Book: The Rainbow Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Rainbow Trail




"Yes, very soon. The Indian and I have talked. But we've made no
plan yet. There are only three ways to get out of this country. By
Stonebridge, by Kayenta and Durango, and by Red Lake. We must choose
one. All are dangerous. We must lose time finding Surprise Valley.
I hoped the Indian could find it. Then we'd bring Lassiter and Jane
here and hide them near till dark, then take you and go. That would
give us a night's start. But you must help us to Surprise Valley."

"I can go right to it, blindfolded, or in the dark. . . . Oh, John,
hurry! I dread the wait. He might come again."

"Joe says--they won't come very soon."

"Is it far--where we're going--out of the country?"

"Ten days' hard riding."

"Oh! That night ride to and from Stonebridge nearly killed me. But I
could walk very far, and climb for ever."

"Fay, we'll get out of the country if I have to carry you."

When they arrived at the cabin Fay turned on the porch step and, with
her face nearer a level with his, white and sweet in the moonlight,
with her eyes shining and unfathomable, she was more than beautiful.

"You've never been inside my house," she said. "Come in. I've
something for you."

"But it's late," he remonstrated. "I suppose you've got me a cake or
pie--something to eat. You women all think Joe and I have to be fed."

"No. You'd never guess. Come in," she said, and the rare smile on her
face was something Shefford would have gone far to see.

"Well, then, for a minute."

He crossed the porch, the threshold, and entered her home. Her dim,
white shape moved in the darkness. And he followed into a room where
the moon shone through the open window, giving soft, mellow, shadowy
light. He discerned objects, but not clearly, for his senses seemed
absorbed in the strange warmth and intimacy of being for the first
time with her in her home.

"No, it's not good to eat," she said, and her laugh was happy.
"Here--"

Suddenly she abruptly ceased speaking. Shefford saw her plainly, and
the slender form had stiffened, alert and strained. She was listening.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"I didn't hear anything," he whispered back.

He stepped softly nearer the open window and listened.

Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Hard hoofs on the hard path outside!

A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford. In the soft light her
eyes seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful.

Clip-clop! clip-clop!

The horse stopped outside. Then followed a metallic clink of spur
against stirrup--thud of boots on hard ground--heavy footsteps upon
the porch.

A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford.
His only thought was that he could not think.

"Ho--Mary!"

A voice liberated both Shefford's muscle and mind--a voice of strange,
vibrant power. Authority of religion and cruelty of will--these
Mormon attributes constituted that power. And Shefford suffered a
transformation which must have been ordered by demons. That sudden
flame seemed to curl and twine and shoot along his veins with blasting
force. A rancorous and terrible cry leaped to his lips.

"Ho--Mary!" Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer
room.

Shefford dared not look at Fay. Yet, dimly, from the corner of his
eye, he saw her, a pale shadow, turned to stone, with her arms out.
If he looked, if he made sure of that, he was lost. When had he drawn
his gun? It was there, a dark and glinting thing in his hand. He
must fly--not through cowardice and fear, but because in one more
moment he would kill a man. Swift as the thought he dove through
the open window. And, leaping up, he ran under the dark pinyons
toward camp.

Joe Lake had been out late himself. He sat by the fire, smoking his
pipe. He must have seen or heard Shefford coming, for he rose with
unwonted alacrity, and he kicked the smoldering logs into a flickering
blaze.

Shefford, realizing his deliverance, came panting, staggering into the
light. The Mormon uttered an exclamation. Then he spoke, anxiously,
but what he said was not clear in Shefford's thick and throbbing ears.
He dropped his pipe, a sign of perturbation, and he stared.

But Shefford, without a word, lunged swiftly away into the shadow of
the cedars. He found relief in action. He began a steep ascent of
the east wall, a dangerous slant he had never dared even in daylight,
and he climbed it without a slip. Danger, steep walls, perilous
heights, night, and black canyon the same--these he never thought of.
But something drove him to desperate effort, that the hours might
seem short.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The red sun was tipping the eastern wall when he returned to camp, and
he was neither calm nor sure of himself nor ready for sleep or food.
Only he had put the night behind him.

The Indian showed no surprise. But Joe Lake's jaw dropped and his
eyes rolled. Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature
of which did not at once dawn upon Shefford.

"By God! you've got nerve--or you're crazy!" he ejaculated, hoarsely.

Then it was Shefford's turn to stare. The Mormon was haggard, grieved,
frightened, and utterly amazed. He appeared to be trying to make
certain of Shefford's being there in the flesh and then to find reason
for it.

"I've no nerve and I am crazy," replied Shefford. "But, Joe--what do
you mean? Why do you look at me like that?"

"I reckon if I get your horse that'll square us. Did you come back
for him? You'd better hit the trail quick."

"It's you now who're crazy," burst out Shefford.

"Wish to God I was," replied Joe.

It was then Shefford realized catastrophe, and cold fear gnawed at his
vitals, so that he was sick.

"Joe, what has happened?" he asked, with the blood thick in his heart.

"Hadn't you better tell me?" demanded the Mormon, and a red wave
blotted out the haggard shade of his face.

"You talk like a fool," said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up
to Joe.

"See here, Shefford, we've been pards. You're making it hard for me.
Reckon you ain't square."

Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon's burly
shoulder.

"Why am I not square? What do you mean?"

Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake. Then he eyed his comrade
steadily.

"I was afraid you'd kill him. I reckon I can't blame you. I'll help
you get away. And I'm a Mormon! Do you take the hunch? . . . But
don't deny you killed him!"

"Killed whom?" gasped Shefford.

"Her husband!"

Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror. The Mormon's
changing face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight. He
was clutched and shaken in Joe's rude hands, yet scarcely felt them.
Joe seemed to be bellowing at him, but the voice was far off. Then
Shefford began to see, to hear through some cold and terrible deadness
that had come between him and everything.

"Say YOU killed him!" hoarsely supplicated the Mormon.

Shefford had not yet control of speech. Something in his gaze appeared
to drive Joe frantic.

"Damn you! Tell me quick. Say YOU killed him! . . . If you want to
know my stand, why, I'm glad! . . . Shefford, don't look so stony!
. . . For HER sake, say you killed him!"

Shefford stood with a face as gray and still as stone. With a groan
the Mormon drew away from him and sank upon a log. He bowed his head;
his broad shoulders heaved; husky sounds came from him. Then with a
violent wrench he plunged to his feet and shook himself like a huge,
savage dog.

"Reckon it's no time to weaken," he said, huskily, and with the words
a dark, hard, somber bitterness came to his face.

"Where--is--she?" whispered Shefford.

"Shut up in the school-house," he replied.

"Did she--did she--"

"She neither denied nor confessed."

"Have you--seen her?"

"Yes."

"How did--she look?"

"Cool and quiet as the Indian there. . . . Game as hell! She always
had stuff in her."

"Oh, Joe! . . . It's unbelievable!" cried Shefford. "That lovely,
innocent girl! She couldn't--she couldn't."

"She's fixed him. Don't think of that. It's too late. We ought to
have saved her."

"God! . . . She begged me to hurry--to take her away."

"Think what we can do NOW to save her," cut in the Mormon.

Shefford sustained a vivifying shock. "To save her?" he echoed.

"Think, man!"

"Joe, I can hit the trail and let you tell them I killed him," burst
out Shefford in panting excitement.

"Reckon I can."

"So help me God I'll do it!"

The Mormon turned a dark and austere glance upon Shefford.

"You mustn't leave her. She killed him for your sake. . . . You must
fight for her now--save her--take her away."

"But the law!"

"Law!" scoffed Joe. "In these wilds men get killed and there's no law.
But if she's taken back to Stonebridge those iron-jawed old Mormons
will make law enough to--to . . . Shefford, the thing is--get her away.
Once out of the country, she's safe. Mormons keep their secrets."

"I'll take her. Joe, will you help me?"

Shefford, even in his agitation, felt the Mormon's silence to be a
consent that need not have been asked. And Shefford had a passionate
gratefulness toward his comrade. That stultifying and blinding
prejudice which had always seemed to remove a Mormon outside the
pale of certain virtue suffered final eclipse; and Joe Lake stood
out a man, strange and crude, but with a heart and a soul.

"Joe, tell me what to do," said Shefford, with a simplicity that meant
he needed only to be directed.

"Pull yourself together. Get your nerve back," replied Joe. "Reckon
you'd better show yourself over there. No one saw you come in this
morning--your absence from camp isn't known. It's better you seem
curious and shocked like the rest of us. Come on. We'll go over.
And afterward we'll get the Indian, and plan."

They left camp and, crossing the brook, took the shaded path toward
the village. Hope of saving Fay, the need of all his strength and
nerve and cunning to effect that end, gave Shefford the supreme
courage to overcome his horror and fear. On that short walk under
the pinyons to Fay's cabin he had suffered many changes of emotion,
but never anything like this change which made him fierce and strong
to fight, deep and crafty to plan, hard as iron to endure.

The village appeared very quiet, though groups of women stood at the
doors of cabins. If they talked, it was very low. Henninger and
Smith, two of the three Mormon men living in the village, were
standing before the closed door of the school-house. A tigerish
feeling thrilled Shefford when he saw them on guard there. Shefford
purposely avoided looking at Fay's cabin as long as he could keep
from it. When he had to look he saw several hooded, whispering women
in the yard, and Beal, the other Mormon man, standing in the cabin
door. Upon the porch lay the long shape of a man, covered with
blankets.

Shefford experienced a horrible curiosity.

"Say, Beal, I've fetched Shefford over," said Lake. "He's pretty much
cut up."

Beal wagged a solemn head, but said nothing. His mind seemed absent
or steeped in gloom, and he looked up as one silently praying.

Joe Lake strode upon the little porch and, reaching down, he stripped
the blanket from the shrouded form.

Shefford saw a sharp, cold, ghastly face. "WAGGONER!" he whispered.

"Yes," replied Lake.

Waggoner! Shefford remembered the strange power in his face, and, now
that life had gone, that power was stripped of all disguise. Death, in
Shefford's years of ministry, had lain under his gaze many times and
in a multiplicity of aspects, but never before had he seen it stamped
so strangely. Shefford did not need to be told that here was a man who
believed he had conversed with God on earth, who believed he had a
divine right to rule women, who had a will that would not yield itself
to death utterly. Waggoner, then, was the devil who had come masked
to Surprise Valley, had forced a martyrdom upon Fay Larkin. And this
was the Mormon who had made Fay Larkin a murderess. Shefford had hated
him living, and now he hated him dead. Death here was robbed of all
nobility, of pathos, of majesty. It was only retribution. Wild
justice! But alas! that it had to be meted out by a white-soled
girl whose innocence was as great as the unconscious savagery which
she had assimilated from her lonely and wild environment. Shefford
laid a despairing curse upon his own head, and a terrible remorse
knocked at his heart. He had left her alone, this girl in whom love
had made the great change--like a coward he had left her alone. That
curse he visited upon himself because he had been the spirit and the
motive of this wild justice, and his should have been the deed.

Joe Lake touched Shefford's arm and pointed at the haft of a knife
protruding from Waggoner's breast. It was a wooden haft. Shefford
had seen it before somewhere.

Then he was struck with what perhaps Joe meant him to see--the singular
impression the haft gave of one sweeping, accurate, powerful stroke. A
strong arm had driven that blade home. The haft was sunk deep; there
was a little depression in the cloth; no blood showed; and the weapon
looked as if it could not be pulled out. Shefford's thought went
fatally and irresistibly to Fay Larkin's strong arm. He saw her flash
that white arm and lift the heavy bucket from the spring with an ease
he wondered at. He felt the strong clasp of her hand as she had given
it to him in a flying leap across a crevice upon the walls. Yes, her
fine hand and the round, strong arm possessed the strength to have
given that blade its singular directness and force. The marvel was
not in the physical action. It hid inscrutably in the mystery of
deadly passion rising out of a gentle and sad heart.

Joe Lake drew up the blanket and shut from Shefford's fascinated gaze
that spare form, that accusing knife, that face of strange, cruel
power.

"Anybody been sent for?" asked Lake of Beal.

"Yes. An Indian boy went for the Piute. We'll send him to
Stonebridge," replied the Mormon.

"How soon do you expect any one here from Stonebridge?"

"To-morrow, mebbe by noon."

"Meantime what's to be done with--this?"

"Elder Smith thinks the body should stay right here where it fell till
they come from Stonebridge."

"Waggoner was found here, then?"

"Right here."

"Who found him?"

"Mother Smith. She came over early. An' the sight made her scream.
The women all came runnin'. Mother Smith had to be put to bed."

"Who found--Mary?"

"See here, Joe, I told you all I knowed once before," replied the
Mormon, testily.

"I've forgotten. Was sort of bewildered. Tell me again. . . . Who
found--her?"

"The women folks. She laid right inside the door, in a dead faint.
She hadn't undressed. There was blood on her hands an' a cut or
scratch. The women fetched her to. But she wouldn't talk. Then
Elder Smith come an' took her. They've got her locked up."

Then Joe led Shefford away from the cabin farther on into the village.
When they were halted by the somber, grieving women it was Joe who did
the talking. They passed the school-house, and here Shefford quickened
his step. He could scarcely bear the feeling that rushed over him.
And the Mormon gripped his arm as if he understood.

"Shefford, which one of these younger women do you reckon your best
friend? Ruth?" asked Lake, earnestly.

"Ruth, by all means. Just lately I haven't seen her often. But we've
been close friends. I think she'd do much for me."

"Maybe there'll be a chance to find out. Maybe we'll need Ruth. Let's
have a word with her. I haven't seen her out among the women."

They stopped at the door of Ruth's cabin. It was closed. When Joe
knocked there came a sound of footsteps inside, a hand drew aside the
window-blind, and presently the door opened. Ruth stood there, dressed
in somber hue. She was a pretty, slender, blue-eyed, brown-haired
young woman.

Shefford imagined from her pallor and the set look of shock upon her
face, that the tragedy had affected her more powerfully than it had
the other women. When he remembered that she had been more friendly
with Fay Larkin than any other neighbor, he made sure he was right in
his conjecture.

"Come in," was Ruth's greeting.

"No. We just wanted to say a word. I noticed you've not been out. Do
you know--all about it?"

She gave them a strange glance.

"Any of the women folks been in?" added Joe.

"Hester ran over. She told me through the window. Then I barred my
door to keep the other women out."

"What for?" asked Joe, curiously.

"Please come in," she said, in reply.

They entered, and she closed the door after them. The change that came
over her then was the loosing of restraint.

"Joe--what will they do with Mary?" she queried, tensely.

The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. "Hang her!" he
rejoined in brutal harshness.

"O Mother of Saints!" she cried, and her hands went up.

"You're sorry for Mary, then?" asked Joe, bluntly.

"My heart is breaking for her."

"Well, so's Shefford's," said the Mormon, huskily. "And mine's kind of
damn shaky."

Ruth glided to Shefford with a woman's swift softness.

"You've been my good--my best friend. You were hers, too. Oh, I know!
. . . Can't you do something for her?"

"I hope to God I can," replied Shefford.

Then the three stood looking from one to the other, in a strong and
subtly realizing moment drawn together.

"Ruth," whispered Joe, hoarsely, and then he glanced fearfully around,
at the window and door, as if listeners were there. It was certain
that his dark face had paled. He tried to whisper more, only to fail.
Shefford divined the weight of Mormonism that burdened Joe Lake then.
Joe was faithful to a love for Fay Larkin, noble in friendship to
Shefford, desperate in a bitter strait with his own manliness, but
the power of that creed by which he had been raised struck his lips
mute. For to speak on meant to be false to that creed. Already in
his heart he had decided, yet he could not voice the thing.

"Ruth"--Shefford took up the Mormon's unfinished whisper--"if we plan
to save her--if we need you--will you help?"

Ruth turned white, but an instant and splendid fire shone in her eyes.

"Try me," she whispered back. "I'll change places with her--so you
can get her away. They can't do much to me."

Shefford wrung her hands. Joe licked his lips and found his voice:
"We'll come back later." Then he led the way out and Shefford
followed. They were silent all the way back to camp.

Nas Ta Bega sat in repose where they had left him, a thoughtful, somber
figure. Shefford went directly to the Indian, and Joe tarried at the
camp-fire, where he raked out some red embers and put one upon the bowl
of his pipe. He puffed clouds of white smoke, then found a seat beside
the others.

"Shefford, go ahead. Talk. It'll take a deal of talk. I'll listen.
Then I'll talk. It'll be Nas Ta Bega who makes the plan out of it
all."

Shefford launched himself so swiftly that he scarcely talked
coherently. But he made clear the points that he must save Fay, get
her away from the village, let her lead him to Surprise Valley, rescue
Lassiter and Jane Withersteen, and take them all out of the country.

Joe Lake dubiously shook his head. Manifestly the Surprise Valley
part of the situation presented a new and serious obstacle. It
changed the whole thing. To try to take the three out by way of
Kayenta and Durango was not to be thought of, for reasons he briefly
stated. The Red Lake trail was the only one left, and if that were
taken the chances were against Shefford. It was five days over sand
to Red Lake--impossible to hide a trail--and even with a day's start
Shefford could not escape the hard-riding men who would come from
Stonebridge. Besides, after reaching Red Lake, there were days and
days of desert-travel needful to avoid places like Blue Canyon, Tuba,
Moencopie, and the Indian villages.

"We'll have to risk all that," declared Shefford, desperately.

"It's a fool risk," retorted Joe. "Listen. By tomorrow noon all of
Stonebridge, more or less, will be riding in here. You've got to get
away to-night with the girl--or never! And to-morrow you've got to
find that Lassiter and the woman in Surprise Valley. This valley must
be back, deep in the canyon country. Well, you've got to come out this
way again. No trail through here would be safe. Why, you'd put all
your heads in a rope! . . . You mustn't come through this way. It'll
have to be tried across country, off the trails, and that means hell--
day-and-night travel, no camp, no feed for horses--maybe no water.
Then you'll have the best trackers in Utah like hounds on your trail."

When the Mormon ceased his forceful speech there was a silence fraught
with hopeless meaning. He bowed his head in gloom. Shefford, growing
sick again to his marrow, fought a cold, hateful sense of despair.

"Bi Nai!" In his extremity he called to the Indian.

"The Navajo has heard," replied Nas Ta Bega, strangely speaking in his
own language.

With a long, slow heave of breast Shefford felt his despair leave him.
In the Indian lay his salvation. He knew it. Joe Lake caught the
subtle spirit of the moment and looked up eagerly.

Nas Ta Bega stretched an arm toward the east, and spoke in Navajo.
But Shefford, owing to the hurry and excitement of his mind, could not
translate. Joe Lake listened, gave a violent start, leaped up with all
his big frame quivering, and then fired question after question at the
Indian. When the Navajo had replied to all, Joe drew himself up as if
facing an irrevocable decision which would wring his very soul. What
did he cast off in that moment? What did he grapple with? Shefford
had no means to tell, except by the instinct which baffled him. But
whether the Mormon's trial was one of spiritual rending or the natural
physical fear of a perilous, virtually impossible venture, the fact
was he was magnificent in his acceptance of it. He turned to Shefford,
white, cold, yet glowing.

"Nas Ta Bega believes he can take you down a canyon to the big river--
the Colorado. He knows the head of this canyon. Nonnezoshe Boco it's
called--canyon of the rainbow bridge. He has never been down it. Only
two or three living Indians have ever seen the great stone bridge. But
all have heard of it. They worship it as a god. There's water runs
down this canyon and water runs to the river. Nas Ta Bega thinks he
can take you down to the river."

"Go on," cried Shefford breathlessly, as Joe paused.

"The Indian plans this way. God, it's great! . . . If only I can do
my end! . . . He plans to take mustangs to-day and wait with them for
you to-night or to-morrow till you come with the girl. You'll go get
Lassiter and the woman out of Surprise Valley. Then you'll strike
east for Nonnezoshe Boco. If possible, you must take a pack of grub.
You may be days going down--and waiting for me at the mouth of the
canyon, at the river."

"Joe! Where will you be?"

"I'll ride like hell for Kayenta, get another horse there, and ride
like hell for the San Juan River. There's a big flatboat at the
Durango crossing. I'll go down the San Juan in that--into the big
river. I'll drift down by day, tie up by night, and watch for you
at the mouth of every canyon till I come to Nonnezoshe Boco."

Shefford could not believe the evidence of his ears. He knew the
treacherous San Juan River. He had heard of the great, sweeping,
terrible red Colorado and its roaring rapids.

"Oh, it seems impossible!" he gasped. "You'll just lose your life
for nothing."

"The Indian will turn the trick, I tell you. Take my hunch. It's
nothing for me to drift down a swift river. I worked a ferry-boat
once."

Shefford, to whom flying straws would have seemed stable, caught the
inflection of defiance and daring and hope of the Mormon's spirit.

"What then--after you meet us at the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco?" he
queried.

"We'll all drift down to Lee's Ferry. That's at the head of Marble
Canyon. We'll get out on the south side of the river, thus avoiding
any Mormons at the ferry. Nas Ta Bega knows the country. It's open
desert--on the other side of these plateaus. He can get horses from
Navajos. Then you'll strike south for Willow Springs."

"Willow Springs? That's Presbrey's trading-post," said Shefford.

"Never met him. But he'll see you safe out of the Painted Desert.
. . . The thing that worries me most is how not to miss you all at
the mouth of Nonnezoshe. You must have sharp eyes. But I forget
the Indian. A bird couldn't pass him. . . . And suppose Nonnezoshe
Boco has a steep-walled, narrow mouth opening into a rapids! . . .
Whew! Well, the Indian will figure that, too. Now, let's put our
heads together and plan how to turn this end of the trick here.
Getting the girl!"

After a short colloquy it was arranged that Shefford would go to Ruth
and talk to her of the aid she had promised. Joe averred that this aid
could be best given by Ruth going in her somber gown and hood to the
school-house, and there, while Joe and Shefford engaged the guards
outside, she would change apparel and places with Fay and let her
come forth.

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