Book: The Rainbow Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Rainbow Trail




Shefford respected his host's serene abstraction. Indeed, he was
grateful for silence. Not for many nights had the past impinged so
closely upon the present. The wound in his soul had not healed, and
to speak of himself made it bleed anew. Memory was too poignant; the
past was too close; he wanted to forget until he had toiled into the
heart of this forbidding wilderness--until time had gone by and he
dared to face his unquiet soul. Then he listened to the steadily
rising roar of the wind. How strange and hollow! That wind was
freighted with heavy sand, and he heard it sweep, sweep, sweep by in
gusts, and then blow with dull, steady blast against the walls. The
sound was provocative of thought. This moan and rush of wind was no
dream--this presence of his in a night-enshrouded and sand-besieged
house of the lonely desert was reality--this adventure was not one
of fancy. True indeed, then, must be the wild, strange story that
had led him hither. He was going on to seek, to strive, to find.
Somewhere northward in the broken fastnesses lay hidden a valley
walled in from the world. Would they be there, those lost fugitives
whose story had thrilled him? After twelve years would she be alive,
a child grown to womanhood in the solitude of a beautiful canyon?
Incredible! Yet he believed his friend's story and he indeed knew
how strange and tragic life was. He fancied he heard her voice on
the sweeping wind. She called to him, haunted him. He admitted the
improbability of her existence, but lost nothing of the persistent
intangible hope that drove him. He believed himself a man stricken
in soul, unworthy, through doubt of God, to minister to the people
who had banished him. Perhaps a labor of Hercules, a mighty and
perilous work of rescue, the saving of this lost and imprisoned
girl, would help him in his trouble. She might be his salvation.
Who could tell? Always as a boy and as a man he had fared forth
to find the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.




II. THE SAGI


Next morning the Indian girl was gone and the tracks of her pony led
north. Shefford's first thought was to wonder if he would overtake
her on the trail; and this surprised him with the proof of how
unconsciously his resolve to go on had formed.

Presbrey made no further attempt to turn Shefford back. But he
insisted on replenishing the pack, and that Shefford take weapons.
Finally Shefford was persuaded to accept a revolver. The trader bade
him good-by and stood in the door while Shefford led his horse down
the slope toward the water-hole. Perhaps the trader believed he was
watching the departure of a man who would never return. He was still
standing at the door of the post when Shefford halted at the pool.

Upon the level floor of the valley lay thin patches of snow which had
fallen during the night. The air was biting cold, yet stimulated
Shefford while it stung him. His horse drank rather slowly and
disgustedly. Then Shefford mounted and reluctantly turned his back
upon the trading-post.

As he rode away from the pool he saw a large flock of sheep
approaching. They were very closely, even densely, packed, in a solid
slow-moving mass and coming with a precision almost like a march.
This fact surprised Shefford, for there was not an Indian in sight.
Presently he saw that a dog was leading the flock, and a little later
he discovered another dog in the rear of the sheep. They were
splendid, long-haired dogs, of a wild-looking shepherd breed. He
halted his horse to watch the procession pass by. The flock covered
fully an acre of ground and the sheep were black, white, and brown.
They passed him, making a little pattering roar on the hard-caked sand.
The dogs were taking the sheep in to water.

Shefford went on and was drawing close to the other side of the basin,
where the flat red level was broken by rising dunes and ridges, when
he espied a bunch of ponies. A shrill whistle told him that they had
seen him. They were wild, shaggy, with long manes and tails. They
stopped, threw up their heads, and watched him. Shefford certainly
returned the attention. There was no Indian with them. Presently,
with a snort, the leader, which appeared to be a stallion, trotted
behind the others, seemed to be driving them, and went clear round
the band to get in the lead again. He was taking them in to water,
the same as the dogs had taken the sheep.

These incidents were new and pleasing to Shefford. How ignorant he
had been of life in the wilderness! Once more he received subtle
intimations of what he might learn out in the open; and it was with a
less weighted heart that he faced the gateway between the huge yellow
bluffs on his left and the slow rise of ground to the black mesa on
his right. He looked back in time to see the trading-post, bleak
and lonely on the bare slope, pass out of sight behind the bluffs.
Shefford felt no fear--he really had little experience of physical
fear--but it was certain that he gritted his teeth and welcomed
whatever was to come to him. He had lived a narrow, insulated life
with his mind on spiritual things; his family and his congregation
and his friends--except that one new friend whose story had enthralled
him--were people of quiet religious habit; the man deep down in him
had never had a chance. He breathed hard as he tried to imagine the
world opening to him, and almost dared to be glad for the doubt that
had sent him adrift.

The tracks of the Indian girl's pony were plain in the sand. Also
there were other tracks, not so plain, and these Shefford decided had
been made by Willetts and the girl the day before. He climbed a ridge,
half soft sand and half hard, and saw right before him, rising in
striking form, two great yellow buttes, like elephant legs. He rode
between them, amazed at their height. Then before him stretched a
slowly ascending valley, walled on one side by the black mesa and on
the other by low bluffs. For miles a dark-green growth of greasewood
covered the valley, and Shefford could see where the green thinned and
failed, to give place to sand. He trotted his horse and made good time
on this stretch.

The day contrasted greatly with any he had yet experienced. Gray
clouds obscured the walls of rock a few miles to the west, and Shefford
saw squalls of snow like huge veils dropping down and spreading out.
The wind cut with the keenness of a knife. Soon he was chilled to the
bone. A squall swooped and roared down upon him, and the wind that
bore the driving white pellets of snow, almost like hail, was so
freezing bitter cold that the former wind seemed warm in comparison.
The squall passed as swiftly as it had come, and it left Shefford so
benumbed he could not hold the bridle. He tumbled off his horse and
walked. By and by the sun came out and soon warmed him and melted
the thin layer of snow on the sand. He was still on the trail of the
Indian girl, but hers were now the only tracks he could see.

All morning he gradually climbed, with limited view, until at last he
mounted to a point where the country lay open to his sight on all
sides except where the endless black mesa ranged on into the north. A
rugged yellow peak dominated the landscape to the fore, but it was far
away. Red and jagged country extended westward to a huge flat-topped
wall of gray rock. Lowering swift clouds swept across the sky, like
drooping mantles, and darkened the sun. Shefford built a little fire
out of dead greasewood sticks, and with his blanket round his shoulders
he hung over the blaze, scorching his clothes and hands. He had been
cold before in his life but he had never before appreciated fire.
This desert blast pierced him. The squall enveloped him, thicker and
colder and windier than the other, but, being better fortified, he did
not suffer so much. It howled away, hiding the mesa and leaving a
white desert behind. Shefford walked on, leading his horse, until
the exercise and the sun had once more warmed him.

This last squall had rendered the Indian girl's trail difficult to
follow. The snow did not quickly melt, and, besides, sheep tracks and
the tracks of horses gave him trouble, until at last he was compelled
to admit that he could not follow her any longer. A faint path or
trail led north, however, and, following that, he soon forgot the
girl. Every surmounted ridge held a surprise for him. The desert
seemed never to change in the vast whole that encompassed him, yet
near him it was always changing. From Red Lake he had seen a peaked,
walled, and canyoned country, as rough as a stormy sea; but when he
rode into that country the sharp and broken features held to the
distance.

He was glad to get out of the sand. Long narrow flats, gray with grass
and dotted with patches of greasewood, and lined by low bare ridges of
yellow rock, stretched away from him, leading toward the yellow peak
that seemed never to be gained upon.

Shefford had pictures in his mind, pictures of stone walls and wild
valleys and domed buttes, all of which had been painted in colorful
and vivid words by his friend Venters. He believed he would recognize
the distinctive and remarkable landmarks Venters had portrayed, and he
was certain that he had not yet come upon one of them. This was his
second lonely day of travel and he had grown more and more susceptible
to the influence of horizon and the different prominent points. He
attributed a gradual change in his feelings to the loneliness and the
increasing wildness. Between Tuba and Flagstaff he had met Indians
and an occasional prospector and teamster. Here he was alone, and
though he felt some strange gladness, he could not help but see the
difference.

He rode on during the gray, lowering, chilly day, and toward evening
the clouds broke in the west, and a setting sun shone through the
rift, burnishing the desert to red and gold. Shefford's instinctive
but deadened love of the beautiful in nature stirred into life, and
the moment of its rebirth was a melancholy and sweet one. Too late
for the artist's work, but not too late for his soul!

For a place to make camp he halted near a low area of rock that lay
like an island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead
greasewood for a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he
found little pools of melted snow in the depressions. He took off
the saddle and pack, watered his horse, and, hobbling him as well as
his inexperience permitted, he turned him loose on the grass.

Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down
upon him. In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind,
but the air, was bitter cold. He gathered all the dead greasewood in
the vicinity, replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to
the blaze. The loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this
night. He was too tired and cold. He went to sleep at once and did
not awaken until the fire died out. Then he rebuilt it and went to
sleep again. Every half-hour all night long he repeated this, and
was glad indeed when the dawn broke.

The day began with misfortune. His horse was gone; it had been stolen,
or had worked out of sight, or had broken the hobbles and made off.
From a high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes,
all to no purpose. Then he tried to track the horse, but this was
equally futile. He had expected disasters, and the first one did not
daunt him. He tied most of his pack in the blanket, threw the canteen
across his shoulder, and set forth, sure at least of one thing--that he
was a very much better traveler on foot than on horseback.

Walking did not afford him the leisure to study the surrounding
country; however, from time to time, when he surmounted a bench he
scanned the different landmarks that had grown familiar. It took
hours of steady walking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had
been a kind of goal. He saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in
the vicinity of this mountain, and once he was sure he espied an
Indian watching him from a bold ridge-top.

The day was bright and warm, with air so clear it magnified objects he
knew to be far away. The ascent was gradual; there were many narrow
flats connected by steps; and the grass grew thicker and longer. At
noon Shefford halted under the first cedar-tree, a lonely, dwarfed
shrub that seemed to have had a hard life. From this point the rise
of ground was more perceptible, and straggling cedars led the eye on
to a purple slope that merged into green of pinyon and pine. Could
that purple be the sage Venters had so feelingly described, or was it
merely the purple of deceiving distance? Whatever it might be, it
gave Shefford a thrill and made him think of the strange, shy, and
lovely woman Venters had won out here in this purple-sage country.

He calculated that he had ridden thirty miles the day before and had
already traveled ten miles today, and therefore could hope to be in
the pass before night. Shefford resumed his journey with too much
energy and enthusiasm to think of being tired. And he discovered
presently that the straggling cedars and the slope beyond were much
closer than he had judged them to be. He reached the sage to find it
gray instead of purple. Yet it was always purple a little way ahead,
and if he half shut his eyes it was purple near at hand. He was
surprised to find that he could not breathe freely, or it seemed so,
and soon made the discovery that the sweet, pungent, penetrating
fragrance of sage and cedar had this strange effect upon him. This
was an exceedingly dry and odorous forest, where every open space
between the clumps of cedars was choked with luxuriant sage. The
pinyons were higher up on the mesa, and the pines still higher.
Shefford appeared to lose himself. There were no trails; the black
mesa on the right and the wall of stone on the left could not be seen;
but he pushed on with what was either singular confidence or rash
impulse. And he did not know whether that slope was long or short.
Once at the summit he saw with surprise that it broke abruptly and the
descent was very steep and short on that side. Through the trees he
once more saw the black mesa, rising to the dignity of a mountain;
and he had glimpses of another flat, narrow valley, this time with
a red wall running parallel with the mesa. He could not help but
hurry down to get an unobstructed view. His eagerness was rewarded
by a splendid scene, yet to his regret he could not force himself to
believe it had any relation to the pictured scenes in his mind. The
valley was half a mile wide, perhaps several miles long, and it
extended in a curve between the cedar-sloped mesa and a looming wall
of red stone. There was not a bird or a beast in sight. He found a
well-defined trail, but it had not been recently used. He passed a
low structure made of peeled logs and mud, with a dark opening like a
door. It did not take him many minutes to learn that the valley was
longer than he had calculated. He walked swiftly and steadily, in
spite of the fact that the pack had become burdensome. What lay beyond
the jutting corner of the mesa had increasing fascination for him and
acted as a spur. At last he turned the corner, only to be disappointed
at sight of another cedar slope. He had a glimpse of a single black
shaft of rock rising far in the distance, and it disappeared as his
striding forward made the crest of the slope rise toward the sky.

Again his view became restricted, and he lost the sense of a slow and
gradual uplift of rock and an increase in the scale of proportion.
Half-way up this ascent he was compelled to rest; and again the sun
was slanting low when he entered the cedar forest. Soon he was
descending, and he suddenly came into the open to face a scene that
made his heart beat thick and fast.

He saw lofty crags and cathedral spires, and a wonderful canyon winding
between huge beetling red walk. He heard the murmur of flowing water.
The trail led down to the canyon floor, which appeared to be level and
green and cut by deep washes in red earth. Could this canyon be the
mouth of Deception Pass? It bore no resemblance to any place Shefford
had heard described, yet somehow he felt rather than saw that it was
the portal to the wild fastness he had traveled so far to enter.

Not till he had descended the trail and had dropped his pack did he
realize how weary and footsore he was. Then he rested. But his eyes
roved to and fro, and his mind was active. What a wild and lonesome
spot! The low murmur of shallow water came up to him from a deep,
narrow cleft. Shadows were already making the canyon seem full of blue
haze. He saw a bare slope of stone out of which cedar-trees were
growing. And as he looked about him he became aware of a singular and
very perceptible change in the lights and shades. The sun was setting;
the crags were gold-tipped; the shadows crept upward; the sky seemed
to darken swiftly; then the gold changed to red, slowly dulled, and
the grays and purples stood out. Shefford was entranced with the
beautiful changing effects, and watched till the walls turned black
and the sky grew steely and a faint star peeped out. Then he set
about the necessary camp tasks.

Dead cedars right at hand assured him a comfortable night with steady
fire; and when he had satisfied his hunger he arranged an easy seat
before the blazing logs, and gave his mind over to thought of his
weird, lonely environment.

The murmur of running water mingled in harmonious accompaniment with
the moan of the wind in the cedars--wild, sweet sounds that were balm
to his wounded spirit! They seemed a part of the silence, rather than
a break in it or a hindrance to the feeling of it. But suddenly that
silence did break to the rattle of a rock. Shefford listened, thinking
some wild animal was prowling around. He felt no alarm. Presently
he heard the sound again, and again. Then he recognized the crack of
unshod hoofs upon rock. A horse was coming down the trail. Shefford
rather resented the interruption, though he still had no alarm. He
believed he was perfectly safe. As a matter of fact, he had never in
his life been anything but safe and padded around with wool, hence,
never having experienced peril, he did not know what fear was.

Presently he saw a horse and rider come into dark prominence on the
ridge just above his camp. They were silhouetted against the starry
sky. The horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent
black statue, somehow wild and strange, in Shefford's sight. Then he
came on, vanished in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge
into the circle of camp-fire light.

He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse was
dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run. The rider appeared to be
an Indian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy. At
once Shefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds. A
little shock, inexplicable to Shefford, rippled over him.

He greeted his visitor, but received no answer. Shefford saw a dark,
squat figure bending forward in the saddle. The man was tense. All
about him was dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle. The
face under the sombrero was only a shadow. Shefford kicked the fire-
logs and a brighter blaze lightened the scene. Then he saw this
stranger a little more clearly, and made out an unusually large head,
broad dark face, a sinister tight-shut mouth, and gleaming black eyes.

Those eyes were unmistakably hostile. They roved searchingly over
Shefford's pack and then over his person. Shefford felt for the gun
that Presbrey had given him. But it was gone. He had left it back
where he had lost his horse, and had not thought of it since. Then a
strange, slow-coming cold agitation possessed Shefford. Something
gripped his throat.

Suddenly Shefford was stricken at a menacing movement on the part of
the horseman. He had drawn a gun. Shefford saw it shine darkly in
the firelight. The Indian meant to murder him. Shefford saw the grim,
dark face in a kind of horrible amaze. He felt the meaning of that
drawn weapon as he had never felt anything before in his life. And
he collapsed back into his seat with an icy, sickening terror. In a
second he was dripping wet with cold sweat. Lightning-swift thoughts
flashed through his mind. It had been one of his platitudes that he
was not afraid of death. Yet here he was a shaking, helpless coward.
What had he learned about either life or death? Would this dark savage
plunge him into the unknown? It was then that Shefford realized his
hollow philosophy and the bitter-sweetness of life. He had a brain
and a soul, and between them he might have worked out his salvation.
But what were they to this ruthless night-wanderer, this raw and
horrible wildness of the desert?

Incapable of voluntary movement, with tongue cleaving to the roof of
his mouth, Shefford watched the horseman and the half-poised gun. It
was not yet leveled. Then it dawned upon Shefford that the stranger's
head was turned a little, his ear to the wind. He was listening. His
horse was listening. Suddenly he straightened up, wheeled his horse,
and trotted away into the darkness. But he did not climb the ridge
down which he had come.

Shefford heard the click of hoofs upon the stony trail. Other horses
and riders were descending into the canyon. They had been the cause of
his deliverance, and in the relaxation of feeling he almost fainted.
Then he sat there, slowly recovering, slowly ceasing to tremble,
divining that this situation was somehow to change his attitude
toward life.

Three horses, two with riders, moved in dark shapes across the skyline
above the ridge, disappeared as had Shefford's first visitor, and
then rode into the light. Shefford saw two Indians--a man and a woman;
then with surprise recognized the latter to be the Indian girl he had
met at Red Lake. He was still more surprised to recognize in the third
horse the one he had lost at the last camp. Shefford rose, a little
shaky on his legs, to thank these Indians for a double service. The
man slipped from his saddle and his moccasined feet thudded lightly.
He was tall, lithe, erect, a singularly graceful figure, and as he
advanced Shefford saw a dark face and sharp, dark eyes. The Indian
was bareheaded, with his hair bound in a band. He resembled the girl,
but appeared to have a finer face.

"How do?" he said, in a voice low and distinct. He extended his hand,
and Shefford felt a grip of steel. He returned the greeting. Then
the Indian gave Shefford the bridle of the horse, and made signs that
appeared to indicate the horse had broken his hobbles and strayed.
Shefford thanked him. Thereupon the Indian unsaddled and led the
horses away, evidently to water them. The girl remained behind.
Shefford addressed her, but she was shy and did not respond. He then
set about cooking a meal for his visitors, and was busily engaged at
this when the Indian returned without the horses. Presently Shefford
resumed his seat by the fire and watched the two eat what he had
prepared. They certainly were hungry and soon had the pans and cups
empty. Then the girl drew back a little into the shadow, while the
man sat with his legs crossed and his feet tucked under him.

His dark face was smooth, yet it seemed to have lines under the
surface. Shefford was impressed. He had never seen an Indian who
interested him as this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared
young, wild, silent, locked in his primeval apathy, just a healthy
savage; but looked at more attentively, he appeared matured, even
old, a strange, sad, brooding figure, with a burden on his shoulders.
Shefford found himself growing curious.

"What place?" asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark opening
between the black cliffs.

"Sagi," replied the Indian.

That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was
the pass, but the Indian shook his head.

"Wife?" asked Shefford, pointing to the girl.

The Indian shook his head again. "_Bi-la_," he said.

"What you mean?" asked Shefford. "What _bi-la_?"

"Sister," replied the Indian. He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the
white man's language did not please him, but the clearness and correct
pronunciation surprised Shefford.

"What name--what call her?" he went on.

"Glen Naspa."

"What your name?" inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian.

"Nas Ta Bega," answered the Indian.

"Navajo?"

The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.

"My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come
stay here long."

Nas Ta Bega's dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He
reflected that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a
gaze. But neither the Indian's eyes nor face gave any clue to his
thoughts.

"Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ," said the Indian, and his voice rolled
out low and deep.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.