Book: The Rainbow Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Rainbow Trail




"It was through my own love of horses that I became friendly with
Venters. He and his wife attended my church, and as I got to see more
of them, gradually we grew intimate. And it was not until I did get
intimate with them that I realized that both seemed to be haunted by
the past. They were sometimes sad even in their happiness. They
drifted off into dreams. They lived back in another world. They
seemed to be listening. Indeed, they were a singularly interesting
couple, and I grew genuinely fond of them. By and by they had a
little girl whom they named Jane. The coming of the baby made a
change in my friends. They were happier, and I observed that the
haunting shadow did not so often return.

"Venters had spoken of a journey west that he and his wife meant to
take some time. But after the baby came he never mentioned his wife
in connection with the trip. I gathered that he felt compelled to go
to clear up a mystery or to find something--I did not make out just
what. But eventually, and it was about a year ago, he told me his
story--the strangest, wildest, and most tragic I ever heard. I can't
tell it all now. It is enough to say that fifteen years before he had
been a rider for a rich Mormon woman named Jane Withersteen, of this
village Cottonwoods. She had adopted a beautiful Gentile child named
Fay Larkin. Her interest in Gentiles earned the displeasure of her
churchmen, and as she was proud there came a breach. Venters and a
gunman named Lassiter became involved in her quarrel. Finally Venters
took to the canyon. Here in the wilds he found the strange girl he
eventually married. For a long time they lived in a wonderful hidden
valley, the entrance to which was guarded by a huge balancing rock.
Venters got away with the girl. But Lassiter and Jane Withersteen and
the child Fay Larkin were driven into the canyon. They escaped to the
valley where Venters had lived. Lassiter rolled the balancing rock,
and, crashing down the narrow trail, it loosened the weathered walls
and closed the narrow outlet for ever."




IV. NEW FRIENDS


Shefford ended his narrative out of breath, pale, and dripping with
sweat. Withers sat leaning forward with an expression of intense
interest. Nas Ta Bega's easy, graceful pose had succeeded to one
of strained rigidity. He seemed a statue of bronze. Could a few
intelligible words, Shefford wondered, have created that strange,
listening posture?

"Venters got out of Utah, of course, as you know," went on Shefford.
"He got out, knowing--as I feel I would have known--that Jane,
Lassiter, and little Fay Larkin were shut up, walled up in Surprise
Valley. For years Venters considered it would not have been safe for
him to venture to rescue them. He had no fears for their lives. They
could live in Surprise Valley. But Venters always intended to come
back with Bess and find the valley and his friends. No wonder he and
Bess were haunted. However, when his wife had the baby that made
a difference. It meant he had to go alone. And he was thinking
seriously of starting when--when there were developments that made
it desirable for me to leave Beaumont. Venters's story haunted me
as he had been haunted. I dreamed of that wild valley--of little Fay
Larkin grown to womanhood--such a woman as Bess Venters was. And the
longing to come was great. . . . And, Withers--here I am."

The trader reached out and gave Shefford the grip of a man in whom
emotion was powerful, but deep and difficult to express.

"Listen to this. . . . I wish I could help you. Life is a queer deal.
. . . Shefford, I've got to trust you. Over here in the wild canyon
country there's a village of Mormons' sealed wives. It's in Arizona,
perhaps twenty miles from here, and near the Utah line. When the
United States government began to persecute, or prosecute, the Mormons
for polygamy, the Mormons over here in Stonebridge took their sealed
wives and moved them out of Utah, just across the line. They built
houses, established a village there. I'm the only Gentile who knows
about it. And I pack supplies every few weeks in to these women.
There are perhaps fifty women, mostly young--second or third or fourth
wives of Mormons--sealed wives. And I want you to understand that
sealed means SEALED in all that religion or loyalty can get out of
the word. There are also some old women and old men in the village,
but they hardly count. And there's a flock of the finest children
you ever saw in your life.

"The idea of the Mormons must have been to escape prosecution. The
law of the government is one wife for each man--no more. All over
Utah polygamists have been arrested. The Mormons are deeply concerned.
I believe they are a good, law-abiding people. But this law is a
direct blow at their religion. In my opinion they can't obey both.
And therefore they have not altogether given up plural wives. Perhaps
they will some day. I have no proof, but I believe the Mormons of
Stonebridge pay secret night visits to their sealed wives across the
line in the lonely, hidden village.

"Now once over in Stonebridge I overheard some Mormons talking about a
girl who was named Fay Larkin. I never forgot the name. Later I heard
the name in this sealed-wife village. But, as I told you, I never
heard of Lassiter or Jane Withersteen. Still, if Mormons had found
them I would never have heard of it. And Deception Pass--that might
be the Sagi. . . . I'm not surprised at your rainbow-chasing adventure.
It's a great story. . . . This Fay Larkin I've heard of MIGHT be your
Fay Larkin--I almost believe so. Shefford, I'll help you find out."

"Yes, yes--I must know," replied Shefford. "Oh, I hope, I pray we can
find her! But--I'd rather she was dead--if she's not still hidden in
the valley."

"Naturally. You've dreamed yourself into rescuing this lost Fay
Larkin. . . . But, Shefford, you're old enough to know life doesn't
work out as you want it to. One way or another I fear you're in for
a bitter disappointment."

"Withers, take me to the village."

"Shefford, you're liable to get in bad out here," said the trader,
gravely.

"I couldn't be any more ruined than I am now," replied Shefford,
passionately.

"But there's risk in this--risk such as you never had," persisted
Withers.

"I'll risk anything."

"Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,"
continued Withers. "Shefford, I like you. I've a mind to see you
through this. It's a damn strange story. . . . I'll tell you what--I
will help you. I'll give you a job packing supplies in to the village.
I meant to turn that over to a Mormon cowboy--Joe Lake. The job shall
be yours, and I'll go with you first trip. Here's my hand on it. . . .
Now, Shefford, I'm more curious about you than I was before you told
your story. What ruined you? As we're to be partners, you can tell
me now. I'll keep your secret. Maybe I can do you good."

Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been
so agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader
was a man--a man of the desert--he would understand.

"I told you I was a clergyman," said Shefford in low voice. "I didn't
want to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed. . . .
I had doubts of religion--of the Bible--of God, as my Church believed
in them. As I grew older thought and study convinced me of the
narrowness of religion as my congregation lived it. I preached what I
believed. I alienated them. They put me out, took my calling from me,
disgraced me, ruined me."

"So that's all!" exclaimed Withers, slowly. "You didn't believe in
the God of the Bible. . . . Well, I've been in the desert long enough
to know there IS a God, but probably not the one your Church worships.
. . . Shefford, go to the Navajo for a faith!"

Shefford had forgotten the presence of Nas Ta Bega, and perhaps Withers
had likewise. At this juncture the Indian rose to his full height, and
he folded his arms to stand with the somber pride of a chieftain while
his dark, inscrutable eyes were riveted upon Shefford. At that moment
he seemed magnificent. How infinitely more he seemed than just a
common Indian who had chanced to befriend a white man! The difference
was obscure to Shefford. But he felt that it was there in the Navajo's
mind. Nas Ta Bega's strange look was not to be interpreted. Presently
he turned and passed from the room.

"By George!" cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his
fist. "I'd forgotten."

"What?" ejaculated Shefford.

"Why, that Indian understood every word we said. He knows English.
He's educated. Well, if this doesn't beat me. . . . Let me tell you
about Nas Ta Bega."

Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.

"Years ago, in fifty-seven, I think, Kit Carson with his soldiers
chased the Navajo tribes and rounded them up to be put on
reservations. But he failed to catch all the members of one tribe.
They escaped up into wild canyon like the Sagi. The descendants of
these fugitives live there now and are the finest Indians on earth--
the finest because unspoiled by the white man. Well, as I got the
story, years after Carson's round-up one of his soldiers guided some
interested travelers in here. When they left they took an Indian boy
with them to educate. From what I know of Navajos I'm inclined to
think the boy was taken against his parents' wish. Anyway, he was
taken. That boy was Nas Ta Bega. The story goes that he was educated
somewhere. Years afterward, and perhaps not long before I came in
here, he returned to his people. There have been missionaries and
other interested fools who have given Indians a white man's education.
In all the instances I know of, these educated Indians returned to
their tribes, repudiating the white man's knowledge, habits, life,
and religion. I have heard that Nas Ta Bega came back, laid down
the white man's clothes along with the education, and never again
showed that he had known either.

"You have just seen how strangely he acted. It's almost certain he
heard our conversation. Well, it doesn't matter. He won't tell. He
can hardly be made to use an English word. Besides, he's a noble red
man, if there ever was one. He has been a friend in need to me. If
you stay long out here you'll learn something from the Indians. Nas
Ta Bega has befriended you, too, it seems. I thought he showed unusual
interest in you."

"Perhaps that was because I saved his sister--well, to be charitable,
from the rather rude advances of a white man," said Shefford, and he
proceeded to tell of the incident that occurred at Red Lake.

"Willetts!" exclaimed Withers, with much the same expression that
Presbrey had used. "I never met him. But I know about him. He's--
well, the Indians don't like him much. Most of the missionaries are
good men--good for the Indians, in a way, but sometimes one drifts
out here who is bad. A bad missionary teaching religion to savages!
Queer, isn't it? The queerest part is the white people's blindness--
the blindness of those who send the missionaries. Well, I dare say
Willetts isn't very good. When Presbrey said that was Willetts's way
of teaching religion he meant just what he said. If Willetts drifts
over here he'll be risking much. . . . This you told me explains Nas
Ta Bega's friendliness toward you, and also his bringing his sister
Glen Naspa to live with relatives up in the pass. She had been living
near Red Lake."

"Do you mean Nas Ta Bega wants to keep his sister far removed from
Willetts?" inquired Shefford.

"I mean that," replied Withers, "and I hope he's not too late."

Later Shefford went outdoors to walk and think. There was no moon,
but the stars made light enough to cast his shadow on the ground.
The dark, illimitable expanse of blue sky seemed to be glittering
with numberless points of fire. The air was cold and still. A
dreaming silence lay over the land. Shefford saw and felt all these
things, and their effect was continuous and remained with him and
helped calm him. He was conscious of a burden removed from his mind.
Confession of his secret had been like tearing a thorn from his flesh,
but, once done, it afforded him relief and a singular realization that
out here it did not matter much. In a crowd of men all looking at him
and judging him by their standards he had been made to suffer. Here,
if he were judged at all, it would be by what he could do, how he
sustained himself and helped others.

He walked far across the valley toward the low bluffs, but they did
not seem to get any closer. And, finally, he stopped beside a stone
and looked around at the strange horizon and up at the heavens. He
did not feel utterly aloof from them, nor alone in a waste, nor a
useless atom amid incomprehensible forces. Something like a loosened
mantle fell from about him, dropping down at his feet; and all at once
he was conscious of freedom. He did not understand in the least why
abasement left him, but it was so. He had come a long way, in
bitterness, in despair, believing himself to be what men had called
him. The desert and the stars and the wind, the silence of the night,
the loneliness of this vast country where there was room for a thousand
cities--these somehow vaguely, yet surely, bade him lift his head.
They withheld their secret, but they made a promise. The thing which
he had been feeling every day and every night was a strange enveloping
comfort. And it was at this moment that Shefford, divining whence his
help was to come, embraced all that wild and speaking nature around
and above him and surrendered himself utterly.

"I am young. I am free. I have my life to live," he said. "I'll be
a man. I'll take what comes. Let me learn here!"

When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward
his future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the
influences around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.

Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin. Could this girl be known to
the Mormons? It was possible. Fay Larkin was an unusual name. Deep
into Shefford's heart had sunk the story Venters had told. Shefford
found that he had unconsciously created a like romance--he had been
loving a wild and strange and lonely girl, like beautiful Bess Venters.
It was a shock to learn the truth, but, as it had been only a dream,
it could hardly be vital.

Shefford retraced his steps toward the post. Halfway back he espied a
tall, dark figure moving toward him, and presently the shape and the
step seemed familiar. Then he recognized Nas Ta Bega. Soon they were
face to face. Shefford felt that the Indian had been trailing him over
the sand, and that this was to be a significant meeting. Remembering
Withers's revelation about the Navajo, Shefford scarcely knew how to
approach him now. There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta
Bega's dark face and inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to
be felt in his presence. But the Indian did not speak, and turned to
walk by Shefford's side. Shefford could not long be silent.

"Nas Ta Bega, were you looking for me?" he asked.

"You had no gun," replied the Indian.

But for his very low voice, his slow speaking of the words, Shefford
would have thought him a white man. For Shefford there was indeed an
instinct in this meeting, and he turned to face the Navajo.

"Withers told me you had been educated, that you came back to the
desert, that you never showed your training. . . . Nas Ta Bega, did
you understand all I told Withers?"

"Yes," replied the Indian.

"You won't betray me?"

"I am a Navajo."

"Nas Ta Bega, you trail me--you say I had no gun." Shefford wanted
to ask this Indian if he cared to be the white man's friend, but the
question was not easy to put, and, besides, seemed unnecessary. "I
am alone and strange in this wild country. I must learn."

"Nas Ta Bega will show you the trails and the water-holes and how to
hide from Shadd."

"For money--for silver you will do this?" inquired Shefford.

Shefford felt that the Indian's silence was a rebuke. He remembered
Withers's singular praise of this red man. He realized he must change
his idea of Indians.

"Nas Ta Bega, I know nothing. I feel like a child in the wilderness.
When I speak it is out of the mouths of those who have taught me. I
must find a new voice and a new life. . . . You heard my story to
Withers. I am an outcast from my own people. If you will be my
friend--be so."

The Indian clasped Shefford's hand and held it in a response that
was more beautiful for its silence. So they stood for a moment in
the starlight.

"Nas Ta Bega, what did Withers mean when he said go to the Navajo for
a faith?" asked Shefford.

"He meant the desert is my mother. . . . Will you go with Nas Ta Bega
into the canyon and the mountains?"

"Indeed I will."

They unclasped hands and turned toward the trading-post.

"Nas Ta Bega, have you spoken my tongue to any other white man since
you returned to your home?" asked Shefford.

"No."

"Why do you--why are you different for me?"

The Indian maintained silence.

"Is it because of--of Glen Naspa?" inquired Shefford.

Nas Ta Bega stalked on, still silent, but Shefford divined that,
although his service to Glen Naspa would never be forgotten, still
it was not wholly responsible for the Indian's subtle sympathy.

"Bi Nai! The Navajo will call his white friend Bi Nai--brother," said
Nas Ta Bega, and he spoke haltingly, not as if words were hard to find,
but strange to speak. "I was stolen from my mother's hogan and taken
to California. They kept me ten years in a mission at San Bernardino
and four years in a school. They said my color and my hair were all
that was left of the Indian in me. But they could not see my heart.
They took fourteen years of my life. They wanted to make me a
missionary among my own people. But the white man's ways and his
life and his God are not the Indian's. They never can be."

How strangely productive of thought for Shefford to hear the Indian
talk! What fatality in this meeting and friendship! Upon Nas Ta Bega
had been forced education, training, religion, that had made him
something more and something less than an Indian. It was something
assimilated from the white man which made the Indian unhappy and alien
in his own home--something meant to be good for him and his kind that
had ruined him. For Shefford felt the passion and the tragedy of this
Navajo.

"Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!" Nas Ta Bega's low voice was deep and
wonderful with its intensity of feeling. "The white man robbed the
Indian of lands and homes, drove him into the deserts, made him a
gaunt and sleepless spiller of blood. . . . The blood is all spilled
now, for the Indian is broken. But the white man sells him rum and
seduces his daughters. . . . He will not leave the Indian in peace
with his own God! . . . Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!"

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night Shefford lay in his blankets out under the open sky and the
stars. The earth had never meant much to him, and now it was a bed.
He had preached of the heavens, but until now had never studied them.
An Indian slept beside him. And not until the gray of morning had
blotted out the starlight did Shefford close his eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

With break of the next day came full, varied, and stirring incidents
to Shefford. He was strong, though unskilled at most kinds of outdoor
tasks. Withers had work for ten men, if they could have been found.
Shefford dug and packed and lifted till he was so sore and tired that
rest was a blessing.

He never succeeded in getting on a friendly footing with the Mormon
Whisner, though he kept up his agreeable and kindly advances. He
listened to the trader's wife as she told him about the Indians, and
what he learned he did not forget. And his wonder and respect
increased in proportion to his knowledge.

One day there rode into Kayenta the Mormon for whom Withers had been
waiting. His name was Joe Lake. He appeared young, and slipped off
his superb bay with a grace and activity that were astounding in one
of his huge bulk. He had a still, smooth face, with the color of red
bronze and the expression of a cherub; big, soft, dark eyes; and a
winning smile. He was surprisingly different from Whisner or any
Mormon character that Shefford had naturally conceived. His costume
was that of the cowboy on active service; and he packed a gun at his
hip. The hand-shake he gave Shefford was an ordeal for that young man
and left him with his whole right side momentarily benumbed.

"I sure am glad to meet you," he said in a lazy, mild voice. And he
was taking friendly stock of Shefford when the bay mustang reached
with vicious muzzle to bite at him. Lake gave a jerk on the bridle
that almost brought the mustang to his knees. He reared then, snorted,
and came down to plant his forefeet wide apart, and watched his master
with defiant eyes. This mustang was the finest horse Shefford had
ever seen. He appeared quite large for his species, was almost red
in color, had a racy and powerful build, and a fine thoroughbred head
with dark, fiery eyes. He did not look mean, but he had spirit.

"Navvy, you've sure got bad manners," said Lake, shaking the mustang's
bridle. He spoke as if he were chiding a refractory little boy.
"Didn't I break you better'n that? What's this gentleman goin' to
think of you? Tryin' to bite my ear off!"

Lake had arrived about the middle of the forenoon, and Withers
announced his intention of packing at once for the trip. Indians were
sent out on the ranges to drive in burros and mustangs. Shefford had
his thrilling expectancy somewhat chilled by what he considered must
have been Lake's reception of the trader's plan. Lake seemed to oppose
him, and evidently it took vehemence and argument on Withers's part to
make the Mormon tractable. But Withers won him over, and then he
called Shefford to his side.

"You fellows got to be good friends," he said. "You'll have charge of
my pack-trains. Nas Ta Bega wants to go with you. I'll feel safer
about my supplies and stock than I've ever been. . . . Joe, I'll back
this stranger for all I'm worth. He's square. . . . And, Shefford,
Joe Lake is a Mormon of the younger generation. I want to start you
right. You can trust him as you trust me. He's white clean through.
And he's the best horse-wrangler in Utah."

It was Lake who first offered his hand, and Shefford made haste to
meet it with his own. Neither of them spoke. Shefford intuitively
felt an alteration in Lake's regard, or at least a singular increase
of interest. Lake had been told that Shefford had been a clergyman,
was now a wanderer, without any religion. Again it seemed to Shefford
that he owed a forming of friendship to this singular fact. And it
hurt him. But strangely it came to him that he had taken a liking
to a Mormon.

About one o'clock the pack-train left Kayenta. Nas Ta Bega led the way
up the slope. Following him climbed half a dozen patient, plodding,
heavily laden burros. Withers came next, and he turned in his saddle
to wave good-by to his wife. Joe Lake appeared to be busy keeping a
red mule and a wild gray mustang and a couple of restive blacks in the
trail. Shefford brought up in the rear.

His mount was a beautiful black mustang with three white feet, a white
spot on his nose, and a mane that swept to his knees. "His name's
Nack-yal," Withers had said. "It means two bits, or twenty-five cents.
He ain't worth more." To look at Nack-yal had pleased Shefford very
much indeed, but, once upon his back, he grew dubious. The mustang
acted queer. He actually looked back at Shefford, and it was a look
of speculation and disdain. Shefford took exception to Nack-yal's
manner and to his reluctance to go, and especially to a habit the
mustang had of turning off the trail to the left. Shefford had
managed some rather spirited horses back in Illinois; and though he
was willing and eager to learn all over again, he did not enjoy the
prospect of Lake and Withers seeing this black mustang make a novice
of him. And he guessed that was just what Nack-yal intended to do.
However, once up over the hill, with Kayenta out of sight, Nack-yal
trotted along fairly well, needing only now and then to be pulled back
from his strange swinging to the left off the trail.

The pack-train traveled steadily and soon crossed the upland plain to
descend into the valley again. Shefford saw the jagged red peaks with
an emotion he could not name. The canyon between them were purple in
the shadows, the great walls and slopes brightened to red, and the
tips were gold in the sun. Shefford forgot all about his mustang and
the trail.

Suddenly with a pound of hoofs Nack-yal seemed to rise. He leaped
sidewise out of the trail, came down stiff-legged. Then Shefford shot
out of the saddle. He landed so hard that he was stunned for an
instant. Sitting up, he saw the mustang bent down, eyes and ears
showing fight, and his forefeet spread. He appeared to be looking at
something in the trail. Shefford got up and soon saw what had been
the trouble. A long, crooked stick, rather thick and black and yellow,
lay in the trail, and any mustang looking for an excuse to jump might
have mistaken it for a rattlesnake. Nack-yal appeared disposed to be
satisfied, and gave Shefford no trouble in mounting. The incident
increased Shefford's dubiousness. These Arizona mustangs were unknown
quantities.

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