Book: The Rainbow Trail

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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 Canyon. . . . 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.

In spite of the fact that the majority of these cowboys and their
comrades were decent-minded and beginning to see the real relation
of things, they were not disposed to be civil to Shefford. They were
certainly not Mormons. And his position, apparently as a Gentile,
among these Mormons was one open to criticism. They might have been
jealous, too; at any rate, remarks were passed in his hearing, meant
for his ears, that made it exceedingly trying for him not to resent.
Moreover, Joe Lake's increasing impatience rendered the situation more
difficult. Shefford welcomed the arrival of Nas Ta Bega. The Indian
listened to the loud talk of several loungers round the camp-fire; and
thereafter he was like Shefford's shadow, silent, somber, watchful.

Nevertheless, it did not happen to be one of the friendly and sarcastic
cowboys that precipitated the crisis. A horse-wrangler named Hurley,
a man of bad repute, as much outlaw as anything, took up the bantering.

"Say, Shefford, what in the hell's your job here, anyway?" he queried
as he kicked a cedar branch into the camp-fire. The brightening blaze
showed him swarthy, unshaven, a large-featured, ugly man.

"I've been doing odd jobs for Withers," replied Shefford. "Expect to
drive pack-trains in here for a while."

"You must stand strong with these Mormons. Must be a Mormon yerself?"

"No," replied Shefford, briefly.

"Wal, I'm stuck on your job. Do you need a packer? I can throw a
diamond-hitch better 'n any feller in this country."

"I don't need help."

"Mebbe you'll take me over to see the ladies," he went on, with a
coarse laugh.

Shefford did not show that he had heard. Hurley waited, leering as
looked from the keen listeners to Shefford.

"Want to have them all yerself, eh?" he jeered.

Shefford struck him--sent him tumbling heavily, like a log. Hurley,
cursing as he half rose, jerked his gun out. Nas Ta Bega, swift as
light, kicked the gun out of his hand. And Joe Lake picked it up.

Deliberately the Mormon cocked the weapon and stood over Hurley.

"Get up!" he ordered, and Shefford heard the ruthless Mormon in
him then.

Hurley rose slowly. Then Joe prodded him in the middle with the
cocked gun. Shefford startled, expected the gun to go off. So
did the others, especially Hurley, who shrank in panic from the
dark Mormon.

"Rustle!" said Joe, and gave the man a harder prod. Assuredly the
gun did not have a hair-trigger.

"Joe, mebbe it's loaded!" protested one of the cowboys.

Hurley shrank back, and turned to hurry away, with Joe close after
him. They disappeared in the darkness. A constrained silence was
maintained around the camp-fire for a while. Presently some of the
men walked off and others began to converse. Everybody heard the
sound of hoofs passing down the trail. The patter ceased, and in a
few moments Lake returned. He still carried Hurley's gun.

The crowd dispersed then. There was no indication of further trouble.
However, Shefford and Joe and Nas Ta Bega divided the night in watches,
so that some one would be wide awake.

Early next morning there was an exodus from the village of the better
element among the visitors. "No fun hangin' round hyar," one of them
expressed it, and as good-naturedly as they had come they rode away.
Six or seven of the desperado class remained behind, bent on mischief;
and they were reinforced by more arrivals from Stonebridge. They
avoided the camp by the spring, and when Shefford and Lake attempted
to go to them they gave them a wide berth. This caused Joe to assert
that they were up to some dirty work. All morning they lounged
around under the cedars, keeping out of sight, and evidently the
reinforcement from Stonebridge had brought liquor. When they gathered
together at their camp, half drunk, all noisy, some wanting to swagger
off into the village and others trying to hold them back, Joe Lake
said, grimly, that somebody was going to get shot. Indeed, Shefford
saw that there was every likelihood of bloodshed.

"Reckon we'd better take to one of the cabins," said Joe.

Thereupon the three repaired to the nearest cabin, and, entering, kept
watch from the windows. During a couple of hours, however, they did
not see or hear anything of the ruffians. Then came a shot from over
in the village, a single yell, and, after that, a scattering volley.
The silence and suspense which followed were finally broken by hoof-
beats. Nas Ta Bega called Joe and Shefford to the window he had been
stationed at. From here they saw the unwelcome visitors ride down the
trail, to disappear in the cedars toward the outlet of the valley.
Joe, who had numbered them, said that all but one of them had gone.

"Reckon he got it," added Joe.

So indeed it turned out; one of the men, a well-known rustler named
Harker, had been killed, by whom no one seemed to know. He had
brazenly tried to force his way into one of the houses, and the act
had cost him his life. Naturally Shefford, never free from his
civilized habit of thought, remarked apprehensively that he hoped
this affair would not cause the poor women to be arrested again
and haled before some rude court.

"Law!" grunted Joe. "There ain't any. The nearest sheriff is in
Durango. That's Colorado. And he'd give us a medal for killing
Harker. It was a good job, for it'll teach these rowdies a lesson."

Next day the old order of life was resumed in the village. And the
arrival of a heavily laden pack-train, under the guidance of Withers,
attested to the fact that the Mormons meant not only to continue to
live in the valley, but also to build and plant and enlarge. This
was good news to Shefford. At least the village could be made less
lonely. And there was plenty of work to give him excuse for staying
there. Furthermore, Withers brought a message form Bishop Kane to
the effect that the young man was offered a place as teacher in
the school, in co-operation with the Mormon teachers. Shefford
experienced no twinge of conscience when he accepted.

It was the fourth evening after the never-to-be-forgotten moonlight
ride to the valley that Shefford passed under the dark pinyon-trees
on his way to Fay Larkin's cottage. He paused in the gloom and
memory beset him. The six months were annihilated, and it was the
night he had fled. But now all was silent. He seemed to be trying
to drag himself back. A beginning must be made. Only how to meet
her--what to say--what to conceal!

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