Book: The Rainbow Trail

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Rainbow Trail




"I've been wanting to call on you."

She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he
knew the moment was big and potent.

"Won't you sit here?" he asked.

She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in
the twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as
had flashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought
of a white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the
rare and perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon. She
was only a girl. She sat very still, looking straight before her, and
seemed to be waiting, listening. Shefford saw the quick rise and fall
of her bosom.

"I want to talk," he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease.
"Every one here has been good to me and I've talked--oh, for hours and
hours. But the thing in my mind I haven't spoken of. I've never asked
any questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I
came out here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps
help me. . . . Would you?"

"Yes, if I could," she replied.

"You see I've got to trust you, or one of these other women. You're
all Mormons. I don't mean that's anything against you. I believe
you're all good and noble. But the fact makes--well, makes a liberty
of speech impossible. What can I do?"

Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed
less strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the
right track and did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted
it he would have gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence
was his driving mystic force.

Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be an
artist, his renunciation to his father's hope, his career as a
clergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made
him a wanderer.

"Oh--I'm sorry!" she said. The faint starlight shone on her face,
in her eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then.
She seemed deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed
girlhood then--all the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of
a heart innocent and untutored. She looked at him with great, starry,
questioning eyes, as if they had just become aware of his presence,
as if a man had been strange to her.

"Thank you. It's good of you to be sorry," he said. "My instinct
guided me right. Perhaps you'll be my friend."

"I will be--if I can," she said.

"But CAN you be?"

"I don't know. I never had a friend. I . . . But, sir, I mustn't talk
of myself. . . . Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you."

How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in
need of help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a
judgment formed from observation of a class different from hers.

"Maybe you CAN help me. Let's see," he said. "I don't seek to make
you talk of yourself. But--you're a human being--a girl--almost a
woman. You're not dumb. But even a nun can talk."

"A nun? What is that?"

"Well--a nun is a sister of mercy--a woman consecrated to God--who has
renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns.
It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley. . . . You
see--how I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak
what perhaps should be unsaid. And it's hard, because I feel I could
unburden myself to you."

"Tell me what you want," she said.

Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart.
More than anything he wanted to be fair to this girl. He saw that she
was warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him.
The starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white
face.

"I'll tell you presently," he said. "I've trusted you. I'll trust
you with all. . . . But let me have my own time. This is so strange
a thing, my wanting to confide in you. It's selfish, perhaps. I have
my own ax to grind. I hope I won't wrong you. That's why I'm going
to be perfectly frank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted.
But the impulse is on me. I've been so interested in all you Mormon
women. The fact--the meaning of this hidden village is so--so terrible
to me. But that's none of my business. I have spent my afternoons and
evenings with these women at the different cottages. You do not mingle
with them. They are lonely, but have not such loneliness as yours.
I have passed here every night. No light--no sound. I can't help
thinking. Don't censure me or be afraid or draw within yourself just
because I must think. I may be all wrong. But I'm curious. I wonder
about you. Who are you? Mary--Mary what? Maybe I really don't want
to know. I came with selfish motive and now I'd like to--to--what
shall I say? Make your life a little less lonely for the while I'm
here. That's all. It needn't offend. And if you accept it, how much
easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon and I--well, I am
only a wanderer in these wilds. But--we might help each other. . . .
Have I made a mistake?"

"No--no," she cried, almost wildly.

"We can be friends then. You will trust me, help me?"

"Yes, if I dare."

"Surely you may dare what the other women would?"

She was silent.

And the wistfulness of her silence touched him. He felt contrition.
He did not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling
that once this strange situation was ended he would have food for
reflection. What struck him most now was the girl's blanched face,
the strong, nervous clasp of her hands, the visible tumult of her
bosom. Excitement alone could not be accountable for this. He had
not divined the cause for such agitation. He was puzzled, troubled,
and drawn irresistibly. He had not said what he had planned to say.
The moment had given birth to his speech, and it had flowed. What
was guiding him?

"Mary," he said, earnestly, "tell me--have you mother, father, sister,
brother? Something prompts me to ask that."

"All dead--gone--years ago," she answered.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen, I think. I'm not sure."

"You ARE lonely."

His words were gentle and divining.

"O God!" she cried. "Lonely!"

Then as a man in a dream he beheld her weeping. There was in her the
unconsciousness of a child and the passion of a woman. He gazed out
into the dark shadows and up at the white stars, and then at the bowed
head with its mass of glinting hair. But her agitation was no longer
strange to him. A few gentle and kind words had proved her undoing.
He knew then that whatever her life was, no kindness or sympathy
entered it. Presently she recovered, and sat as before, only whiter
of face it seemed, and with something tragic in her dark eyes. She
was growing cold and still again, aloof, more like those other Mormon
women.

"I understand," he said. "I'm not sorry I spoke. I felt your trouble,
whatever it is. . . . Do not retreat into your cold shell, I beg of
you. . . . Let me trust you with my secret."

He saw her shake out of the cold apathy. She wavered. He felt an
inexplicable sweetness in the power his voice seemed to have upon her.
She bowed her head in acquiescence. And Shefford began his story. Did
she grow still, like stone, or was that only his vivid imagination? He
told her of Venters and Bess--of Lassiter and Jane--of little Fay
Larkin--of the romance, and then the tragedy of Surprise Valley.

"So, when my Church disowned me," he concluded, "I conceived the idea
of wandering into the wilds of Utah to save Fay Larkin from that canyon
prison. It grew to be the best and strongest desire of my life. I
think if I could save her that it would save me. I never loved any
girl. I can't say that I love Fay Larkin. How could I when I've never
seen her--when she's only a dream girl? But I believe if she were to
become a reality--a flesh-and-blood girl--that I would love her."

That was more than Shefford had ever confessed to any one, and it
stirred him to his depths. Mary bent her head on her hands in
strange, stonelike rigidity.

"So here I am in the canyon country," he continued. "Withers tells me
it is a country of rainbows, both in the evanescent air and in the
changeless stone. Always as a boy there had been for me some haunting
promise, some treasure at the foot of the rainbow. I shall expect the
curve of a rainbow to lead me down into Surprise Valley. A dreamer,
you will call me. But I have had strange dreams come true. . . . Mary,
do you think THIS dream will come true?"

She was silent so long that he repeated his question.

"Only--in heaven," she whispered.

He took her reply strangely and a chill crept over him.

"You think my plan to seek to strive, to find--you think that idle,
vain?"

"I think it noble. . . . Thank God I've met a man like you!"

"Don't praise me!" he exclaimed, hastily. "Only help me. . . . Mary,
will you answer a few little questions, if I swear by my honor I'll
never reveal what you tell me?"

"I'll try."

He moistened his lips. Why did she seem so strange, so far away? The
hovering shadows made him nervous. Always he had been afraid of the
dark. His mood now admitted of unreal fancies.

"Have you ever heard of Fay Larkin?" he asked, very low.

"Yes."

"Was there only one Fay Larkin?"

"Only one."

"Did you--ever see her?"

"Yes," came the faint reply.

He was grateful. How she might be breaking faith with creed or duty!
He had not dared to hope so much. All his inner being trembled at the
portent of his next query. He had not dreamed it would be so hard to
put, or would affect him so powerfully. A warmth, a glow, a happiness
pervaded his spirit; and the chill, the gloom were as if they had never
been.

"Where is Fay Larkin now?" he asked, huskily.

He bent over her, touched her, leaned close to catch her whisper.

"She is--dead!"

Slowly Shefford rose, with a sickening shock, and then in bitter pain
he strode away into the starlight.




VII. SAGO-LILIES


The Indian returned to camp that night, and early the next day, which
was Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-bearded
personage wearing a long black coat.

"Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford," said the trader.

Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesy
evidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clear
blue eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; he
spoke quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase;
and he had an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach
at the morning service, and then he went off into the village.

"Guess he liked your looks," remarked Withers.

"He certainly sized me up," replied Shefford.

"Well, what could you expect? Sure I never heard of a deal like this--
a handsome young fellow left alone with a lot of pretty Mormon women!
You'll understand when you learn to know Mormons. Bishop Kane's a
square old chap. Crazy on religion, maybe, but otherwise he's a good
fellow. I made the best stand I could for you. The Mormons over at
Stonebridge were huffy because I hadn't consulted them before fetching
you over here. If I had, of course you'd never have gotten here. It
was Joe Lake who made it all right with them. Joe's well thought of,
and he certainly stood up for you."

"I owe him something, then," replied Shefford. "Hope my obligations
don't grow beyond me. Did you leave Joe at Stonebridge?"

"Yes. He wanted to stay, and I had work there that'll keep him awhile.
Shefford, we got news of Shadd--bad news. The half-breed's cutting up
rough. His gang shot up some Piutes over here across the line. Then
he got run out of Durango a few weeks ago for murder. A posse of
cowboys trailed him. But he slipped them. He's a fox. You know he
was trailing us here. He left the trail, Nas Ta Bega said. I learned
at Stonebridge that Shadd is well disposed toward Mormons. It takes
the Mormons to handle Indians. Shadd knows of this village and that's
why he shunted off our trail. But he might hang down in the pass and
wait for us. I think I'd better go back to Kayenta alone, across
country. You stay here till Joe and the Indian think it safe to leave.
You'll be going up on the slope of Navajo to load a pack-train, and
from there it may be well to go down West Canyon to Red Lake, and home
over the divide, the way you came. Joe'll decide what's best. And
you might as well buckle on a gun and get used to it. Sooner or later
you'll have to shoot your way through."

Shefford did not respond with his usual enthusiasm, and the omission
caused the trader to scrutinize him closely.

"What's the matter?" he queried. "There's no light in your eye to-day.
You look a little shady."

"I didn't rest well last night," replied Shefford. "I'm depressed this
morning. But I'll cheer up directly."

"Did you get along with the women?"

"Very well indeed. And I've enjoyed myself. It's a strange, beautiful
place."

"Do you like the women?"

"Yes."

"Have you seen much of the Sago Lily?"

"No. I carried her bucket one night--and saw her only once again.
I've been with the other women most of the time."

"It's just as well you didn't run often into Mary. Joe's sick over
her. I never saw a girl with a face and form to equal hers. There's
danger here for any man, Shefford. Even for you who think you've
turned your back on the world! Any of these Mormon women may fall in
love with you. They CAN'T love their husbands. That's how I figure
it. Religion holds them, not love. And the peculiar thing is this:
they're second, third, or fourth wives, all sealed. That means their
husbands are old, have picked them out for youth and physical charms,
have chosen the very opposite to their first wives, and then have hidden
them here in this lonely hole. . . . Did you ever imagine so terrible
a thing?"

"No, Withers, I did not."

"Maybe that's what depressed you. Anyway, my hunch is worth taking.
Be as nice as you can, Shefford. Lord knows it would be good for these
poor women if every last one of them fell in love with you. That won't
hurt them so long as you keep your head. Savvy? Perhaps I seem rough
and coarse to a man of your class. Well, that may be. But human
nature is human nature. And in this strange and beautiful place
you might love an Indian girl, let alone the Sago Lily. That's all.
I sure feel better with that load off my conscience. Hope I don't
offend."

"No indeed. I thank you, Withers," replied Shefford, with his hand
on the trader's shoulder. "You are right to caution me. I seem to
be wild--thirsting for adventure--chasing a gleam. In these unstable
days I can't answer for my heart. But I can for my honor. These
unfortunate women are as safe with me as--as they are with you and
Joe."

Withers uttered a blunt laugh.

"See here, son, look things square in the eye. Men of violent, lonely,
toilsome lives store up hunger for the love of woman. Love of a
STRANGE woman, if you want to put it that way. It's nature. It seems
all the beautiful young women in Utah are corralled in this valley.
When I come over here I feel natural, but I'm not happy. I'd like to
make love to--to that flower-faced girl. And I'm not ashamed to own
it. I've told Molly, my wife, and she understands. As for Joe, it's
much harder for him. Joe never has had a wife or sweetheart. I tell
you he's sick, and if I'd stay here a month I'd be sick."

Withers had spoken with fire in his eyes, with grim humor on his lips,
with uncompromising brutal truth. What he admitted was astounding to
Shefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange. The trader was a man
who spoke his inmost thought. And what he said suddenly focused
Shefford's mental vision clear and whole upon the appalling
significance of the tragedy of those women, especially of the girl
whose life was lonelier, sadder, darker than that of the others.

"Withers, trust me," replied Shefford.

"All right. Make the best of a bad job," said the trader, and went off
about his tasks.

Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in
the school-house. Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the
village was there. The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in
white and looked exceedingly well. Manifestly they had bestowed care
upon this Sabbath morning's toilet. One thing surely this dress
occasion brought out, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were
not poor, whatever their misfortunes might be. Jewelry was not
wanting, nor fine lace. And they all wore beautiful wild flowers of a
kind unknown to Shefford. He received many a bright smile. He looked
for Mary, hoping to see her face for the first time in the daylight,
but she sat far forward and did not turn. He saw her graceful white
neck, the fine lines of her throat, and her colorless cheek. He
recognized her, yet in the light she seemed a stranger.

The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing
of a hymn. Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices.
How deeply they affected him! Had any man ever fallen into a stranger
adventure than this? He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all a
creation of his fancy--the square log cabin with its red mud between
the chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan--the old bishop in his black
coat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune--the few old
women, dignified and stately--the many young women, fresh and handsome,
lifting their voices.

Shefford listened intently to the bishop's sermon. In some respects
it was the best he had ever heard. In others it was impossible for an
intelligent man to regard seriously. It was very long, lasting an hour
and a half, and the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from the
experience and wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert. The
physical things that had molded characters of iron, the obstacles that
only strong, patient men could have overcome, the making of homes in a
wilderness, showed the greatness of this alien band of Mormons.
Shefford conceded greatness to them. But the strange religion--the
narrowing down of the world to the soil of Utah, the intimations of
prophets on earth who had direct converse with God, the austere self-
conscious omnipotence of this old bishop--these were matters that
Shefford felt he must understand better, and see more favorably, if
he were not to consider them impossible.

Immediately after the service, forgetting that his intention had been
to get the long-waited-for look at Mary in the light of the sun,
Shefford hurried back to camp and to a secluded spot among the cedars.
Strikingly it had come to him that the fault he had found in Gentile
religion he now found in the Mormon religion. An old question returned
to haunt him--were all religions the same in blindness? As far as he
could see, religion existed to uphold the founders of a Church, a
creed. The Church of his own kind was a place where narrow men and
women went to think of their own salvation. They did not go there
to think of others. And now Shefford's keen mind saw something of
Mormonism and found it wanting. Bishop Kane was a sincere, good,
mistaken man. He believed what he preached, but that would not stand
logic. He taught blindness and mostly it appeared to be directed at
the women. Was there no religion divorced from power, no religion as
good for one man as another, no religion in the spirit of brotherly
love? Nas Ta Bega's "Bi Nai" (brother)--that was love, if not
religion, and perhaps the one and the other were the same. Shefford
kept in mind an intention to ask Nas Ta Bega what he thought of the
Mormons.

Later, when opportunity afforded, he did speak to the Indian. Nas Ta
Bega threw away his cigarette and made an impressive gesture that
conveyed as much sorrow as scorn.

"The first Mormon said God spoke to him and told him to go to a
certain place and dig. He went there and found the Book of Mormon.
It said follow me, marry many wives, go into the desert and multiply,
send your sons out into the world and bring us young women, many young
women. And when the first Mormon became strong with many followers
he said again: Give to me part of your labor--of your cattle and sheep
--of your silver--that I may build me great cathedrals for you to
worship in. And I will commune with God and make it right and good
that you have more wives. That is Mormonism."

"Nas Ta Bega, you mean the Mormons are a great and good people blindly
following a leader?"

"Yes. And the leader builds for himself--not for them."

"That is not religion. He has no God but himself."

"They have no God. They are blind like the Mokis who have the creeping
growths on their eyes. They have no God they can see and hear and feel,
who is with them day and night."

It was late in the afternoon when Bishop Kane rode through the camp and
halted on his way to speak to Shefford. He was kind and fatherly.
"Young man, are you open to faith?" he questioned gravely.

"I think I am," replied Shefford, thankful he could answer readily.

"Then come into the fold. You are a lost sheep. 'Away on the desert
I heard its cry.' . . . God bless you. Visit me when you ride to
Stonebridge."

He flicked his horse with a cedar branch and trotted away beside the
trader, and presently the green-choked neck of the valley hid them
from view. Shefford could not have said that he was glad to be left
behind, and yet neither was he sorry.

That Sabbath evening as he sat quietly with Nas Ta Bega, watching the
sunset gilding the peaks, he was visited by three of the young Mormon
women--Ruth, Joan, and Hester. They deliberately sought him and
merrily led him off to the village and to the evening service of
singing and prayer. Afterward he was surrounded and made much of. He
had been popular before, but this was different. When he thoughtfully
wended his way campward under the quiet stars he realized that the
coming of Bishop Kane had made a subtle change in the women. That
change was at first hard to define, but from every point by which he
approached it he came to the same conclusion--the bishop had not
objected to his presence in the village. The women became natural,
free, and unrestrained. A dozen or twenty young and attractive
women thrown much into companionship with one man. He might become
a Mormon. The idea made him laugh. But upon reflection it was not
funny; it sobered him. What a situation! He felt instinctively that
he ought to fly from this hidden valley. But he could not have done
it, even had he not been in the trader's employ. The thing was
provokingly seductive. It was like an Arabian Nights' tale. What
could these strange, fatally bound women do? Would any one of them
become involved in sweet toils such as were possible to him? He was
no fool. Already eyes had flashed and lips had smiled.

A thousand like thoughts whirled through his mind. And when he had
calmed down somewhat two things were not lost upon him--an intricate
and fascinating situation, with no end to its possibilities, threatened
and attracted him--and the certainty that, whatever change the bishop
had inaugurated, it had made these poor women happier. The latter
fact weighed more with Shefford than fears for himself. His word was
given to Withers. He would have felt just the same without having
bound himself. Still, in the light of the trader's blunt philosophy,
and of his own assurance that he was no fool, Shefford felt it
incumbent upon him to accept a belief that there were situations no
man could resist without an anchor. The ingenuity of man could not
have devised a stranger, a more enticing, a more overpoweringly fatal
situation. Fatal in that it could not be left untried! Shefford gave
in and clicked his teeth as he let himself go. And suddenly he thought
of her whom these bitter women called the Sago Lily.

The regret that had been his returned with thought of her. The saddest
disillusion of his life, the keenest disappointment, the strangest
pain, would always be associated with her. He had meant to see her
face once, clear in the sunlight, so that he could always remember it,
and then never go near her again. And now it came to him that if he
did see much of her these other women would find him like the stone
wall in the valley. Folly! Perhaps it was, but she would be safe,
maybe happier. When he decided, it was certain that he trembled.

Then he buried the memory of Fay Larkin.

Next day Shefford threw himself with all the boy left in him into the
work and play of the village. He helped the women and made games for
the children. And he talked or listened. In the early evening he
called on Ruth, chatted awhile, and went on to see Joan, and from her
to another. When the valley became shrouded in darkness he went unseen
down the path to Mary's lonely home.

She was there, a white shadow against the black.

When she replied to his greeting her voice seemed full, broken, eager
to express something that would not come. She was happier to see him
than she should have been, Shefford thought. He talked, swiftly,
eloquently, about whatever he believed would interest her. He stayed
long, and finally left, not having seen her face except in pale
starlight and shadow; and the strong clasp of her hand remained with
him as he went away under the pinyons.

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