by Zane Grey
“Good morning,” said Shefford.
Glen Naspa shyly replied in Navajo.
“How,” was Nas Ta Bega’s greeting.
In daylight the Indian lost some of the dark somberness of face that had impressed Shefford. He had a noble head, in poise like that of an eagle, a bold, clean-cut profile, and stern, close-shut lips. His eyes were the most striking and attractive feature about him; they were coal-black and piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to come from a keen and inquisitive mind.
Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the few preparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointed to horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made by Shefford’s threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explained by word and sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had been in danger. Nas Ta Bega followed the tracks a little way and presently returned.
“Shadd,” he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did not understand whether he meant the name of his visitor or something else, but the menace connected with the word was clear enough.
Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased Shefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas Ta Bega got up and pointed northward.
“Kayenta?” he inquired.
Shefford nodded and then they were off, with Glen Naspa in the lead. They did not climb the trail which they had descended, but took one leading to the right along the base of the slope. Shefford saw down into the red wash that bisected the canyon floor. It was a sheer wall of red clay or loam, a hundred feet high, and at the bottom ran a swift, shallow stream of reddish water. Then for a time a high growth of greasewood hid the surroundings from Shefford’s sight. Presently the trail led out into the open, and Shefford saw that he was at the neck of a wonderful valley that gradually widened with great jagged red peaks on the left and the black mesa, now a mountain, running away to the right. He turned to find that the opening of the Sagi could no longer be seen, and he was conscious of a strong desire to return and explore that canyon.
Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and her followers did likewise. As they got outward into the valley Shefford lost the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness of the huge walls and crags. The trail appeared level underfoot, but at a distance it was seen to climb. Shefford found where it disappeared over the foot of a slope that formed a graceful rising line up to the cedared flank of the mesa. The valley floor, widening away to the north, remained level and green. Beyond rose the jagged range of red peaks, all strangely cut and slanting. These distant deceiving features of the country held Shefford’s gaze until the Indian drew his attention to things near at hand. Then Shefford saw flocks of sheep dotting the gray-green valley, and bands of beautiful long-maned, long-tailed ponies.
For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford imagined he came to see where the upland plain ended or at least broke its level. He was right, for presently the Indian pointed, and Shefford went on to halt upon the edge of a steep slope leading down into a valley vast in its barren gray reaches.
“Kayenta,” said Nas Ta Bega.
Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley reaching far to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff. Then close under the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone houses with red roofs, and a corral with a pool of water shining in the sun.
The trail leading down was steep and sandy, but it was not long. Shefford’s sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once—the crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty wool, the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses, little lazy burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles, blankets, guns, and packs.
Then a white man came out of the door. He waved a hand and shouted. Dust and wool and flour were thick upon him. He was muscular and weather-beaten, and appeared young in activity rather than face. A gun swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in his belt. Shefford looked into a face that he thought he had seen before, until he realized the similarity was only the bronze and hard line and rugged cast common to desert men. The gray searching eyes went right through him.
“Glad to see you. Get down and come in. Just heard from an Indian that you were coming. I’m the trader Withers,” he said to Shefford. His voice was welcoming and the grip of his hand made Shefford’s ache.
Shefford told his name and said he was as glad as he was lucky to arrive at Kayenta.
“Hello! Nas Ta Bega!” exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a surprise his face did not show. “Did this Indian bring you in?”
Withers shook hands with the Navajo while Shefford briefly related what he owed to him. Then Withers looked at Nas Ta Bega and spoke to him in the Indian tongue.
“Shadd,” said Nas Ta Bega. Withers let out a dry little laugh and his strong hand tugged at his mustache.
“Who’s Shadd?” asked Shefford.
“He’s a half-breed Ute—bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He’s in with a gang of outlaws who hide in the San Juan country.… Reckon you’re lucky. How’d you come to be there in the Sagi alone?”
“I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against it, but I came anyway.”
“Well.” Withers’s gray glance was kind, if it did express the foolhardiness of Shefford’s act. “Come into the house.… Never mind the horse. My wife will sure be glad to see you.”
Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was the trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was large, with logs smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets covering every foot of floor space, and Indian baskets and silver ornaments everywhere, and strange Indian designs painted upon the whitewashed walls. Withers called his wife and made her acquainted with Shefford. She was a slight, comely little woman, with keen, earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be serious and quiet, but she made Shefford feel at home immediately. He refused, however, to accept the room offered him, saying that he me meant to sleep out under the open sky. Withers laughed at this and said he understood. Shefford, remembering Presbrey’s hunger for news of the outside world, told this trader and his wife all he could think of; and he was listened to with that close attention a traveler always gained in the remote places.
“Sure am glad you rode in,” said Withers, for the fourth time. “Now you make yourself at home. Stay here—come over to the store—do what you like. I’ve got to work. Tonight we’ll talk.”
Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as Presbrey’s, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of everything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a narrow aisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a high counter on the other. Behind this counter Withers stood to wait upon the buying Indians. They sold blankets and skins and bags of wool, and in exchange took silver money. Then they lingered and with slow, staid reluctance bought one thing and then another—flour, sugar, canned goods, coffee, tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never without two or three Indians leaning on their dark, silver-braceleted arms. But as they were slow to sell and buy and go, so were others slow to come in. Their voices were soft and low and it seemed to Shefford they were whispering. He liked to hear them and to look at the banded heads, the long, twisted rolls of black hair tied with white cords, the still dark faces and watchful eyes, the silver ear-rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the lean and sinewy shapes, the corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small, close-fitting buckskin moccasins buttoned with coins. These Indians all appeared young, and under the quiet, slow demeanor there was fierce blood and fire.
By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The former was a huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if not jolly.
She h
ad the corners of a blanket tied under her chin, and in the folds behind on her broad back was a naked Indian baby, round and black of head, brown-skinned, with eyes as bright as beads. When the youngster caught sight of Shefford he made a startled dive into the sack of the blanket. Manifestly, however, curiosity got the better of fear, for presently Shefford caught a pair of wondering dark eyes peeping at him.
“They’re good spenders, but slow,” said Withers. “The Navajos are careful and cautious. That’s why they’re rich. This squaw, Yan As Pa, has flocks of sheep and more mustangs than she knows about.”
“Mustangs. So that’s what you call the ponies?” replied Shefford.
“Yep. They’re mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits.”
Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers’s helper, a Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past maturity, and his sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open desert. He was engaged in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the Indians. Near by stood a framework of poles from which an immense bag was suspended. From the top of this bag protruded the head and shoulders of an Indian who appeared to be stamping and packing wool with his feet. He grinned at the curious Shefford. But Shefford was more interested in the Mormon. So far as he knew, Whisner was the first man of that creed he had ever met, and he could scarcely hide his eagerness. Venters’s stories had been of a long-past generation of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, and unchangeable. Shefford did not expect to meet Mormons of this kind. But any man of that religion would have interested him. Besides this, Whisner seemed to bring him closer to that wild secret canyon he had come West to find. Shefford was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have his polite and friendly overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an Indian. He was cold, incommunicative, aloof; and there was something about him that made the sensitive Shefford feel his presence was resented.
Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish that he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes, and then he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and after a while any of them. Shefford did not understand himself, but he fought his natural instinctive reluctance to meet obstacles, peril, suffering.
He traced the white-bordered little stream that made the pool in the corral, and when he came to where it oozed out of the sand under the bluff he decided that was not the spring which had made Kayenta famous. Presently down below the trading-post he saw a trough from which burros were drinking. Here he found the spring, a deep well of eddying water walled in by stones, and the overflow made a shallow stream meandering away between its borders of alkali, like a crust of salt. Shefford tasted the water. It bit, but it was good.
Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyed burros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but the mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; they raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.
Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake. Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were others riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported out of the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed road led off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away to the north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.
Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so across the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildness and loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It held something for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl from a wild canyon.
* * * *
That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before the blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on Shefford’s and said, with directness and force:
“I’ve lived my life in the desert. I’ve met many men and have been a friend to most.… You’re no prospector or trader or missionary?”
“No,” replied Shefford.
“You’ve had trouble?”
“Yes.”
“Have you come in here to hide? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I won’t give you away.”
“I didn’t come to hide.”
“Then no one is after you? You’ve done no wrong?”
“Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else,” replied Shefford, steadily.
“I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret—it’s all one to me.”
Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong, persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.
“You’re welcome in Kayenta,” went on Withers. “Stay as long as you like. I take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it aplenty.”
“Thank you. That is good. I need to work. We’ll talk of it later.… But just yet I can’t tell you why I came to Kayenta, what I want to do, how long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem so like dreams. Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I’m only chasing a phantom—perhaps I’m only hunting the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.”
“Well, this is the country for rainbows,” laughed Withers. “In summer from June to August when it storms we have rainbows that’ll make you think you’re in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains, rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure is rainbow country.”
That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was again—something tangible at the bottom of his dream.
Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if he read his visitor’s mind he began to talk about the wild country he called home.
He had lived at Kayenta for several years—hard and profitless years by reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of the Indians’ habits, religion, and life than any white person in the West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a venture Withers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move and intended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and Colorado were a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads were impassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was situated a Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah line. Withers did some business with this village, but scarcely enough to warrant the risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost several pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it left Stonebridge.
“Stonebridge!” exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village Shefford longed to speak of to this trader.
“Yes—Stonebridge,” replied Withers. “Ever heard the name?”
“I think so. Are there other villages in—in that part of the country?”
“A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and Monticello are far north across the San Juan.… There used to be another village—but that wouldn’t interest you.”
“Maybe it would,” replied Shefford, quietly.
But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.
“Withers, pardon an impertinence—I am deeply serious.… Are you a Mormon?”
“Indeed I’m not,” replied the trader, instantly.
“Are you for the Mormons or against them?”
“Neither. I get along with them. I know them. I believe they are a misunderstood people.”
“That’s for them.”
�
��No. I’m only fair-minded.”
Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too strong.
“You said there used to be another village.… Was the name of it—Cottonwoods?”
Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank astonishment.
“Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?” he queried, sharply.
“So far as I went,” replied Shefford.
“You’re no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t even know what you mean by sealed wives.”
“Well, it’s damn strange that you’d know the name Cottonwoods.… Yes, that’s the name of the village I meant—the one that used to be. It’s gone now, all except a few stone walls.”
“What became of it?”
“Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away. I’ve heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once. It’s gone, too. Its name was—let me see—”
“Amber Spring,” interrupted Shefford.
“By George, you’re right!” rejoined the trader, again amazed. “Shefford, this beats me. I haven’t heard that name for ten years. I can’t help seeing what a tenderfoot—stranger—you are to the desert. Yet, here you are—speaking of what you should know nothing of.… And there’s more behind this.”
Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.
“Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?”
“Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name.”
“Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with increasing emotion.
“No.”
