Book: The Rainbow Trail

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Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a
missionary.

"No! . . . Me no missionary," cried Shefford, and he flung up a
passionately repudiating hand.

A singular flash shot from the Indian's dark eyes. It struck Shefford
even at this stinging moment when the past came back.

"Trade--buy wool--blanket?" queried Nas Ta Bega.

"No," replied Shefford. "Me want ride--walk far." He waved his hand
to indicate a wide sweep of territory. "Me sick."

Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.

"No," replied Shefford. "Me strong. Sick here." And with motions of
his hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.

Shefford received instant impression of this Indian's intelligent
comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the
feeling. Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow.
Shefford heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had
probably gone to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering
crash, which was followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he
was astounded to see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the
whole cedar-tree, trunk first. Shefford would have doubted the ability
of two men to drag that tree, and here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it
easily. He laid the trunk on the fire, and then proceeded to break
off small branches, to place them advantageously where the red coals
kindled them into a blaze.

The Indian's next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently
meant to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground,
lay down upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-
haired saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became
motionless. His sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she
stayed farther away from the fire, and she had a larger blanket,
which covered her well. It appeared to Shefford that they went to
sleep at once.

Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he
could soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.

There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had
not experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling--the
aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy
grip. Nas Ta Bega's arrival had frightened away that dark and silent
prowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved
his life. The measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him.
Had he cared so much for life? Yes--he had, when face to face with
death. That was something to know. It helped him. And he gathered
from his strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought him
into the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbid
bitterness of heart.

With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was very
pleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire.
There was a deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones. What joy it
was to rest! He had felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the
pang of hunger. How wonderful to learn the real meaning of water
and food! He had just finished the longest, hardest day's work of
his life! Had that anything to do with a something almost like peace
which seemed to hover near in the shadows, trying to come to him? He
had befriended an Indian girl, and now her brother had paid back the
service. Both the giving and receiving were somehow sweet to Shefford.
They opened up hitherto vague channels of thought. For years he had
imagined he was serving people, when he had never lifted a hand. A
blow given in the defense of an Indian girl had somehow operated to
make a change in John Shefford's existence. It had liberated a spirit
in him. Moreover, it had worked its influence outside his mind. The
Indian girl and her brother had followed his trail to return his horse,
perhaps to guide him safely, but, unknowingly perhaps, they had done
infinitely more than that for him. As Shefford's eye wandered over
the dark, still figures of the sleepers he had a strange, dreamy
premonition, or perhaps only a fancy, that there was to be more come
of this fortunate meeting.

For the rest, it was good to be there in the speaking silence, to feel
the heat on his outstretched palms and the cold wind on his cheek, to
see the black wall lifting its bold outline and the crags reaching for
the white stars.




III. KAYENTA


The stamping of horses awoke Shefford. He A saw a towering crag, rosy
in the morning light, like a huge red spear splitting the clear blue
of sky. He got up, feeling cramped and sore, yet with unfamiliar
exhilaration. The whipping air made him stretch his hands to the fire.
An odor of coffee and broiled meat mingled with the fragrance of wood
smoke. Glen Naspa was on her knees broiling a rabbit on a stick
over the red coals. Nas Ta Bega was saddling the ponies. The canyon
appeared to be full of purple shadows under one side of dark cliffs
and golden streaks of mist on the other where the sun struck high up
on the walls.

"Good morning," said Shefford.

Glen Naspa shyly replied in Navajo.

"How," was Nas Ta Bega's greeting.

In daylight the Indian lost some of the dark somberness of face that
had impressed Shefford. He had a noble head, in poise like that of
an eagle, a bold, clean-cut profile, and stern, close-shut lips. His
eyes were the most striking and attractive feature about him; they
were coal-black and piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to
come from a keen and inquisitive mind.

Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the few
preparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointed
to horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made by
Shefford's threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explained
by word and sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had been
in danger. Nas Ta Bega followed the tracks a little way and presently
returned.

"Shadd," he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did not
understand whether he meant the name of his visitor or something else,
but the menace connected with the word was clear enough.

Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased
Shefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas
Ta Bega got up and pointed northward.

"Kayenta?" he inquired.

Shefford nodded and then they were off, with Glen Naspa in the lead.
They did not climb the trail which they had descended, but took one
leading to the right along the base of the slope. Shefford saw down
into the red wash that bisected the canyon floor. It was a sheer wall
of red clay or loam, a hundred feet high, and at the bottom ran a
swift, shallow stream of reddish water. Then for a time a high growth
of greasewood hid the surroundings from Shefford's sight. Presently
the trail led out into the open, and Shefford saw that he was at the
neck of a wonderful valley that gradually widened with great jagged
red peaks on the left and the black mesa, now a mountain, running away
to the right. He turned to find that the opening of the Sagi could no
longer be seen, and he was conscious of a strong desire to return and
explore that canyon.

Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and her
followers did likewise. As they got outward into the valley Shefford
lost the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness of
the huge walls and crags. The trail appeared level underfoot, but at
a distance it was seen to climb. Shefford found where it disappeared
over the foot of a slope that formed a graceful rising line up to the
cedared flank of the mesa. The valley floor, widening away to the
north, remained level and green. Beyond rose the jagged range of
red peaks, all strangely cut and slanting. These distant deceiving
features of the country held Shefford's gaze until the Indian drew
his attention to things near at hand. Then Shefford saw flocks of
sheep dotting the gray-green valley, and bands of beautiful long-
maned, long-tailed ponies.

For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford
imagined he came to see where the upland plain ended or at least
broke its level. He was right, for presently the Indian pointed,
and Shefford went on to halt upon the edge of a steep slope leading
down into a valley vast in its barren gray reaches.

"Kayenta," said Nas Ta Bega.

Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley
reaching far to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff.
Then close under the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone
houses with red roofs, and a corral with a pool of water shining
in the sun.

The trail leading down was steep and sandy, but it was not long.
Shefford's sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once--the
crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty
wool, the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses,
little lazy burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles,
blankets, guns, and packs.

Then a white man came out of the door. He waved a hand and shouted.
Dust and wool and flour were thick upon him. He was muscular and
weather-beaten, and appeared young in activity rather than face. A
gun swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in
his belt. Shefford looked into a face that he thought he had seen
before, until he realized the similarity was only the bronze and hard
line and rugged cast common to desert men. The gray searching eyes
went right through him.

"Glad to see you. Get down and come in. Just heard from an Indian
that you were coming. I'm the trader Withers," he said to Shefford.
His voice was welcoming and the grip of his hand made Shefford's ache.

Shefford told his name and said he was as glad as he was lucky to
arrive at Kayenta.

"Hello! Nas Ta Bega!" exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a
surprise his face did not show. "Did this Indian bring you in?"

Withers shook hands with the Navajo while Shefford briefly related
what he owed to him. Then Withers looked at Nas Ta Bega and spoke
to him in the Indian tongue.

"Shadd," said Nas Ta Bega. Withers let out a dry little laugh and his
strong hand tugged at his mustache.

"Who's Shadd?" asked Shefford.

"He's a half-breed Ute--bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He's in with a
gang of outlaws who hide in the San Juan country. . . . Reckon you're
lucky. How'd you come to be there in the Sagi alone?"

"I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against
it, but I came anyway."

"Well." Withers's gray glance was kind, if it did express the
foolhardiness of Shefford's act. "Come into the house. . . . Never
mind the horse. My wife will sure be glad to see you."

Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was
the trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was
large, with logs smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets
covering every foot of floor space, and Indian baskets and silver
ornaments everywhere, and strange Indian designs painted upon the
whitewashed walls. Withers called his wife and made her acquainted
with Shefford. She was a slight, comely little woman, with keen,
earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be serious and quiet, but she made
Shefford feel at home immediately. He refused, however, to accept the
room offered him, saying that he me meant to sleep out under the open
sky. Withers laughed at this and said he understood. Shefford,
remembering Presbrey's hunger for news of the outside world, told this
trader and his wife all he could think of; and he was listened to with
that close attention a traveler always gained in the remote places.

"Sure am glad you rode in," said Withers, for the fourth time. "Now
you make yourself at home. Stay here--come over to the store--do
what you like. I've got to work. To-night we'll talk."

Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as
Presbrey's, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of
everything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a
narrow aisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a
high counter on the other. Behind this counter Withers stood to wait
upon the buying Indians. They sold blankets and skins and bags of
wool, and in exchange took silver money. Then they lingered and with
slow, staid reluctance bought one thing and then another--flour, sugar,
canned goods, coffee, tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never
without two or three Indians leaning on their dark, silver-braceleted
arms. But as they were slow to sell and buy and go, so were others
slow to come in. Their voices were soft and low and it seemed to
Shefford they were whispering. He liked to hear them and to look at
the banded heads, the long, twisted rolls of black hair tied with
white cords, the still dark faces and watchful eyes, the silver ear-
rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the lean and sinewy shapes,
the corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small, close-fitting
buckskin moccasins buttoned with coins. These Indians all appeared
young, and under the quiet, slow demeanor there was fierce blood and
fire.

By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The former
was a huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if
not jolly.

She had the corners of a blanket tied under her chin, and in the folds
behind on her broad back was a naked Indian baby, round and black of
head, brown-skinned, with eyes as bright as beads. When the youngster
caught sight of Shefford he made a startled dive into the sack of the
blanket. Manifestly, however, curiosity got the better of fear, for
presently Shefford caught a pair of wondering dark eyes peeping at him.

"They're good spenders, but slow," said Withers. "The Navajos are
careful and cautious. That's why they're rich. This squaw, Yan As
Pa, has flocks of sheep and more mustangs than she knows about."

"Mustangs. So that's what you call the ponies?" replied Shefford.

"Yep. They're mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits."

Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers's
helper, a Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past
maturity, and his sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open
desert. He was engaged in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the
Indians. Near by stood a framework of poles from which an immense
bag was suspended. From the top of this bag protruded the head and
shoulders of an Indian who appeared to be stamping and packing wool
with his feet. He grinned at the curious Shefford. But Shefford was
more interested in the Mormon. So far as he knew, Whisner was the
first man of that creed he had ever met, and he could scarcely hide
his eagerness. Venters's stories had been of a long-past generation
of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, and unchangeable. Shefford did not
expect to meet Mormons of this kind. But any man of that religion
would have interested him. Besides this, Whisner seemed to bring him
closer to that wild secret canyon he had come West to find. Shefford
was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have his polite and friendly
overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an Indian. He was cold,
incommunicative, aloof; and there was something about him that made
the sensitive Shefford feel his presence was resented.

Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy
mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish
that he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes,
and then he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and
after a while any of them. Shefford did not understand himself, but
he fought his natural instinctive reluctance to meet obstacles, peril,
suffering.

He traced the white-bordered little stream that made the pool in the
corral, and when he came to where it oozed out of the sand under the
bluff he decided that was not the spring which had made Kayenta
famous. Presently down below the trading-post he saw a trough from
which burros were drinking. Here he found the spring, a deep well
of eddying water walled in by stones, and the overflow made a shallow
stream meandering away between its borders of alkali, like a crust of
salt. Shefford tasted the water. It bit, but it was good.

Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyed
burros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but
the mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes;
they raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.

Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake.
Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were
others riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were
transported out of the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A
wide, hard-packed road led off to the east, and another, not so
clearly defined, wound away to the north. And Indian trails streaked
off in all directions.

Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so
across the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of
wildness and loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country.
It held something for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned
girl from a wild canyon.

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before
the blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on
Shefford's and said, with directness and force:

"I've lived my life in the desert. I've met many men and have been a
friend to most. . . . You're no prospector or trader or missionary?"

"No," replied Shefford.

"You've had trouble?"

"Yes."

"Have you come in here to hide? Don't be afraid to tell me. I won't
give you away."

"I didn't come to hide."

"Then no one is after you? You've done no wrong?"

"Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else," replied Shefford,
steadily.

"I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret--it's all one
to me."

Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong,
persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.

"You're welcome in Kayenta," went on Withers. "Stay as long as you
like. I take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it
aplenty."

"Thank you. That is good. I need to work. We'll talk of it later.
. . . But just yet I can't tell you why I came to Kayenta, what I want
to do, how long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem
so like dreams. Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I'm only chasing a
phantom--perhaps I'm only hunting the treasure at the foot of the
rainbow."

"Well, this is the country for rainbows," laughed Withers. "In
summer from June to August when it storms we have rainbows that'll
make you think you're in another world. The Navajos have rainbow
mountains, rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails.
It sure is rainbow country."

That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was again--
something tangible at the bottom of his dream.

Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if
he read his visitor's mind he began to talk about the wild country
he called home.

He had lived at Kayenta for several years--hard and profitless years by
reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but
for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly
with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been
brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and
affection by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she
knew more of the Indians' habits, religion, and life than any white
person in the West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there
were bad Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post
a venture Withers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move
and intended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and
Colorado were a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads
were impassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was
situated a Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah
line. Withers did some business with this village, but scarcely enough
to warrant the risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost
several pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it left
Stonebridge.

"Stonebridge!" exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that
name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village
Shefford longed to speak of to this trader.

"Yes--Stonebridge," replied Withers. "Ever heard the name?"

"I think so. Are there other villages in--in that part of the
country?"

"A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and
Monticello are far north across the San Juan. . . . There used to be
another village--but that wouldn't interest you."

"Maybe it would," replied Shefford, quietly.

But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a
semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.

"Withers, pardon an impertinence--I am deeply serious. . . . Are you
a Mormon?"

"Indeed I'm not," replied the trader, instantly.

"Are you for the Mormons or against them?"

"Neither. I get along with them. I know them. I believe they are a
misunderstood people."

"That's for them."

"No. I'm only fair-minded."

Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too
strong.

"You said there used to be another village. . . . Was the name of
it--Cottonwoods?"

Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank
astonishment.

"Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?" he queried,
sharply.

"So far as I went," replied Shefford.

"You're no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?"

"Absolutely not. I don't even know what you mean by sealed wives."

"Well, it's damn strange that you'd know the name Cottonwoods. . . .
Yes, that's the name of the village I meant--the one that used to be.
It's gone now, all except a few stone walls."

"What became of it?"

"Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away.
I've heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once.
It's gone, too. Its name was--let me see--"

"Amber Spring," interrupted Shefford.

"By George, you're right!" rejoined the trader, again amazed.
"Shefford, this beats me. I haven't heard that name for ten years.
I can't help seeing what a tenderfoot--stranger--you are to the
desert. Yet, here you are--speaking of what you should know nothing
of. . . . And there's more behind this."

Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.

"Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?"

"Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name."

"Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?" queried Shefford, with
increasing emotion.

"No."

"Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named--Jane Withersteen?"

"No."

Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam--he had
caught a fleeting glimpse of it.

"Did you ever hear of a child--a girl--a woman--called Fay Larkin?"

Withers rose slowly with a paling face.

"If you're a spy it'll go hard with you--though I'm no Mormon," he
said, grimly.

Shefford lifted a shaking hand.

"I WAS a clergyman. Now I'm nothing--a wanderer--least of all a spy."

Withers leaned closer to see into the other man's eyes; he looked long
and then appeared satisfied.

"I've heard the name Fay Larkin," he said, slowly. "I reckon that's
all I'll say till you tell your story."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of
his hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected
him strangely. What was the meaning of the trader's somber gravity?
Why was the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and
secret?

"My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four," began Shefford. "My
family--"

Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford.

"Come in," called Withers.

The door opened and like a shadow Nas Ta Bega slipped in. He said
something in Navajo to the trader.

"How," he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, but
there was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before the
fire, doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with
dark eyes on the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation.


"He likes the fire," explained Withers. "Whenever he comes to Kayenta
he always visits me like this. . . . Don't mind him. Go on with your
story."

"My family were plain people, well-to-do, and very religious," went on
Shefford. "When I was a boy we moved from the country to a town called
Beaumont, Illinois. There was a college in Beaumont and eventually I
was sent to it to study for the ministry. I wanted to be-- But never
mind that. . . . By the time I was twenty-two I was ready for my career
as a clergyman. I preached for a year around at different places and
then got a church in my home town of Beaumont. I became exceedingly
good friends with a man named Venters, who had recently come to
Beaumont. He was a singular man. His wife was a strange, beautiful
woman, very reserved, and she had wonderful dark eyes. They had money
and were devoted to each other, and perfectly happy. They owned the
finest horses ever seen in Illinois, and their particular enjoyment
seemed to be riding. They were always taking long rides. It was
something worth going far for to see Mrs. Venters on a horse.

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