Book: The Rainbow Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Rainbow Trail




"Shefford, listen," he said, presently, as he knelt before the fire.
"I told them right out that you'd been a Gentile clergyman--that you'd
gone back on your religion. It impressed them and you've been well
received. I'll tell the same thing over at Stonebridge. You'll get
in right. Of course I don't expect they'll make a Mormon of you. But
they'll try to. Meanwhile you can be square and friendly all the time
you're trying to find your Fay Larkin. To-morrow you'll meet some of
the women. They're good souls, but, like any women, crazy for news.
Think what it is to be shut up in here between these walls!"

"Withers, I'm intensely interested," replied Shefford, "and excited,
too. Shall we stay here long?"

"I'll stay a couple of days, then go to Stonebridge with Joe. He'll
come back here, and when you both feel like leaving, and if Nas Ta
Bega thinks it safe, you'll take a trail over to some Indian hogans
and pack me out a load of skins and blankets. . . . My boy, you've all
the time there is, and I wish you luck. This isn't a bad place to
loaf. I always get sentimental over here. Maybe it's the women. Some
of them are pretty, and one of them--Shefford, they call her the Sago
Lily. Her first name is Mary, I'm told. Don't know her last name.
She's lovely. And I'll bet you forget Fay Larkin in a flash. Only--
be careful. You drop in here with rather peculiar credentials, so to
speak--as my helper and as a man with no religion! You'll not only
be fully trusted, but you'll be welcome to these lonely women. So be
careful. Remember it's my secret belief they are sealed wives and are
visited occasionally at night by their husbands. I don't know this,
but I believe it. And you're not supposed to dream of that."

"How many men in the village?" asked Shefford.

"Three. You met them."

"Have they wives?" asked Shefford, curiously.

"Wives! Well, I guess. But only one each that I know of. Joe Lake is
the only unmarried Mormon I've met."

"And no men--strangers, cowboys, outlaws--ever come to this village?"

"Except to Indians, it seems to be a secret so far," replied the trader,
earnestly. "But it can't be kept secret. I've said that time after time
over in Stonebridge. With Mormons it's 'sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof.'"

"What'll happen when outsiders do learn and ride in here?"

"There'll be trouble--maybe bloodshed. Mormon women are absolutely
good, but they're human, and want and need a little life. And, strange
to say, Mormon men are pig-headedly jealous. . . . Why, if some of the
cowboys I knew in Durango would ride over here there'd simply be hell.
But that's a long way, and probably this village will be deserted
before news of it ever reaches Colorado. There's more danger of Shadd
and his gang coming in. Shadd's half Piute. He must know of this
place. And he's got some white outlaws in his gang. . . . Come on.
Grub's ready, and I'm too hungry to talk."

Later, when shadows began to gather in the valley and the lofty peaks
above were gold in the sunset glow, Withers left camp to look after
the straying mustangs, and Shefford strolled to and fro under the
cedars. The lights and shades in the Sagi that first night had moved
him to enthusiastic watchfulness, but here they were so weird and
beautiful that he was enraptured. He actually saw great shafts of
gold and shadows of purple streaming from the peaks down into the
valley. It was day on the heights and twilight in the valley. The
swiftly changing colors were like rainbows.

While he strolled up and down several women came to the spring and
filled their buckets. They wore shawls or hoods and their garments
were somber, but, nevertheless, they appeared to have youth and
comeliness. They saw him, looked at him curiously, and then, without
speaking, went back on the well-trodden path. Presently down the path
appeared a woman--a girl in lighter garb. It was almost white. She
was shapely and walked with free, graceful step, reminding him of the
Indian girl, Glen Naspa. This one wore a hood shaped like a huge
sunbonnet and it concealed her face. She carried a bucket. When she
reached the spring and went down the few stone steps Shefford saw that
she did not have on shoes. As she braced herself to lift the bucket
her bare foot clung to the mossy stone. It was a strong, sinewy,
beautiful foot, instinct with youth. He was curious enough, he
thought, but the awakening artist in him made him more so. She
dragged at the full bucket and had difficulty in lifting it out of
the hole. Shefford strode forward and took the bucket-handle from her.

"Won't you let me help you?" he said, lifting the bucket. "Indeed--
it's very heavy."

"Oh--thank you," she said, without raising her head. Her voice seemed
singularly young and sweet. He had not heard a voice like it. She
moved down the path and he walked beside her. He felt embarrassed, yet
more curious than ever; he wanted to say something, to turn and look
at her, but he kept on for a dozen paces without making up his mind.

Finally he said: "Do you really carry this heavy bucket? Why, it makes
my arm ache."

"Twice every day--morning and evening," she replied. "I'm very
strong."

Then he stole a look out of the corner of his eye, and, seeing that
her face was hidden from him by the hood, he turned to observe her at
better advantage. A long braid of hair hung down her back. In the
twilight it gleamed dull gold. She came up to his shoulder. The
sleeve nearest him was rolled up to her elbow, revealing a fine round
arm. Her hand, like her foot, was brown, strong, and well shaped. It
was a hand that had been developed by labor. She was full-bosomed, yet
slender, and she walked with a free stride that made Shefford admire
and wonder.

They passed several of the little stone and log houses, and women
greeted them as they went by and children peered shyly from the
doors. He kept trying to think of something to say, and, failing in
that, determined to have one good look under the hood before he left
her.

"You walk lame," she said, solicitously. "Let me carry the bucket
now--please. My house is near."

"Am I lame? . . . Guess so, a little," he replied. "It was a hard
ride for me. But I'll carry the bucket just the same."

They went on under some pinyon-trees, down a path to a little house
identical with the others, except that it had a stone porch.
Shefford smelled fragrant wood-smoke and saw a column curling from the
low, flat, stone chimney. Then he set the bucket down on the porch.
"Thank you, Mr. Shefford," she said. "You know my name?" he asked.
"Yes. Mr. Withers spoke to my nearest neighbor and she told me."

"Oh, I see. And you--"

He did not go on and she did not reply. When she stepped upon the
porch and turned he was able to see under the hood. The face there
was in shadow, and for that very reason he answered to ungovernable
impulse and took a step closer to her. Dark, grave, sad eyes looked
down at him, and he felt as if he could never draw his own glance
away. He seemed not to see the rest of her face, and yet felt that
it was lovely. Then a downward movement of the hood hid from him the
strange eyes and the shadowy loveliness.

"I--I beg your pardon," he said, quickly, drawing back. "I'm rude.
. . . Withers told me about a girl he called--he said looked like a
sago-lily. That's no excuse to stare under your hood. But I--I was
curious. I wondered if--"

He hesitated, realizing how foolish his talk was. She stood a moment,
probably watching him, but he could not be sure, for her face was
hidden.

"They call me that," she said. "But my name is Mary."

"Mary--what?" he asked.

"Just Mary," she said, simply. "Good night."

He did not say good night and could not have told why. She took up
the bucket and went into the dark house. Shefford hurried away into
the gathering darkness.




VI. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY


Shefford had hardly seen her face, yet he was more interested in a
woman than he had ever been before. Still, he reflected, as he
returned to camp, he had been under a long strain, he was unduly
excited by this new and adventurous life, and these, with the mystery
of this village, were perhaps accountable for a state of mind that
could not last.

He rolled in his blankets on the soft bed of moss and he saw the stars
through the needle-like fringe of the pinyons. It seemed impossible to
fall asleep. The two domed peaks split the sky, and back of them,
looming dark and shadowy, rose the mountain. There was something cold,
austere, and majestic in their lofty presence, and they made him feel
alone, yet not alone. He raised himself to see the quiet forms of
Withers and Nas Ta Bega prone in the starlight, and their slow, deep
breathing was that of tired men. A bell on a mustang rang somewhere
off in the valley and gave out a low, strange, reverberating echo from
wall to wall. When it ceased a silence set in that was deader than any
silence he had ever felt, but gradually he became aware of the low
murmur of the brook. For the rest there was no sound of wind, no bark
of dog or yelp of coyote, no sound of voice in the village.

He tried to sleep, but instead thought of this girl who was called
the Sago Lily. He recalled everything incident to their meeting and
the walk to her home. Her swift, free step, her graceful poise, her
shapely form--the long braid of hair, dull gold in the twilight, the
beautiful bare foot and the strong round arm--these he thought of and
recalled vividly. But of her face he had no idea except the shadowy,
haunting loveliness, and that grew more and more difficult to remember.
The tone of her voice and what she had said--how the one had thrilled
him and the other mystified! It was her voice that had most attracted
him. There was something in it besides music--what, he could not tell
--sadness, depth, something like that in Nas Ta Bega's beauty springing
from disuse. But this seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice
one that had not been used as freely as any other woman's? She was
a Mormon; very likely, almost surely, she was a sealed wife. His
interest, too, was absurd, and he tried to throw it off, or imagine
it one he might have felt in any other of these strange women of the
hidden village.

But Shefford's intelligence and his good sense, which became operative
when he was fully roused and set the situation clearly before his
eyes, had no effect upon his deeper, mystic, and primitive feelings.
He saw the truth and he felt something that he could not name. He
would not be a fool, but there was no harm in dreaming. And
unquestionably, beyond all doubt, the dream and the romance that
had lured him to the wilderness were here; hanging over him like the
shadows of the great peaks. His heart swelled with emotion when he
thought of how the black and incessant despair of the past was gone.
So he embraced any attraction that made him forget and think and feel;
some instinct stronger than intelligence bade him drift.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Joe's rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singular
zest. When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautiful
place? Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted by
memories of Surprise Valley. The morning was clear, cool, sweet; the
peaks were dim and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shot
down into the purple shadows. Mocking-birds were singing. His body
was sore and tired from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was
full, happy. His spirit wanted to run, and he knew there was something
out there waiting to meet it. The Indian and the trader and the Mormon
all meant more to him this morning. He had grown a little overnight.
Nas Ta Bega's deep "Bi Nai" rang in his ears, and the smiles of Withers
and Joe were greetings. He had friends; he had work; and there was
rich, strange, and helpful life to live. There was even a difference
in the mustang Nack-yal. He came readily; he did not look wild; he
had a friendly eye; and Shefford liked him more.

"What is there to do?" asked Shefford, feeling equal to a hundred
tasks.

"No work," replied the trader, with a laugh, and he drew Shefford aside,
"I'm in no hurry. I like it here. And Joe never wants to leave. To-day
you can meet the women. Make yourself popular. I've already made you
that. These women are most all young and lonesome. Talk to them. Make
them like you. Then some day you may be safe to ask questions. Last
night I wanted to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the name Fay
Larkin. But I thought better of it. If there's a girl here or at
Stonebridge of that name we'll learn it. If there's mystery we'd better
go slow. Mormons are hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into their
affairs is to queer yourself. My advice is--just be as nice as you can
be, and let things happen."

Fay Larkin! All in a night Shefford had forgotten her. Why? He
pondered over the matter, and then the old thrill, the old desire,
came back.

"Shefford, what do you think Nas Ta Bega said to me last night?" asked
Withers in lower voice.

"Haven't any idea," replied Shefford, curiously.

"We were sitting beside the fire. I saw you walking under the cedars.
You seemed thoughtful. That keen Indian watched you, and he said to
me in Navajo, 'Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a
wife. Nas Ta Bega is his brother.' . . . He meant he'll find both God
and wife for you. I don't know about that, but I say take the Indian
as he thinks he is--your brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well
my wife used to tell me about him. He's a sage and a poet--the very
spirit of this desert. He's worth cultivating for his own sake. But
more--remember, if Fay Larkin is still shut in that valley the Navajo
will find her for you."

"I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother--and be proud," replied
Shefford.

"There's another thing. Do you intend to confide in Joe?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Well, it might be a good plan. But wait until you know him better
and he knows you. He's ready to fight for you now. He's taken your
trouble to heart. You wouldn't think Joe is deeply religious. Yet
he is. He may never breathe a word about religion to you. . . . Now,
Shefford, go ahead. You've struck a trail. It's rough, but it'll
make a man of you. It'll lead somewhere."

"I'm singularly fortunate--I--who had lost all friends. Withers, I am
grateful. I'll prove it. I'll show--"

Withers's upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized
that beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine
feeling. These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning
to loom up large in Shefford's mind.

The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women
of the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made
friendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down
the path he poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the
other, and with his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, "Reckon
I've got to get me a woman like her."

Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously
watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last
he saw her--the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A little
shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was
explicable about it was something associated with regret.

Joe Lake whistled and stared.

"I haven't met her," he muttered.

"That's the Sago Lily," said Withers.

"Reckon I'm going to carry that bucket," went on Joe.

"And queer yourself with all the other women who've been to the spring?
Don't do it, Joe," advised the trader.

"But her bucket's bigger," protested Joe, weakly.

"That's true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she'd come first, all
right. As she didn't--why, don't single her out."

Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low "good morning"
came from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home.
Shefford observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the
heavy bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague,
inexplicable sensation of regret.

Joe Lake breathed heavily. "Reckon I've got to get me a woman like
her," he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared
thoughtful.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It was
somewhat larger than the other houses, had only one room with two doors
and several windows. It was full of children, of all sizes and ages,
sitting on rude board benches.

There were half a hundred of them, sturdy, healthy, rosy boys and
girls, dad in home-made garments. The young woman teacher was as
embarrassed as her pupils were shy, and the visitors withdrew without
having heard a word of lessons.

Withers then called upon Smith, Henninger, and Beal, and their wives.
Shefford found himself cordially received, and what little he did say
showed him how he would be listened to when he cared to talk. These
folk were plain and kindly, and he found that there was nothing about
them to dislike. The men appeared mild and quiet, and when not
conversing seemed austere. The repose of the women was only on the
surface; underneath he felt their intensity. Especially in many of the
younger women, whom he met in the succeeding hour, did he feel this
power of restrained emotion. This surprised him, as did also the fact
that almost every one of them was attractive and some of them were
exceedingly pretty. He became so interested in them all as a whole
that he could not individualize one. They were as widely different in
appearance and temperament as women of any other class, but it seemed
to Shefford that one common trait united them--and it was a strange,
checked yearning for something that he could not discover. Was it
happiness? They certainly seemed to be happy, far more so than those
millions of women who were chasing phantoms. Were they really sealed
wives, as Withers believed, and was this unnatural wife-hood
responsible for the strange intensity? At any rate he returned to camp
with the conviction that he had stumbled upon a remarkable situation.

He had been told the last names of only three women, and their husbands
were in the village. The names of the others were Ruth, Rebecca,
Joan--he could not recall them all. They were the mothers of these
beautiful children. The fathers, as far as he was concerned, were as
intangible as myths. Shefford was an educated clergyman, a man of the
world, and, as such, knew women in his way. Mormons might be strange
and different, yet the fundamental truth was that all over the world
mothers of children were wives; there was a relation between wife and
mother that did not need to be named to be felt; and he divined from
this that, whatever the situation of these lonely and hidden women,
they knew themselves to be wives. Shefford absolutely satisfied
himself on that score. If they were miserable they certainly did not
show it, and the question came to him how just was the criticism of
uninformed men? His judgment of Mormons had been established by what
he had heard and read, rather than what he knew. He wanted now to have
an open mind. He had studied the totemism and exogamy of the primitive
races, and here was his opportunity to understand polygamy. One wife
for one man--that was the law. Mormons broke it openly; Gentiles broke
it secretly. Mormons acknowledged all their wives and protected their
children; Gentiles acknowledged one wife only. Unquestionably the
Mormons were wrong, but were not the Gentiles still more wrong?

. . . . . . . . . . .

The following day Joe Lake appeared reluctant to start for Stonebridge
with Withers.

"Joe, you'd better come along," said the trader, dryly. "I reckon
you've seen a little too much of the Sago Lily."

Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face that
Withers had not hit short of the mark. Withers rode off, with a
parting word to Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay
and trotted down the valley. As Nas Ta Bega had gone off somewhere
to visit Indians, Shefford was left alone.

He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable. He
made friends with the children and he talked to the women until he was
hoarse. Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in
his life had he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed no
curiosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had
noted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with them
that Withers had predicted.

By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest
and friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among
them. He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which
he freely gave, and not with selfish motive. He liked these women;
he liked to see the somber shade pass from their faces, to see them
brighten. He had met the girl Mary at the spring and along the path,
but he had not yet seen her face. He was always looking for her,
hoping to meet her, and confessed to himself that the best of the day
for him were the morning and evening visits she made to the spring.
Nevertheless, for some reason hard to divine, he was reluctant to seek
her deliberately.

Always while he had listened to her neighbors' talk, he had hoped they
might let fall something about her. But they did not. He received an
impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had
supposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a little
outside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merely
felt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent
reason. Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.

It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons. From
the first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making
him a Mormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke
of their religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds
to free and simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectful
attention. He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and
apparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save
his soul. Shefford knew that he could never be one any more than the
other. He was just at sea. But he listened, and he found them simple
in faith, blind, perhaps, but loyal and good. It was noteworthy that
Mother Smith happened to be the only woman in the village who had
ever mentioned religion to him. She was old, of a past generation;
the young women belonged to the present. Shefford pondered the
significant difference.

Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that
was like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many
little ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest.
This last was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning
more about the villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of
subtle words and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as
in all the rest of the world where women were together, there were
cliques, quarrels, dislikes, loves, and jealousies. The truth, once
known to him, made him feel natural and fortified his confidence
to meet the demands of an increasingly interesting position. He
discovered, with a somewhat grim amusement, that a clergyman's
experience in a church full of women had not been entirely useless.

One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question
in regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. In
response he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey
of woman's jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his were
strengthened, and straightway he became thoughtful.

That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her.
But she did not come. Then he decided to go to see her. But even
the decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his
reluctance.

Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the
shadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door
or window. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the
path it rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.

"Good evening," he said. "It's Shefford. May I stay and talk a little
while?"

She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.

"I'd be glad to have you," she replied, finally.

There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket
on the step.

"I've been getting acquainted with everybody--except you," he went on.

"I have been here," she replied.

That might have been a woman's speech, but it certainly had been made
in a girl's voice. She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-
conscious. As she stood back from him he could not see her face in
the dense twilight.

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