The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “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.”

  “Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named—Jane Withersteen?”

  “No.”

  Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam—he had caught a fleeting glimpse of it.

  “Did you ever hear of a child—a girl—a woman—called Fay Larkin?”

  Withers rose slowly with a paling face.

  “If you’re a spy it’ll go hard with you—though I’m no Mormon,” he said, grimly.

  Shefford lifted a shaking hand.

  “I was a clergyman. Now I’m nothing—a wanderer—least of all a spy.”

  Withers leaned closer to see into the other man’s eyes; he looked long and then appeared satisfied.

  “I’ve heard the name Fay Larkin,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that’s all I’ll say till you tell your story.”

  * * * *

  Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of his hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected him strangely. What was the meaning of the trader’s somber gravity? Why was the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and secret?

  “My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four,” began Shefford. “My family—”

  Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford.

  “Come in,” called Withers.

  The door opened and like a shadow Nas Ta Bega slipped in. He said something in Navajo to the trader.

  “How,” he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, but there was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before the fire, doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with dark eyes on the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation.

  “He likes the fire,” explained Withers. “Whenever he comes to Kayenta he always visits me like this.… Don’t mind him. Go on with your story.”

  “My family were plain people, well-to-do, and very religious,” went on Shefford. “When I was a boy we moved from the country to a town called Beaumont, Illinois. There was a college in Beaumont and eventually I was sent to it to study for the ministry. I wanted to be—— But never mind that.… By the time I was twenty-two I was ready for my career as a clergyman. I preached for a year around at different places and then got a church in my home town of Beaumont. I became exceedingly good friends with a man named Venters, who had recently come to Beaumont. He was a singular man. His wife was a strange, beautiful woman, very reserved, and she had wonderful dark eyes. They had money and were devoted to each other, and perfectly happy. They owned the finest horses ever seen in Illinois, and their particular enjoyment seemed to be riding. They were always taking long rides. It was something worth going far for to see Mrs. Venters on a horse.

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

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

  CHAPTER IV

  NEW FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Withers, take me to the village.”

  “Shefford, you’re liable to get in bad out here,” said the trader, gravely.

  “I couldn’t be any more ruined than I am now,” replied Shefford, passionately.

  “But there’s risk in this—risk such as you never had,” persisted Withers.

  “I’ll risk anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “By George!” cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his fist. “I’d forgotten.”

  “What?” ejaculated Shefford.

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

  Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.

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

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

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

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

  “Do you mean Nas Ta Bega wants to keep his sister far removed from Wil
letts?” inquired Shefford.

  “I mean that,” replied Withers, “and I hope he’s not too late.”

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

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

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

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