the shade and quiet of the trees he suffered a storm of heart and mind.
During that short or long time--he had no idea how long--the Indian
remained with him. He never lost the feeling of Nas Ta Bega close beside
him. When the period of acute pain left him and some order began
to replace the tumult in his mind he felt in Nas Ta Bega the same
quality--silence or strength or help--that he had learned to feel in the
deep cañon and the lofty crags. He realized then that the Indian was
indeed a brother. And Shefford needed him. What he had to fight was more
fatal than suffering and love--it was hate rising out of the unsuspected
dark gulf of his heart--the instinct to kill--the murder in his soul.
Only now did he come to understand Jane Withersteen's tragic story and
the passion of Venters and what had made Lassiter a gun-man. The desert
had transformed Shefford. The elements had entered into his muscle and
bone, into the very fiber of his heart. Sun, wind, sand, cold, storm,
space, stone, the poison cactus, the racking toil, the terrible
loneliness--the iron of the desert man, the cruelty of the desert
savage, the wildness of the mustang, the ferocity of hawk and wolf, the
bitter struggle of every surviving thing--these were as if they had been
melted and merged together and now made a dark and passionate stream
that was his throbbing blood. He realized what he had become and gloried
in it, yet there, looking on with grave and earnest eyes, was his old
self, the man of reason, of intellect, of culture, who had been a good
man despite the failure and shame of his life. And he gave heed to the
voice of warning, of conscience. Not by revengefully seeking the Mormon
who had ruined Fay Larkin and blindly dealing a wild justice could he
help this unfortunate girl. This fierce, newborn strength and passion
must be tempered by reason, lest he become merely elemental, a man
answering wholly to primitive impulses. In the darkness of that hour he
mined deep into his heart, understood himself, trembled at the thing he
faced, and won his victory. He would go forth from that hour a man. He
might fight, and perhaps there was death in the balance, but hate would
never overthrow him.
Then when he looked at future action he felt a strange, unalterable
purpose to save Fay Larkin. She was very young--seventeen or eighteen,
she had said--and there could be, there must be some happiness
before her. It had been his dream to chase a rainbow--it had been his
determination to find her in the lost Surprise Valley. Well, he had
found her. It never occurred to him to ask Nas Ta Bega how he had
discovered that the Sago Lily was Fay Larkin. The wonder was, Shefford
thought, that he had so long been blind himself. How simply everything
worked out now! Every thought, every recollection of her was proof. Her
strange beauty like that of the sweet and rare lily, her low voice that
showed the habit of silence, her shapely hands with the clasp strong as
a man's, her lithe form, her swift step, her wonderful agility upon the
smooth, steep trails, and the wildness of her upon the heights, and
the haunting, brooding shadow of her eyes when she gazed across the
cañon--all these fitted so harmoniously the conception of a child
lost in a beautiful Surprise Valley and growing up in its wildness and
silence, tutored by the sad love of broken Jane and Lassiter. Yes, to
save her had been Shefford's dream, and he had loved that dream. He
had loved the dream and he had loved the child. The secret of her
hiding-place as revealed by the story told him and his slow growth from
dream to action--these had strangely given Fay Larkin to him. Then
had come the bitter knowledge that she was dead. In the light of this
subsequent revelation how easy to account for his loving Mary, too.
Never would she be Mary again to him! Fay Larkin and the Sago Lily were
one and the same. She was here, near him, and he was powerless for the
present to help her or to reveal himself. She was held back there in
that gloomy hall among those somber Mormons, alien to the women, bound
in some fatal way to one of the men, and now, by reason of her weakness
in the trial, surely to be hated. Thinking of her past and her present,
of the future, and that secret Mormon whose face she had never seen,
Shefford felt a sinking of his heart, a terrible cold pang in his
breast, a fainting of his spirit. She had sworn she was no sealed wife.
But had she not lied? So, then, how utterly powerless he was!
But here to save him, to uplift him, came that strange mystic insight
which had been the gift of the desert to him. She was not dead. He had
found her. What mattered obstacles, even that implacable creed to which
she had been sacrificed, in the face of this blessed and overwhelming
truth? It was as mighty as the love suddenly dawning upon him. A strong
and terrible and deathly sweet wind seemed to fill his soul with the
love of her. It was her fate that had drawn him; and now it was her
agony, her innocence, her beauty, that bound him for all time. Patience
and cunning and toil, passion and blood, the unquenchable spirit of a
man to save--these were nothing to give--life itself were little, could
he but free her.
Patience and cunning! His sharpening mind cut these out as his greatest
assets for the present. And his thoughts flashed like light through his
brain.... Judge Stone and his court would fail to convict any Mormon
in Stonebridge, just the same as they had failed in the northern towns.
They would go away, and Stonebridge would fall to the slow, sleepy tenor
of its former way. The hidden village must become known to all men,
honest and outlawed, in that country, but this fact would hardly make
any quick change in the plans of the Mormons. They did not soon change.
They would send the sealed wives back to the cañon and, after the
excitement had died down, visit them as usual. Nothing, perhaps, would
ever change these old Mormons but death.
Shefford resolved to remain in Stonebridge and ingratiate himself deeper
into the regard of the Mormons. He would find work there, if the sealed
wives were not returned to the hidden village. In case the women went
back to the valley Shefford meant to resume his old duty of driving
Withers's pack-trains. Wanting that opportunity, he would find some
other work, some excuse to take him there. In due time he would reveal
to Fay Larkin that he knew her. How the thought thrilled him! She might
deny, might persist in her fear, might fight to keep her secret. But he
would learn it--hear her story--hear what had become of Jane Withersteen
and Lassiter--and if they were alive, which now he believed he would
find them--and he would take them and Fay out of the country.
The duty, the great task, held a grim fascination for him. He had a
foreboding of the cost; he had a dark realization of the force he meant
to oppose. There were duty here and pity and unselfish love, but these
alone did not actuate Shefford. Mystically fate seemed again to come
like a gleam and bid him follow.
When Shefford and Nas Ta Bega returned to the town hall the trial had
been ended, the hall was closed, and only a few Indians and cowboys
remained in the square, and they were about to depart. On the street,
however, and the paths and in the doorways of stores were knots of
people, talking earnestly. Shefford walked up and down, hoping to meet
Withers or Joe Lake. Nas Ta Bega said he would take the horses to water
and feed and then return.
There were indications that Stonebridge might experience some of the
excitement and perhaps violence common to towns like Monticello and
Durango. There was only one saloon in Stonebridge, and it was full
of roystering cowboys and horse-wranglers. Shefford saw the bunch of
mustangs, in charge of the same Indian, that belonged to Shadd and
his gang. The men were inside, drinking. Next door was a tavern called
Hopewell House, a stone structure of some pretensions. There were
Indians lounging outside. Shefford entered through a wide door and
found himself in a large bare room, boarded like a loft, with no
ceiling except the roof. The place was full of men and noise. Here he
encountered Joe Lake talking to Bishop Kane and other Mormons. Shefford
got a friendly greeting from the bishop, and then was well received by
the strangers, to whom Joe introduced him.
“Have you seen Withers?” asked Shefford.
“Reckon he's around somewhere,” replied Joe. “Better hang up here, for
he'll drop in sooner or later.”
“When are you going back to Kayenta?” went on Shefford.
“Hard to say. We'll have to call off our hunt. Nas Ta Bega is here,
too.”
“Yes, I've been with him.”
The older Mormons drew aside, and then Joe mentioned the fact that he
was half starved. Shefford went with him into another clapboard room,
which was evidently a dining-room. There were half a dozen men at the
long table. The seat at the end was a box, and scarcely large enough or
safe enough for Joe and Shefford, but they risked it.
“Saw you in the hall,” said Joe. “Hell--wasn't it?”
“Joe, I never knew how much I dared say to you, so I don't talk much.
But, it was hell,” replied Shefford.
“You needn't be so scared of me,” spoke up Joe, testily.
That was the first time Shefford had heard the Mormon speak that way.
“I'm not scared, Joe. But I like you--respect you. I can't say so much
of--of your people.”
“Did you stick out the whole mix?” asked Joe.
“No. I had enough when--when they got through with Mary.” Shefford spoke
low and dropped his head. He heard the Mormon grind his teeth. There was
silence for a little space while neither man looked at the other.
“Reckon the judge was pretty decent,” presently said Joe.
“Yes, I thought so. He might have--” But Shefford did not finish that
sentence. “How'd the thing end?”
“It ended all right.”
“Was there no conviction--no sentence?” Shefford felt a curious
eagerness.
“Naw,” he snorted. “That court might have saved its breath.”
“I suppose. Well, Joe, between you and me, as old friends now, that
trial established one fact, even if it couldn't be proved.... Those
women are sealed wives.”
Joe had no reply for that. He looked gloomy, and there was a stern line
in his lips. To-day he seemed more like a Mormon.
“Judge Stone knew that as well as I knew,” went on Shefford. “Any man of
penetration could have seen it. What an ordeal that was for good women
to go through! I know they're good. And there they were swearing to--”
“Didn't it make me sick?” interrupted Joe in a kind of growl. “Reckon
it made Judge Stone sick, too. After Mary went under he conducted that
trial like a man cuttin' out steers at a round-up. He wanted to get it
over. He never forced any question.... Bad job to ride down Stonebridge
way! It's out of creation. There's only six men in the party, with a
poor lot of horses. Really, government officers or not, they're not
safe. And they've taken a hunch.”
“Have they left already?” inquired Shefford.
“Were packed an hour ago. I didn't see them go, but somebody said they
went. Took the trail for Bluff, which sure is the only trail they could
take, unless they wanted to go to Colorado by way of Kayenta. That might
have been the safest trail.”
“Joe, what might happen to them?” asked Shefford, quietly, with eyes on
the Mormon.
“Aw, you know that rough trail. Bad on horses. Weathered
slopes--slipping ledges--a rock might fall on you any time. Then Shadd's
here with his gang. And bad Piutes.”
“What became of the women?” Shefford asked, 'presently.
“They're around among friends.”
“Where are their children?”
“Left over there with the old women. Couldn't be fetched over. But there
are some pretty young babies in that bunch--need their mothers.”
“I should--think so,” replied Shefford, constrainedly. “When will their
mothers get back to them?”
“To-night, maybe, if this mob of cow-punchers and wranglers get out of
town.... It's a bad mix, Shefford, here's a hunch on that. These fellows
will get full of whisky. And trouble might come if they--approach the
women.”
“You mean they might get drunk enough to take the oaths of those poor
women--take the meaning literally--pretend to believe the women what
they swore they were?”
“Reckon you've got the hunch,” replied Joe, gloomily.
“My God! man, that would be horrible!” exclaimed Shefford.
“Horrible or not, it's liable to happen. The women can be kept here yet
awhile. Reckon there won't be any trouble here. It'll be over there in
the valley. Shefford, getting the women over there safe is a job that's
been put to me. I've got a bunch of fellows already. Can I count on you?
I'm glad to say you're well thought of. Bishop Kane liked you, and what
he says goes.”
“Yes, Joe, you can count on me,” replied Shefford.
They finished their meal then and repaired to the big office-room of
the house. Several groups of men were there and loud talk was going
on outside. Shefford saw Withers talking to Bishop Kane and two other
Mormons, both strangers to Shefford. The trader appeared to be speaking
with unwonted force, emphasizing his words with energetic movements of
his hands.
“Reckon something's up,” whispered Joe, hoarsely. “It's been in the air
all day.”
Withers must have been watching for Shefford.
“Here's Shefford now,” he said to the trio of Mormons, as Joe and
Shefford reached the group. “I want you to hear him speak for himself.”
“What's the matter?” asked Shefford.
“Give me a hunch and I'll put in my say-so,” said Joe Lake.
“Shefford, it's the matter of a good name more than a job,” replied the
trader. “A little while back I told the bishop I meant to put you on the
pack job over to the valley--same as when you first came to me. Well,
the bishop was pleased and said he might put something in your way.
Just now I ran in here to find you--not wanted. When I kicked I got the
straight hunch. Willetts has said things about you. One of them--the one
that sticks in my craw--was that you'd do anything, even pretend to
be inclined toward Mormonism, just to be among those Mormon women over
there. Willetts is your enemy. And he's worse than I thought. Now I want
you to tell Bishop Kane why this missionary is bitter toward you.”
“Gentlemen, I knocked him down,” replied Shefford, simply.
“What for?” inquired the bishop, in surprise and curiosity.
Shefford related the incident which had occurred at Red Lake and that
now seemed again to come forward fatefully.
“You insinuate he had evil intent toward the Indian girl?” queried Kane.
“I insinuate nothing. I merely state what led to my acting as I did.”
“Principles of religion, sir?”
“No. A man's principles.”
Withers interposed in his blunt way, “Bishop, did you ever see Glen
Naspa?”
“No.”
“She's the prettiest Navajo in the country. Willetts was after her,
that's all.”
“My dear man, I can't believe that of a Christian missionary. We've
known Willetts for years. He's a man of influence. He has money back of
him. He's doing a good work. You hint of a love relation.”
“No, I don't hint,” replied Withers, impatiently. “I know. It's not the
first time I've known a missionary to do this sort of thing. Nor is it
the first time for Willetts. Bishop Kane, I live among the Indians. I
see a lot I never speak of. My work is to trade with the Indians, that's
all. But I'll not have Willetts or any other damned hypocrite run down
my friend here. John Shefford is the finest young man that ever came to
me in the desert. And he's got to be put right before you all or I'll
not set foot in Stonebridge again.... Willetts was after Glen Naspa.
Shefford punched him. And later threw him out of the old Indian's hogan
up on the mountain. That explains Willetts's enmity. He was after the
girl.”
“What's more, gentlemen, he GOT her,” added Shefford. “Glen Naspa has
not been home for six months. I saw her at Blue Cañon.... I would like
to face this Willetts before you all.”
“Easy enough,” replied Withers, with a grim chuckle. “He's just
outside.”
The trader went out; Joe Lake followed at his heels and the three
Mormons were next; Shefford brought up the rear and lingered in the door
while his eye swept the crowd of men and Indians. His feeling was in
direct contrast to his movements. He felt the throbbing of fierce anger.
But it seemed a face came between him and his passion--a sweet and
tragic face that would have had power to check him in a vastly more
critical moment than this. And in an instant he had himself in hand,
and, strangely, suddenly felt the strength that had come to him.
Willetts stood in earnest colloquy with a short, squat Indian--the
half-breed Shadd. They leaned against a hitching-rail. Other Indians
were there, and outlaws. It was a mixed group, rough and hard-looking.
“Hey, Willetts!” called the trader, and his loud, ringing voice, not
pleasant, stilled the movement and sound.
When Willetts turned, Shefford was half-way across the wide walk. The
missionary not only saw him, but also Nas Ta Bega, who was striding
forward. Joe Lake was ahead of the trader, the Mormons followed with
decision, and they all confronted Willetts. He turned pale. Shadd had
cautiously moved along the rail, nearer to his gang, and then they, with
the others of the curious crowd, drew closer.
“Willetts, here's Shefford. Now say it to his face!” declared the
trader. He was angry and evidently wanted the fact known, as well as the
situation.
Willetts had paled, but he showed boldness. For an instant Shefford
studied the smooth face, with its sloping lines, the dark, wine-colored
eyes.
“Willetts, I understand you've maligned me to Bishop Kane and others,”
began Shefford, curtly.
“I called you an atheist,” returned the missionary, harshly.
“Yes, and more than that. And I told these men WHY you vented your spite
on me.”
Willetts uttered a half-laugh, an uneasy, contemptuous expression of
scorn and repudiation.
“The charges of such a man as you are can't hurt me,” he said.
The man did not show fear so much as disgust at the meeting. He seemed
to be absorbed in thought, yet no serious consideration of the situation
made itself manifest. Shefford felt puzzled. Perhaps there was no fire
to strike from this man. The desert had certainly not made him flint. He
had not toiled or suffered or fought.
“But _I_ can hurt you,” thundered Shefford, with startling suddenness.
“Here! Look at this Indian! Do you know him? Glen Naspa's brother. Look
at him. Let us see you face him while I accuse you.... You made love to
Glen Naspa--took her from her home!”
“Harping infidel!” replied Willetts, hoarsely. “So that's your game.
Well, Glen Naspa came to my school of her own accord and she will say
so.”
“Why will she? Because you blinded the simple Indian girl.... Willetts,
I'll waste little more time on you.”
And swift and light as a panther Shefford leaped upon the man and,
fastening powerful hands round the thick neck, bore him to his knees
and bent back his head over the rail. There was a convulsive struggle,
a hard flinging of arms, a straining wrestle, and then Willetts was in a
dreadful position. Shefford held him in iron grasp.
“You damned, white-livered hypocrite--I'm liable to kill you!” cried
Shefford. “I watched you and Glen Naspa that day up on the mountain.
I saw you embrace her. I saw that she loved you. Tell THAT, you liar!
That'll be enough.”
The face of the missionary turned purple as Shefford forced his head
back over the rail.
“I'll kill you, man,” repeated Shefford, piercingly. “Do you want to go
to your God unprepared? Say you made love to Glen Naspa--tell that you
persuaded her to leave her home. Quick!”
Willetts raised a shaking hand and then Shefford relaxed the paralyzing
grip and let his head come forward. The half-strangled man gasped out a
few incoherent words that his livid, guilty face made unnecessary.
Shefford gave him a shove and he fell into the dust at the feet of the
Navajo.
“Gentlemen, I leave him to Nas Ta Bega,” said Shefford, with a strange
change from passion to calmness.
Late that night, when the roystering visitors had gone or were deep
in drunken slumber, a melancholy and strange procession filed out of
Stonebridge. Joe Lake and his armed comrades were escorting the Mormon
women back to the hidden valley. They were mounted on burros and
mustangs, and in all that dark and somber line there was only one figure
which shone white under the pale moon.
At the starting, until that white-clad figure had appeared, Shefford's
heart had seemed to be in his throat; and thereafter its beat was
muffled and painful in his breast. Yet there was some sad sweetness in
the knowledge that he could see her now, be near her, watch over her.
By and by the overcast clouds drifted and the moon shone bright. The
night was still; the great dark mountain loomed to the stars; the
numberless waves of rounded rock that must be crossed and circled lay
deep in shadow. There was only a steady pattering of light hoofs.
Shefford's place was near the end of the line, and he kept well back,
riding close to one woman and then another. No word was spoken. These
sealed wives rode where their mounts were led or driven, as blind in
their hoods as veiled Arab women in palanquins. And their heads drooped
wearily and their shoulders bent, as if under a burden. It took an hour
of steady riding to reach the ascent to the plateau, and here, with the
beginning of rough and smooth and shadowed trail, the work of the escort
began. The line lengthened out and each man kept to the several women
assigned to him. Shefford had three, and one of them was the girl he
loved. She rode as if the world and time and life were naught to her.
As soon as he dared trust his voice and his control he meant to let her
know the man whom perhaps she had not forgotten was there with her, a
friend. Six months! It had been a lifetime to him. Surely eternity to
her! Had she forgotten? He felt like a coward who had basely deserted
her. Oh--had he only known!
She rode a burro that was slow, continually blocking the passage for
those behind, and eventually it became lame. Thus the other women forged
ahead. Shefford dismounted and stopped her burro. It was a moment before
she noted the halt, and twice in that time Shefford tried to speak and
failed. What poignant pain, regret, love made his utterance fail!
“Ride my horse,” he finally said, and his voice was not like his own.
Obediently and wearily she dismounted from the burro and got up on
Nack-yal. The stirrups were long for her and he had to change them. His
fingers were all thumbs as he fumbled with the buckles.
Suddenly he became aware that there had been a subtle change in her. He
knew it without looking up and he seemed to be unable to go on with his
task. If his life had depended upon keeping his head lowered he could
not have done it. The listlessness of her drooping form was no longer
manifest. The peak of the dark hood pointed toward him. He knew then
that she was gazing at him.
Never so long as he lived would that moment be forgotten! They were
alone. The others had gotten so far ahead that no sound came back. The
stillness was so deep it could be felt. The moon shone with white, cold
radiance and the shining slopes of smooth stone waved away, crossed by
shadows of pinyons.
Then she leaned a little toward him. One swift hand flew up to tear the
black hood back so that she could see. In its place flashed her white
face. And her eyes were like the night.
“YOU!” she whispered.
His blood came leaping to sting neck and cheek and temple. What dared
he interpret from that single word? Could any other word have meant so
much?
“No--one--else,” he replied, unsteadily.
Her white hand flashed again to him, and he met it with his own. He
felt himself standing cold and motionless in the moonlight. He saw her,
wonderful, with the deep, shadowy eyes, and a silver sheen on her hair.
And as he looked she released her hand and lifted it, with the other,
to her hood. He saw the shiny hair darken and disappear--and then the
lovely face with its sad eyes and tragic lips.
He drew Nack-yal's bridle forward, and led him up the moonlit trail.
XII. THE REVELATION
The following afternoon cowboys and horse-wranglers, keen-eyed as
Indians for tracks and trails, began to arrive in the quiet valley to
which the Mormon women had been returned.
Under every cedar clump there were hobbled horses, packs, and rolled
bedding in tarpaulins. Shefford and Joe Lake had pitched camp in the old
site near the spring. The other men of Joe's escort went to the homes of
the women; and that afternoon, as the curious visitors began to arrive,
these homes became barred and dark and quiet, as if they had been closed
and deserted for the winter. Not a woman showed herself.
Shefford and Joe, by reason of the location of their camp and their
alertness, met all the new-comers. The ride from Stonebridge was a long
and hard one, calculated to wear off the effects of the whisky
imbibed by the adventure-seekers. This fact alone saved the situation.
Nevertheless, Joe expected trouble. Most of the visitors were decent,
good-natured fellows, merely curious, and simple enough to believe that
this really was what the Mormons had claimed--a village of free women.
But there were those among them who were coarse, evil-minded, and
dangerous.
By supper-time there were two dozen or more of these men in the valley,
camped along the west wall. Fires were lighted, smoke curled up over the
cedars, gay songs disturbed the usual serenity of the place. Later in
the early twilight the curious visitors, by twos and threes, walked
about the village, peering at the dark cabins and jesting among
themselves. Joe had informed Shefford that all the women had been put in
a limited number of cabins, so that they could be protected. So far as
Shefford saw or heard there was no unpleasant incident in the village;
however, as the sauntering visitors returned toward their camps they
loitered at the spring, and here developments threatened.