Book: The Rainbow Trail

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Thereafter Shefford had an eye for the trail rather than the scenery,
and this continued till the pack-train entered the mouth of the Sagi.
Then those wonderful lofty cliffs, with their peaks and towers and
spires, loomed so close and so beautiful that he did not care if Nack-
yal did throw him. Along here, however, the mustang behaved well, and
presently Shefford decided that if it had been otherwise he would have
walked. The trail suddenly stood on end and led down into the deep
wash, where some days before he had seen the stream of reddish water.
This day there appeared to be less water and it was not so red. Nack-
yal sank deep as he took short and careful steps down. The burros and
other mustangs were drinking, and Nack-yal followed suit. The Indian,
with a hand clutching his mustang's mane, rode up a steep, sandy slope
on the other side that Shefford would not have believed any horse could
climb. The burros plodded up and over the rim, with Withers calling
to them. Joe Lake swung his rope and cracked the flanks of the gray
mare and the red mule; and the way the two kicked was a revelation and
a warning to Shefford. When his turn came to climb the trail he got
off and walked, an action that Nack-yal appeared fully to appreciate.

From the head of this wash the trail wound away up the widening canyon,
through greasewood flats and over greasy levels and across sandy
stretches. The looming walls made the valley look narrow, yet it must
have been half a mile wide. The slopes under the cliffs were dotted
with huge stones and cedar-trees. There were deep indentations in the
walls, running back to form box canyon, choked with green of cedar and
spruce and pinyon. These notches haunted Shefford, and he was ever on
the lookout for more of them.

Withers came back to ride just in advance and began to talk.

"Reckon this Sagi canyon is your Deception Pass," he said. "It's sure
a queer hole. I've been lost more than once, hunting mustangs in here.
I've an idea Nas Ta Bega knows all this country. He just pointed out
a cliff-dwelling to me. See it? . . . There 'way up in that cave of
the wall."

Shefford saw a steep, rough slope leading up to a bulge of the cliff,
and finally he made out strange little houses with dark, eyelike
windows. He wanted to climb up there. Withers called his attention
to more caves with what he believed were the ruins of cliff-dwellings.
And as they rode along the trader showed him remarkable formations of
rock where the elements were slowly hollowing out a bridge. They came
presently to a region of intersecting canyon, and here the breaking of
the trail up and down the deep washes took Withers back to his task
with the burros and gave Shefford more concern than he liked with Nack-
yal. The mustang grew unruly and was continually turning to the left.
Sometimes he tried to climb the steep slope. He had to be pulled
hard away from the opening canyon on the left. It seemed strange to
Shefford that the mustang never swerved to the right. This habit of
Nack-yal's and the increasing caution needed on the trail took all of
Shefford's attention. When he dismounted, however, he had a chance
to look around, and more and more he was amazed at the increasing
proportions and wildness of the Sagi.

He came at length to a place where a fallen tree blocked the trail.
All of the rest of the pack-train had jumped the log. But Nack-yal
balked. Shefford dismounted, pulled the bridle over the mustang's
head, and tried to lead him. Nack-yal, however, refused to budge.
Whereupon Shefford got a stick and, remounting, he gave the balky
mustang a cut across the flank. Then something violent happened.
Shefford received a sudden propelling jolt, and then he was rising
into the air, and then falling. Before he alighted he had a clear
image of Nack-yal in the air above him, bent double, and seemingly
possessed of devils. Then Shefford hit the ground with no light thud.
He was thoroughly angry when he got dizzily upon his feet, but he was
not quick enough to catch the mustang. Nack-yal leaped easily over
the log and went on ahead, dragging his bridle. Shefford hurried
after him, and the faster he went just by so much the cunning Nack-yal
accelerated his gait. As the pack-train was out of sight somewhere
ahead, Shefford could not call to his companions to halt his mount,
so he gave up trying, and walked on now with free and growing
appreciation of his surroundings.

The afternoon had waned. The sun blazed low in the west in a notch
of the canyon ramparts, and one wall was darkening into purple shadow
while the other shone through a golden haze. It was a weird, wild
world to Shefford, and every few strides he caught his breath and
tried to realize actuality was not a dream.

Nack-yal kept about a hundred paces to the fore and ever and anon he
looked back to see how his new master was progressing. He varied these
occasions by reaching down and nipping a tuft of grass. Evidently he
was too intelligent to go on fast enough to be caught by Withers. Also
he kept continually looking up the slope to the left as if seeking a
way to climb out of the valley in that direction. Shefford thought it
was well the trail lay at the foot of a steep slope that ran up to
unbroken bluffs.

The sun set and the canyon lost its red and its gold and deepened its
purple. Shefford calculated he had walked five miles, and though he
did not mind the effort, he would rather have ridden Nack-yal into
camp. He mounted a cedar ridge, crossed some sandy washes, turned a
corner of bold wall to enter a wide, green level. The mustangs were
rolling and snorting. He heard the bray of a burro. A bright blaze of
camp-fire greeted him, and the dark figure of the Indian approached to
intercept and catch Nack-yal. When he stalked into camp Withers wore
a beaming smile, and Joe Lake, who was on his knees making biscuit
dough in a pan, stopped proceedings and drawled:

"Reckon Nack-yal bucked you off."

"Bucked! Was that it? Well, he separated himself from me in a new
and somewhat painful manner--to me."

"Sure, I saw that in his eye," replied Lake; and Withers laughed with
him.

"Nack-yal never was well broke," he said. "But he's a good mustang,
nothing like Joe's Navvy or that gray mare Dynamite. All this Indian
stock will buck on a man once in a while."

"I'll take the bucking along with the rest," said Shefford. Both men
liked his reply, and the Indian smiled for the first time.

Soon they all sat round a spread tarpaulin and ate like wolves. After
supper came the rest and talk before the camp-fire. Joe Lake was droll;
he said the most serious things in a way to make Shefford wonder if he
was not joking. Withers talked about the canyon, the Indians, the
mustangs, the scorpions running out of the heated sand; and to Shefford
it was all like a fascinating book. Nas Ta Bega smoked in silence, his
brooding eyes upon the fire.




V. ON THE TRAIL


Shefford was awakened next morning by a sound he had never heard before
--the plunging of hobbled horses on soft turf. It was clear daylight,
with a ruddy color in the sky and a tinge of red along the canyon rim.
He saw Withers, Lake, and the Indian driving the mustangs toward camp.

The burros appeared lazy, yet willing. But the mustangs and the mule
Withers called Red and the gray mare Dynamite were determined not to
be driven into camp. It was astonishing how much action they had, how
much ground they could cover with their forefeet hobbled together.
They were exceedingly skilful; they lifted both forefeet at once, and
then plunged. And they all went in different directions. Nas Ta Bega
darted in here and there to head off escape.

Shefford pulled on his boots and went out to help. He got too close to
the gray mare and, warned by a yell from Withers, he jumped back just
in time to avoid her vicious heels. Then Shefford turned his attention
to Nack-yal and chased him all over the flat in a futile effort to
catch him. Nas Ta Bega came to Shefford's assistance and put a rope
over Nack-yal's head.

"Don't ever get behind one of these mustangs," said Withers, warningly,
as Shefford came up. "You might be killed. . . . Eat your bite now.
We'll soon be out of here."

Shefford had been late in awakening. The others had breakfasted. He
found eating somewhat difficult in the excitement that ensued. Nas Ta
Bega held ropes which were round the necks of Red and Dynamite. The
mule showed his cunning and always appeared to present his heels to
Withers, who tried to approach him with a pack-saddle. The patience
of the trader was a revelation to Shefford. And at length Red was
cornered by the three men, the pack-saddle was strapped on, and then
the packs. Red promptly bucked the packs off, and the work had to be
done over again. Then Red dropped his long ears and seemed ready to
be tractable.

When Shefford turned his attention to Dynamite he decided that this
was his first sight of a wild horse. The gray mare had fiery eyes that
rolled and showed the white. She jumped straight up, screamed, pawed,
bit, and then plunged down to shoot her hind hoofs into the air as
high as her head had been. She was amazingly agile and she seemed mad
to kill something. She dragged the Indian about, and when Joe Lake got
a rope on her hind foot she dragged them both. They lashed her with
the ends of the lassoes, which action only made her kick harder. She
plunged into camp, drove Shefford flying for his life, knocked down two
of the burros, and played havoc with the unstrapped packs. Withers ran
to the assistance of Lake, and the two of them hauled back with all
their strength and weight. They were both powerful and heavy men.
Dynamite circled round and finally, after kicking the camp-fire to
bits, fell down on her haunches in the hot embers. "Let--her--set--
there!" panted Withers. And Joe Lake shouted, "Burn up, you durn
coyote!" Both men appeared delighted that she had brought upon herself
just punishment. Dynamite sat in the remains of the fire long enough
to get burnt, and then she got up and meekly allowed Withers to throw
a tarpaulin and a roll of blankets over her and tie them fast.

Lake and Withers were sweating freely when this job was finished.

"Say, is that a usual morning's task with the pack-animals?" asked
Shefford.

"They're all pretty decent to-day, except Dynamite," replied Withers.
"She's got to be worked out."

Shefford felt both amusement and consternation. The sun was just
rising over the ramparts of the canyon, and he had already seen more
difficult and dangerous work accomplished than half a dozen men of his
type could do in a whole day. He liked the outlook of his new duty as
Withers's assistant, but he felt helplessly inefficient. Still, all
he needed was experience. He passed over what he anticipated would be
pain and peril--the cost was of no moment.

Soon the pack-train was on the move, with the Indian leading. This
morning Nack-yal began his strange swinging off to the left, precisely
as he had done the day before. It got to be annoying to Shefford, and
he lost patience with the mustang and jerked him sharply round. This,
however, had no great effect upon Nack-yal.

As the train headed straight up the canyon Joe Lake dropped back to ride
beside Shefford. The Mormon had been amiable and friendly.

"Flock of deer up that draw," he said, pointing up a narrow side canyon.

Shefford gazed to see a half-dozen small, brown, long-eared objects,
very like burros, watching the pack-train pass.

"Are they deer?" he asked, delightedly.

"Sure are," replied Joe, sincerely. "Get down and shoot one. There's
a rifle in your saddle-sheath."

Shefford had already discovered that he had been armed this morning, a
matter which had caused him reflection. These animals certainly looked
like deer; he had seen a few deer, though not in their native wild
haunts; and he experienced the thrill of the hunter. Dismounting, he
drew the rifle out of the sheath and started toward the little canyon.

"Hyar! Where you going with that gun?" yelled Withers. "That's a
bunch of burros. . . . Joe's up to his old tricks. Shefford, look
out for Joe!"

Rather sheepishly Shefford returned to his mustang and sheathed the
rifle, and then took a long look at the animals up the draw. They,
resembled deer, but upon second glance they surely were burros.

"Durn me! Now if I didn't think they sure were deer!" exclaimed Joe.
He appeared absolutely sincere and innocent. Shefford hardly knew how
to take this likable Mormon, but vowed he would be on his guard in
the future.

Nas Ta Bega soon led the pack-train toward the left wall of the canyon,
and evidently intended to scale it. Shefford could not see any trail,
and the wall appeared steep and insurmountable. But upon nearing the
cliff he saw a narrow broken trail leading zigzag up over smooth rock,
weathered slope, and through cracks.

"Spread out, and careful now!" yelled Withers.

The need of both advices soon became manifest to Shefford. The burros
started stones rolling, making danger for those below. Shefford
dismounted and led Nack-yal and turned aside many a rolling rock. The
Indian and the burros, with the red mule leading, climbed steadily.
But the mustangs had trouble. Joe's spirited bay had to be coaxed to
face the ascent; Nack-yal balked at every difficult step; and Dynamite
slipped on a flat slant of rock and slid down forty feet. Withers and
Lake with ropes hauled the mare out of the dangerous position.
Shefford, who brought up the rear, saw all the action, and it was
exciting, but his pleasure in the climb was spoiled by sight of blood
and hair on the stones. The ascent was crooked, steep, and long, and
when Shefford reached the top of the wall he was glad to rest. It made
him gasp to look down and see what he had surmounted. The canyon floor,
green and level, lay a thousand feet below; and the wild burros which
had followed on the trail looked like rabbits.

Shefford mounted presently, and rode out upon a wide, smooth trail
leading into a cedar forest. There were bunches of gray sage in the
open places. The air was cool and crisp, laden with a sweet fragrance.
He saw Lake and Withers bobbing along, now on one side of the trail,
now on the other, and they kept to a steady trot. Occasionally the
Indian and his bright-red saddle-blanket showed in an opening of the
cedars.

It was level country, and there was nothing for Shefford to see except
cedar and sage, an outcropping of red rock in places, and the winding
trail. Mocking-birds made melody everywhere. Shefford seemed full of
a strange pleasure, and the hours flew by. Nack-yal still wanted to
be everlastingly turning off the trail, and, moreover, now he wanted
to go faster. He was eager, restless, dissatisfied.

At noon the pack-train descended into a deep draw, well covered with
cedar and sage. There was plenty of grass and shade, but no water.
Shefford was surprised to see that every pack was removed; however,
the roll of blankets was left on Dynamite.

The men made a fire and began to cook a noonday meal. Shefford, tired
and warm, sat in a shady spot and watched. He had become all eyes. He
had almost forgotten Fay Larkin; he had forgotten his trouble; and the
present seemed sweet and full. Presently his ears were filled by a
pattering roar and, looking up the draw, he saw two streams of sheep
and goats coming down. Soon an Indian shepherd appeared, riding a fine
mustang. A cream-colored colt bounded along behind, and presently
a shaggy dog came in sight. The Indian dismounted at the camp, and
his flock spread by in two white and black streams. The dog went with
them. Withers and Joe shook hands with the Indian, whom Joe called
"Navvy," and Shefford lost no time in doing likewise. Then Nas Ta Bega
came in, and he and the Navajo talked. When the meal was ready all of
them sat down round the canvas. The shepherd did not tie his horse.

Presently Shefford noticed that Nack-yal had returned to camp and was
acting strangely. Evidently he was attracted by the Indian's mustang
or the cream-colored colt. At any rate, Nack-yal hung around, tossed
his head, whinnied in a low, nervous manner, and looked strangely
eager and wild. Shefford was at first amused, then curious. Nack-yal
approached too close to the mother of the colt, and she gave him a
sounding kick in the ribs. Nack-yal uttered a plaintive snort and
backed away, to stand, crestfallen, with all his eagerness and fire
vanished.

Nas Ta Bega pointed to the mustang and said something in his own
tongue. Then Withers addressed the visiting Indian, and they
exchanged some words, whereupon the trader turned to Shefford:

"I bought Nack-yal from this Indian three years ago. This mare is
Nack-yal's mother. He was born over here to the south. That's why
he always swung left off the trail. He wanted to go home. Just now
he recognized his mother and she whaled away and gave him a whack for
his pains. She's got a colt now and probably didn't recognize Nack-
yal. But he's broken-hearted."

The trader laughed, and Joe said, "You can't tell what these durn
mustangs will do." Shefford felt sorry for Nack-yal, and when it came
time to saddle him again found him easier to handle than ever before.
Nack-yal stood with head down, broken-spirited.

Shefford was the first to ride up out of the draw, and once upon the
top of the ridge he halted to gaze, wide-eyed and entranced. A
rolling, endless plain sloped down beneath him, and led him on to a
distant round-topped mountain. To the right a red canyon opened its
jagged jaws, and away to the north rose a whorled and strange sea of
curved ridges, crags, and domes.

Nas Ta Bega rode up then, leading the pack-train.

"Bi Nai, that is Na-tsis-an," he said, pointing to the mountain.
"Navajo Mountain. And there in the north are the canyon."

Shefford followed the Indian down the trail and soon lost sight of
that wide green-and-red wilderness. Nas Ta Bega turned at an
intersecting trail, rode down into the canyon, and climbed out on the
other side. Shefford got a glimpse now and then of the black dome of
the mountain, but for the most part the distant points of the country
were hidden. They crossed many trails, and went up and down the sides
of many shallow canyon. Troops of wild mustangs whistled at them,
stood on ridge-tops to watch, and then dashed away with manes and
tails flying.

Withers rode forward presently and halted the pack-train. He had some
conversation with Nas Ta Bega, whereupon the Indian turned his horse
and trotted back, to disappear in the cedars.

"I'm some worried," explained Withers. "Joe thinks he saw a bunch of
horsemen trailing us. My eyes are bad and I can't see far. The Indian
will find out. I took a roundabout way to reach the village because
I'm always dodging Shadd."

This communication lent an added zest to the journey. Shefford could
hardly believe the truth that his eyes and his ears brought to his
consciousness. He turned in behind Withers and rode down the rough
trail, helping the mustang all in his power. It occurred to him that
Nack-yal had been entirely different since that meeting with his mother
in the draw. He turned no more off the trail; he answered readily to
the rein; he did not look afar from every ridge. Shefford conceived a
liking for the mustang.

Withers turned sidewise in his saddle and let his mustang pick the way.

"Another time we'll go up round the base of the mountain, where you can
look down on the grandest scene in the world," said he. "Two hundred
miles of wind-worn rock, all smooth and bare, without a single straight
line--canyon, caves, bridges--the most wonderful country in the world!
Even the Indians haven't explored it. It's haunted, for them, and they
have strange gods. The Navajos will hunt on this side of the mountain,
but not on the other. That north side is consecrated ground. My wife has
long been trying to get the Navajos to tell her the secret of Nonnezoshe.
Nonnezoshe means Rainbow Bridge. The Indians worship it, but as far as
she can find out only a few have ever seen it. I imagine it'd be worth
some trouble."

"Maybe that's the bridge Venters talked about--the one overarching the
entrance to Surprise Valley," Said Shefford.

"It might be," replied the trader. "You've got a good chance of
finding out. Nas Ta Bega is the man. You stick to that Indian.
. . . Well, we start down here into this canyon, and we go down some,
I reckon. In half an hour you'll see sago-lilies and Indian paint-
brush and vermilion cactus."

. . . . . . . . . . .

About the middle of the afternoon the pack-train and its drivers
arrived at the hidden Mormon village. Nas Ta Bega had not returned
from his scout back along the trail.

Shefford's sensibilities had all been overstrained, but he had left
in him enthusiasm and appreciation that made the situation of this
village a fairyland. It was a valley, a canyon floor, so long that
he could not see the end, and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. The
air was hot, still, and sweetly odorous of unfamiliar flowers. Pinyon
and cedar trees surrounded the little log and stone houses, and along
the walls of the canyon stood sharp-pointed, dark-green spruce-trees.
These walls were singular of shape and color. They were not imposing
in height, but they waved like the long, undulating swell of a sea.
Every foot of surface was perfectly smooth, and the long curved lines
of darker tinge that streaked the red followed the rounded line of the
slope at the top. Far above, yet overhanging, were great yellow crags
and peaks, and between these, still higher, showed the pine-fringed
slope of Navajo Mountain with snow in the sheltered places, and
glistening streams, like silver threads, running down.

All this Shefford noticed as he entered the valley from round a corner
of wall. Upon nearer view he saw and heard a host of children, who,
looking up to see the intruders, scattered like frightened quail. Long
gray grass covered the ground, and here and there wide, smooth paths
had been worn. A swift and murmuring brook ran through the middle of
the valley, and its banks were bordered with flowers.

Withers led the way to one side near the wall, where a clump of cedar-
trees and a dark, swift spring boiling out of the rocks and banks of
amber moss with purple blossoms made a beautiful camp site. Here
the mustangs were unsaddled and turned loose without hobbles. It
was certainly unlikely that they would leave such a spot. Some of
the burros were unpacked, and the others Withers drove off into the
village.

"Sure's pretty nice," said Joe, wiping his sweaty face. "I'll never
want to leave. It suits me to lie on this moss. . . . Take a drink of
that spring."

Shefford complied with alacrity and found the water cool and sweet,
and he seemed to feel it all through him. Then he returned to the
mossy bank. He did not reply to Joe. In fact, all his faculties were
absorbed in watching and feeling, and he lay there long after Joe went
off to the village. The murmur of water, the hum of bees, the songs
of strange birds, the sweet, warm air, the dreamy summer somnolence
of the valley--all these added drowsiness to Shefford's weary
lassitude, and he fell asleep. When he awoke Nas Ta Bega was
sitting near him and Joe was busy near a camp-fire.

"Hello, Nas Ta Bega!" said Shefford. "Was there any one trailing us?"

The Navajo nodded.

Joe raised his head and with forceful brevity said, "Shadd."

"Shadd!" echoed Shefford, remembering the dark, sinister face of his
visitor that night in the Sagi. "Joe, is it serious--his trailing us?"

"Well, I don't know how durn serious it is, but I'm scared to death,"
replied Lake. "He and his gang will hold us up somewhere on the way
home."

Shefford regarded Joe with both concern and doubt. Joe's words were at
variance with his looks.

"Say, pard, can you shoot a rifle?" queried Joe.

"Yes. I'm a fair shot at targets."

The Mormon nodded his head as if pleased. "That's good. These outlaws
are all poor shots with a rifle. So 'm I. But I can handle a six-
shooter. I reckon we'll make Shadd sweat if he pushes us."

Withers returned, driving the burros, all of which had been unpacked
down to the saddles. Two gray-bearded men accompanied him. One of
them appeared to be very old and venerable, and walked with a stick.
The other had a sad-lined face and kind, mild blue eyes. Shefford
observed that Lake seemed unusually respectful. Withers introduced
these Mormons merely as Smith and Henninger. They were very cordial
and pleasant in their greetings to Shefford. Presently another,
somewhat younger, man joined the group, a stalwart, jovial fellow with
ruddy face. There was certainly no mistaking his kindly welcome as
he shook Shefford's hand. His name was Beal. The three stood round
the camp-fire for a while, evidently glad of the presence of fellow-
men and to hear news from the outside. Finally they went away, taking
Joe with them. Withers took up the task of getting supper where Joe
had been made to leave it.

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