
their misfortunes might be. Jewelry was not wanting, nor fine lace. And
they all wore beautiful wild flowers of a kind unknown to Shefford. He
received many a bright smile. He looked for Mary, hoping to see her face
for the first time in the daylight, but she sat far forward and did not
turn. He saw her graceful white neck, the fine lines of her throat, and
her colorless cheek. He recognized her, yet in the light she seemed a
stranger.
The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing of
a hymn. Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices.
How deeply they affected him! Had any man ever fallen into a stranger
adventure than this? He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all a
creation of his fancy--the square log cabin with its red mud between
the chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan--the old bishop in his black
coat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune--the few old
women, dignified and stately--the many young women, fresh and handsome,
lifting their voices.
Shefford listened intently to the bishop's sermon. In some respects
it was the best he had ever heard. In others it was impossible for an
intelligent man to regard seriously. It was very long, lasting an hour
and a half, and the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from the
experience and wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert. The
physical things that had molded characters of iron, the obstacles that
only strong, patient men could have overcome, the making of homes in a
wilderness, showed the greatness of this alien band of Mormons. Shefford
conceded greatness to them. But the strange religion--the narrowing down
of the world to the soil of Utah, the intimations of prophets on earth
who had direct converse with God, the austere self-conscious omnipotence
of this old bishop--these were matters that Shefford felt he must
understand better, and see more favorably, if he were not to consider
them impossible.
Immediately after the service, forgetting that his intention had been to
get the long-waited-for look at Mary in the light of the sun, Shefford
hurried back to camp and to a secluded spot among the cedars. Strikingly
it had come to him that the fault he had found in Gentile religion he
now found in the Mormon religion. An old question returned to haunt
him--were all religions the same in blindness? As far as he could see,
religion existed to uphold the founders of a Church, a creed. The Church
of his own kind was a place where narrow men and women went to think of
their own salvation. They did not go there to think of others. And now
Shefford's keen mind saw something of Mormonism and found it wanting.
Bishop Kane was a sincere, good, mistaken man. He believed what he
preached, but that would not stand logic. He taught blindness and mostly
it appeared to be directed at the women. Was there no religion divorced
from power, no religion as good for one man as another, no religion in
the spirit of brotherly love? Nas Ta Bega's “Bi Nai” (brother)--that was
love, if not religion, and perhaps the one and the other were the same.
Shefford kept in mind an intention to ask Nas Ta Bega what he thought of
the Mormons.
Later, when opportunity afforded, he did speak to the Indian. Nas
Ta Bega threw away his cigarette and made an impressive gesture that
conveyed as much sorrow as scorn.
“The first Mormon said God spoke to him and told him to go to a certain
place and dig. He went there and found the Book of Mormon. It said
follow me, marry many wives, go into the desert and multiply, send your
sons out into the world and bring us young women, many young women. And
when the first Mormon became strong with many followers he said again:
Give to me part of your labor--of your cattle and sheep--of your
silver--that I may build me great cathedrals for you to worship in. And
I will commune with God and make it right and good that you have more
wives. That is Mormonism.”
“Nas Ta Bega, you mean the Mormons are a great and good people blindly
following a leader?”
“Yes. And the leader builds for himself--not for them.”
“That is not religion. He has no God but himself.”
“They have no God. They are blind like the Mokis who have the creeping
growths on their eyes. They have no God they can see and hear and feel,
who is with them day and night.”
It was late in the afternoon when Bishop Kane rode through the camp and
halted on his way to speak to Shefford. He was kind and fatherly. “Young
man, are you open to faith?” he questioned gravely.
“I think I am,” replied Shefford, thankful he could answer readily.
“Then come into the fold. You are a lost sheep. 'Away on the desert
I heard its cry.'... God bless you. Visit me when you ride to
Stonebridge.”
He flicked his horse with a cedar branch and trotted away beside the
trader, and presently the green-choked neck of the valley hid them from
view. Shefford could not have said that he was glad to be left behind,
and yet neither was he sorry.