strange power in Waggoner's face. Absolutely it was not the force, the
strength given to a man from his years of control of men. Shefford, long
schooled now in his fair-mindedness, fought down the feelings of other
years, and waited with patience. Who was he to judge Waggoner or any
other Mormon? But whenever his glance strayed back to the quiet, slender
form in white, when he realized again and again the appalling nature of
this court, his heart beat heavy and labored within his breast.
Then a bustle among the men upon the platform appeared to indicate that
proceedings were about to begin. Some men left the platform; several sat
down at a table upon which were books and papers, and others remained
standing. These last were all roughly garbed, in riding-boots and spurs,
and Shefford's keen eye detected the bulge of hidden weapons. They
looked like deputy-marshals upon duty.
Somebody whispered that the judge's name was Stone. The name fitted him.
He was not young, and looked a man suited to the prosecution of these
secret Mormons. He had a ponderous brow, a deep, cavernous eye that
emitted gleams but betrayed no color or expression. His mouth was the
saving human feature of his stony face.
Shefford took the man upon the judge's right hand to be a lawyer, and
the one on his left an officer of court, perhaps a prosecuting attorney.
Presently this fellow pounded upon the table and stood up as if to
address a court-room. Certainly he silenced that hallful of people. Then
he perfunctorily and briefly stated that certain women had been arrested
upon suspicion of being sealed wives of Mormon polygamists, and were to
be herewith tried by a judge of the United States Court. Shefford felt
how the impressive words affected that silent hall of listeners, but
he gathered from the brief preliminaries that the trial could not be
otherwise than a crude, rapid investigation, and perhaps for that the
more sinister.
The first woman on the foremost bench was led forward by a deputy to a
vacant chair on the platform just in front of the judge's table. She was
told to sit down, and showed no sign that she had heard. Then the judge
courteously asked her to take the chair. She refused. And Stone nodded
his head as if he had experienced that sort of thing before. He stroked
his chin wearily, and Shefford conceived an idea that he was a kind man,
if he was a relentless judge.
“Please remove your veil,” requested the prosecutor.
The woman did so, and proved to be young and handsome. Shefford had
a thrill as he recognized her. She was Ruth, who had been one of his
best-known acquaintances in the hidden village. She was pale, angry,
almost sullen, and her breast heaved. She had no shame, but she seemed
to be outraged. Her dark eyes, scornful and blazing, passed over the
judge and his assistants, and on to the crowd behind the railing.
Shefford, keen as a blade, with all his faculties absorbed, fancied he
saw Ruth stiffen and change slightly as her glance encountered some
one in that crowd. Then the prosecutor in deliberate and chosen words
enjoined her to kiss the Bible handed to her and swear to tell the
truth. How strange for Shefford to see her kiss the book which he had
studied for so many years! Stranger still to hear the low murmur from
the listening audience as she took the oath!
“What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, leaning back and fixing the
cavernous eyes upon her.
“Ruth Jones,” was the cool reply.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Where were you born?” went on the judge. He allowed time for the clerk
to record her answers.
“Panguitch, Utah.”
“Were your parents Mormons?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a married woman?”
“No.”
The answer was instant, cold, final. It seemed to the truth. Almost
Shefford believed she spoke truth. The judge stroked his chin and waited
a moment, and then hesitatingly he went on.
“Have you--any children?”
“No.” And the blazing eyes met the cavernous ones.
That about the children was true enough, Shefford thought, and he could
have testified to it.
“You live in the hidden village near this town?”
“Yes.”
“What is the name of this village?”
“It has none.”
“Did you ever hear of Fre-donia, another village far west of here?”
“Yes.”
“It is in Arizona, near the Utah line. There are few men there. Is it
the same kind of village as this one in which you live?”
“Yes.”
“What does Fre-donia mean? The name--has it any meaning?”
“It means free women.”
The judge maintained silence for a moment, turned to whisper to his
assistants, and presently, without glancing up, said to the woman:
“That will do.”
Ruth was led back to the bench, and the woman next to her brought
forward. This was a heavier person, with the figure and step of a
matured woman. Upon removing her bonnet she showed the plain face of
a woman of forty, and it was striking only in that strange, stony
aloofness noted in the older men. Here, Shefford thought, was the real
Mormon, different in a way he could not define from Ruth. This woman
seated herself in the chair and calmly faced her prosecutors. She
manifested no emotion whatever. Shefford remembered her and could not
see any change in her deportment. This trial appeared to be of little
moment to her and she took the oath as if doing so had been a habit all
her life.
“What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, glancing up from a paper he
held.
“Mary Danton.”
“Family or married name?”
“My husband's name was Danton.”
“Was. Is he living?”
“No.”
“Where did you live when you were married to him?”
“In St. George, and later here in Stonebridge.”
“You were both Mormons?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have any children by him?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Are they living?”
“One of them is living.”
Judge Stone bent over his paper and then slowly raised his eyes to her
face.
“Are you married now?”
“No.”
Again the judge consulted his notes, and held a whispered colloquy with
the two men at his table.
“Mrs. Danton, when you were arrested there were five children found in
your home. To whom do they belong?”
“Me.”
“Are you their mother?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband Danton is the father of only one, the eldest, according to
your former statement. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who, then, is the father--or who are the fathers, of your other
children?”
“I do not know.”
She said it with the most stony-faced calmness, with utter disregard
of what significance her words had. A strong, mystic wall of cold flint
insulated her. Strangely it came to Shefford how impossible either to
doubt or believe her. Yet he did both! Judge Stone showed a little heat.
“You don't know the father of one or all of these children?” he queried,
with sharp rising inflection of voice.
“I do not.”
“Madam, I beg to remind you that you are under oath.”
The woman did not reply.
“These children are nameless, then--illegitimate?”
“They are.”
“You swear you are not the sealed wife of some Mormon?”
“I swear.”
“How do you live--maintain yourself?”
“I work.”
“What at?”
“I weave, sew, bake, and work in my garden.”
“My men made note of your large and comfortable cabin, even luxurious,
considering this country. How is that?”
“My husband left me comfortable.”
Judge Stone shook a warning finger at the defendant.
“Suppose I were to sentence you to jail for perjury? For a year? Far
from your home and children! Would you speak--tell the truth?”
“I am telling the truth. I can't speak what I don't know.... Send me to
jail.”
Baffled, with despairing, angry impatience, Judge Stone waved the woman
away.
“That will do for her. Fetch the next one,” he said.
One after another he examined three more women, and arrived, by various
questions and answers different in tone and temper, at precisely the
same point as had been made in the case of Mrs. Danton. Thereupon the
proceedings rested a few moments while the judge consulted with his
assistants.
Shefford was grateful for this respite. He had been worked up to an
unusual degree of interest, and now, as the next Mormon woman to be
examined was she whom he had loved and loved still, he felt rise in
him emotion that threatened to make him conspicuous unless it could
be hidden. The answers of these Mormon women had been not altogether
unexpected by him, but once spoken in cold blood under oath, how tragic,
how appallingly significant of the shadow, the mystery, the yoke that
bound them! He was amazed, saddened. He felt bewildered. He needed to
think out the meaning of the falsehoods of women he knew to be good and
noble. Surely religion, instead of fear and loyalty, was the foundation
and the strength of this disgrace, this sacrifice. Absolutely, shame was
not in these women, though they swore to shameful facts. They had been
coached to give these baffling answers, every one of which seemed
to brand them, not the brazen mothers of illegitimate offspring, but
faithful, unfortunate sealed wives. To Shefford the truth was not in
their words, but it sat upon their somber brows.
Was it only his heightened imagination, or did the silence and
the suspense grow more intense when a deputy led that dark-hooded,
white-clad, slender woman to the defendant's chair? She did not walk
with the poise that had been manifest in the other women, and she sank
into the chair as if she could no longer stand.
“Please remove your hood,” requested the prosecutor.
How well Shefford remembered the strong, shapely hands! He saw them
tremble at the knot of ribbon, and that tremor was communicated to him
in a sympathy which made his pulses beat. He held his breath while she
removed the hood. And then there was revealed, he thought, the loveliest
and the most tragic face that ever was seen in a court-room.
A low, whispering murmur that swelled like a wave ran through the hall.
And by it Shefford divined, as clearly as if the fact had been blazoned
on the walls, that Mary's face had been unknown to these villagers. But
the name Sago Lily had not been unknown; Shefford heard it whispered on
all sides.
The murmuring subsided. The judge and his assistants stared at Mary.
As for Shefford, there was no need of his personal feeling to make the
situation dramatic. Not improbably Judge Stone had tried many Mormon
women. But manifestly this one was different. Unhooded, Mary appeared
to be only a young girl, and a court, confronted suddenly with her youth
and the suspicion attached to her, could not but have been shocked.
Then her beauty made her seem, in that somber company, indeed the white
flower for which she had been named. But, more likely, it was her
agony that bound the court into silence which grew painful. Perhaps the
thought that flashed into Shefford's mind was telepathic; it seemed to
him that every watcher there realized that in this defendant the judge
had a girl of softer mold, of different spirit, and from her the bitter
truth could be wrung.
Mary faced the court and the crowd on that side of the platform. Unlike
the other women, she did not look at or seem to see any one behind the
railing. Shefford was absolutely sure there was not a man or a woman who
caught her glance. She gazed afar, with eyes strained, humid, fearful.
When the prosecutor swore her to the oath her lips were seen to move,
but no one heard her speak.
“What is your name?” asked the judge.
“Mary.” Her voice was low, with a slight tremor.
“What's your other name?”
“I won't tell.”
Her singular reply, the tones of her voice, her manner before the judge,
marked her with strange simplicity. It was evident that she was not
accustomed to questions.
“What were your parents' names?”
“I won't tell,” she replied, very low.
Judge Stone did not press the point. Perhaps he wanted to make the
examination as easy as possible for her or to wait till she showed more
composure.
“Were your parents Mormons?” he went on.
“No, sir.” She added the sir with a quaint respect, contrasting markedly
with the short replies of the women before her.
“Then you were not born a Mormon?”
“No, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen or eighteen. I'm not sure.”
“You don't know your exact age?”
“No.”
“Where were you born?”
“I won't tell.”
“Was it in Utah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you lived in this state?”
“Always--except last year.”
“And that's been over in the hidden village where you were arrested?”
“Yes.”
“But you often visited here--this town Stonebridge?”
“I never was here--till yesterday.”
Judge Stone regarded her as if his interest as a man was running counter
to his duty as an officer. Suddenly he leaned forward.
“Are you a Mormon NOW?” he queried, forcibly.
“No, sir,” she replied, and here her voice rose a little clearer.
It was an unexpected reply. Judge Stone stared at her. The low buzz ran
through the listening crowd. And as for Shefford, he was astounded. When
his wits flashed back and he weighed her words and saw in her face truth
as clear as light, he had the strangest sensation of joy. Almost it
flooded away the gloom and pain that attended this ordeal.
The judge bent his head to his assistants as if for counsel. All of them
were eager where formerly they had been weary. Shefford glanced around
at the dark and somber faces, and a slow wrath grew within him. Then he
caught a glimpse of Waggoner. The steel-blue, piercing intensity of the
Mormon's gaze impressed him at a moment when all that older generation
of Mormons looked as hard and immutable as iron. Either Shefford was
over-excited and mistaken or the hour had become fraught with greater
suspense. The secret, the mystery, the power, the hate, the religion of
a strange people were thick and tangible in that hall. For Shefford the
feeling of the presence of Withers on his left was entirely different
from that of the Mormon on his other side. If there was not a shadow
there, then the sun did not shine so brightly as it had shone when he
entered. The air seemed clogged with nameless passion.
“I gather that you've lived mostly in the country--away from people?”
the judge began.
“Yes, sir,” replied the girl.
“Do you know anything about the government of the United States?”
“No, sir.”
He pondered again, evidently weighing his queries, leading up to the
fatal and inevitable question.
Still, his interest in this particular defendant had become visible.
“Have you any idea of the consequences of perjury?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you understand what perjury is?”
“It's to lie.”
“Do you tell lies?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever told a single lie?”
“Not--yet,” she replied, almost whispering.
It was the answer of a child and affected the judge. He fussed with his
papers. Perhaps his task was not easy; certainly it was not pleasant.
Then he leaned forward again and fixed those deep, cavernous eyes upon
the sad face.
“Do you understand what a sealed wife is?”
“I've never been told.”
“But you know there are sealed wives in Utah?”
“Yes, sir; I've been told that.”
Judge Stone halted there, watching her. The hall was silent except for
faint rustlings and here and there deep breaths drawn guardedly. The
vital question hung like a sword over the white-faced girl. Perhaps she
divined its impending stroke, for she sat like a stone with dilating,
appealing eyes upon her executioner.
“Are you a sealed wife?” he flung at her.
She could not answer at once. She made effort, but the words would not
come. He flung the question again, sternly.
“No!” she cried.
And then there was silence. That poignant word quivered in Shefford's
heart. He believed it was a lie. It seemed he would have known it if
this hour was the first in which he had ever seen the girl. He heard,
he felt, he sensed the fatal thing. The beautiful voice had lacked some
quality before present. And the thing wanting was something subtle, an
essence, a beautiful ring--the truth. What a hellish thing to make that
pure girl a liar--a perjurer! The heat deep within Shefford kindled to
fire.
“You are not married?” went on Judge Stone.
“No, sir,” she answered, faintly.
“Have you ever been married?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you expect ever to be married?”
“Oh! No, sir.”
She was ashen pale now, quivering all over, with her strong hands
clasping the black hood, and she could no longer meet the judge's
glance.
“Have you--any--any children?” the judge asked, haltingly. It was a hard
question to get out.
“No.”
Judge Stone leaned far over the table, and that his face was purple
showed Shefford he was a man. His big fist clenched.
“Girl, you're not going to swear you, too, were visited--over there by
men... You're not going to swear that?”
“Oh--no, sir!”
Judge Stone settled back in his chair, and while he wiped his moist face
that same foreboding murmur, almost a menace, moaned through the hall.
Shefford was sick in his soul and afraid of himself. He did not know
this spirit that flamed up in him. His helplessness was a most hateful
fact.
“Come--confess you are a sealed wife,” called her interrogator.
She maintained silence, but shook her head.
Suddenly he seemed to leap forward.
“Unfortunate child! Confess.”
That forced her to lift her head and face him, yet still she did not
speak. It was the strength of despair. She could not endure much more.
“Who is your husband?” he thundered at her.
She rose wildly, terror-stricken. It was terror that dominated her, not
of the stern judge, for she took a faltering step toward him, lifting
a shaking hand, but of some one or of some thing far more terrible than
any punishment she could have received in the sentence of a court. Still
she was not proof against the judge's will. She had weakened, and the
terror must have been because of that weakening.
“Who is the Mormon who visits you?” he thundered, relentlessly.
“I--never--knew--his--name.
“But you'd know his face. I'll arrest every Mormon in this country and
bring him before you. You'd know his face?”
“Oh, I wouldn't. I COULDN'T TELL!... _I_--NEVER--SAW HIS FACE--IN THE
LIGHT!”
The tragic beauty of her, the certainty of some monstrous crime to youth
and innocence, the presence of an agony and terror that unfathomably
seemed not to be for herself--these transfixed the court and the
audience, and held them silenced, till she reached out blindly and then
sank in a heap to the floor.
XI. AFTER THE TRIAL
Shefford might have leaped over the railing but for Withers's
restraining hand, and when there appeared to be some sign of kindness in
those other women for the unconscious girl Shefford squeezed through the
crowd and got out of the hall.
The gang outside that had been denied admittance pressed upon Shefford,
with jest and curious query, and a good nature that jarred upon him. He
was far from gentle as he jostled off the first importuning fellows; the
others, gaping at him, opened a lane for him to pass through.
Then there was a hand laid on his shoulder that he did not shake off.
Nas Ta Bega loomed dark and tall beside him. Neither the trader nor Joe
Lake nor any white man Shefford had met influenced him as this Navajo.
“Nas Ta Bega! you here, too. I guess the whole country is here. We
waited at Kayenta. What kept you so long?”
The Indian, always slow to answer, did not open his lips till he drew
Shefford apart from the noisy crowd.
“Bi Nai, there is sorrow in the hogan of Hosteen Doetin,” he said.
“Glen Naspa!” exclaimed Shefford.
“My sister is gone from the home of her brother. She went away alone in
the summer.”
“Blue Cañon! She went to the missionary. Nas Ta Bega, I thought I saw
her there. But I wasn't sure. I didn't want to make sure. I was afraid
it might be true.”
“A brave who loved my sister trailed her there.”
“Nas Ta Bega, will you--will we go find her, take her home?”
“No. She will come home some day.”
What bitter sadness and wisdom in his words!
“But, my friend, that damned missionary--” began Shefford, passionately.
The Indian had met him at a bad hour.
“Willetts is here. I saw him go in there,” interrupted Nas Ta Bega, and
he pointed to the hall.
“Here! He gets around a good deal,” declared Shefford. “Nas Ta Bega,
what are you going to do to him?”
The Indian held his peace and there was no telling from his inscrutable
face what might be in his mind. He was dark, impassive. He seemed a wise
and bitter Indian, beyond any savagery of his tribe, and the suffering
Shefford divined was deep.
“He'd better keep out of my sight,” muttered Shefford, more to himself
than to his companion.
“The half-breed is here,” said Nas Ta Bega.
“Shadd? Yes, we saw him. There! He's still with his gang. Nas Ta Bega,
what are they up to?”
“They will steal what they can.”
“Withers says Shadd is friendly with the Mormons.”
“Yes, and with the missionary, too.”
“With Willetts?”
“I saw them talk together--strong talk.”
“Strange. But maybe it's not so strange. Shadd is known well in
Monticello and Bluff. He spends money there. They are afraid of him, but
he's welcome just the same. Perhaps everybody knows him. It'd be like
him to ride into Kayenta. But, Nas Ta Bega, I've got to look out for
him, because Withers says he's after me.”
“Bi Nai wears a scar that is proof,” said the Indian.
“Then it must be he found out long ago I had a little money.”
“It might be. But, Bi Nai, the half-breed has a strange step on your
trail.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Shefford.
“Nas Ta Bega cannot tell what he does not know,” replied the Navajo.
“Let that be. We shall know some day. Bi Nai, there is sorrow to tell
that is not the Indian's.... Sorrow for my brother!”
Shefford lifted his eyes to the Indian's, and if he did not see sadness
there he was much deceived.
“Bi Nai, long ago you told a story to the trader. Nas Ta Bega sat before
the fire that night. You did not know he could understand your language.
He listened. And he learned what brought you to the country of the
Indian. That night he made you his brother.... All his lonely rides into
the cañon have been to find the little golden-haired child, the lost
girl--Fay Larkin.... Bi Nai, I have found the girl you wanted for your
sweetheart.”
Shefford was bereft of speech. He could not see steadily, and the last
solemn words of the Indian seemed far away.
“Bi Nai, I have found Fay Larkin,” repeated Nas Ta Bega.
“Fay Larkin!” gasped Shefford, shaking his head. “But--she's dead.”
“It would be less sorrow for Bi Nai if she were dead.”
Shefford clutched at the Indian. There was something terrible to be
revealed. Like an aspen-leaf in the wind he shook all over. He divined
the revelation--divined the coming blow--but that was as far as his mind
got.
“She's in there,” said the Indian, pointing toward hall.
“Fay Larkin?” whispered Shefford.
“Yes, Bi Nai.”
“My God! HOW do you know? Oh, I could have seen. I've been blind. ...
Tell me, Indian. Which one?”
“Fay Larkin is the Sago Lily.”
. . . . . . . . . .