The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Mary faced the court and the crowd on that side of the platform. Unlike the other women, she did not look at or seem to see anyone behind the railing. Shefford was absolutely sure there was not a man or a woman who caught her glance. She gazed afar, with eyes strained, humid, fearful.

  When the prosecutor swore her to the oath her lips were seen to move, but no one heard her speak.

  “What is your name?” asked the judge.

  “Mary.” Her voice was low, with a slight tremor.

  “What’s your other name?”

  “I won’t tell.”

  Her singular reply, the tones of her voice, her manner before the judge, marked her with strange simplicity. It was evident that she was not accustomed to questions.

  “What were your parents’ names?”

  “I won’t tell,” she replied, very low.

  Judge Stone did not press the point. Perhaps he wanted to make the examination as easy as possible for her or to wait till she showed more composure.

  “Were your parents Mormons?” he went on.

  “No, sir.” She added the sir with a quaint respect, contrasting markedly with the short replies of the women before her.

  “Then you were not born a Mormon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen or eighteen. I’m not sure.”

  “You don’t know your exact age?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Was it in Utah?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you lived in this state?”

  “Always—except last year.”

  “And that’s been over in the hidden village where you were arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you often visited here—this town Stonebridge?”

  “I never was here—till yesterday.”

  Judge Stone regarded her as if his interest as a man was running counter to his duty as an officer. Suddenly he leaned forward.

  “Are you a Mormon now?” he queried, forcibly.

  “No, sir,” she replied, and here her voice rose a little clearer.

  It was an unexpected reply. Judge Stone stared at her. The low buzz ran through the listening crowd. And as for Shefford, he was astounded. When his wits flashed back and he weighed her words and saw in her face truth as clear as light, he had the strangest sensation of joy. Almost it flooded away the gloom and pain that attended this ordeal.

  The judge bent his head to his assistants as if for counsel. All of them were eager where formerly they had been weary. Shefford glanced around at the dark and somber faces, and a slow wrath grew within him. Then he caught a glimpse of Waggoner. The steel-blue, piercing intensity of the Mormon’s gaze impressed him at a moment when all that older generation of Mormons looked as hard and immutable as iron. Either Shefford was over-excited and mistaken or the hour had become fraught with greater suspense. The secret, the mystery, the power, the hate, the religion of a strange people were thick and tangible in that hall. For Shefford the feeling of the presence of Withers on his left was entirely different from that of the Mormon on his other side. If there was not a shadow there, then the sun did not shine so brightly as it had shone when he entered. The air seemed clogged with nameless passion.

  “I gather that you’ve lived mostly in the country—away from people?” the judge began.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the girl.

  “Do you know anything about the government of the United States?”

  “No, sir.”

  He pondered again, evidently weighing his queries, leading up to the fatal and inevitable question.

  Still, his interest in this particular defendant had become visible.

  “Have you any idea of the consequences of perjury?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you understand what perjury is?”

  “It’s to lie.”

  “Do you tell lies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you ever told a single lie?”

  “Not—yet,” she replied, almost whispering.

  It was the answer of a child and affected the judge. He fussed with his papers. Perhaps his task was not easy; certainly it was not pleasant. Then he leaned forward again and fixed those deep, cavernous eyes upon the sad face.

  “Do you understand what a sealed wife is?”

  “I’ve never been told.”

  “But you know there are sealed wives in Utah?”

  “Yes, sir; I’ve been told that.”

  Judge Stone halted there, watching her. The hall was silent except for faint rustlings and here and there deep breaths drawn guardedly. The vital question hung like a sword over the white-faced girl. Perhaps she divined its impending stroke, for she sat like a stone with dilating, appealing eyes upon her executioner.

  “Are you a sealed wife?” he flung at her.

  She could not answer at once. She made effort, but the words would not come. He flung the question again, sternly.

  “No!” she cried.

  And then there was silence. That poignant word quivered in Shefford’s heart. He believed it was a lie. It seemed he would have known it if this hour was the first in which he had ever seen the girl. He heard, he felt, he sensed the fatal thing. The beautiful voice had lacked some quality before present. And the thing wanting was something subtle, an essence, a beautiful ring—the truth. What a hellish thing to make that pure girl a liar—a perjurer! The heat deep within Shefford kindled to fire.

  “You are not married?” went on Judge Stone.

  “No, sir,” she answered, faintly.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you expect ever to be married?”

  “Oh! No, sir.”

  She was ashen pale now, quivering all over, with her strong hands clasping the black hood, and she could no longer meet the judge’s glance.

  “Have you—any—any children?” the judge asked, haltingly. It was a hard question to get out.

  “No.”

  Judge Stone leaned far over the table, and that his face was purple showed Shefford he was a man. His big fist clenched.

  “Girl, you’re not going to swear you, too, were visited—over there by men… You’re not going to swear that?”

  “Oh—no, sir!”

  Judge Stone settled back in his chair, and while he wiped his moist face that same foreboding murmur, almost a menace, moaned through the hall.

  Shefford was sick in his soul and afraid of himself. He did not know this spirit that flamed up in him. His helplessness was a most hateful fact.

  “Come—confess you are a sealed wife,” called her interrogator.

  She maintained silence, but shook her head.

  Suddenly he seemed to leap forward.

  “Unfortunate child! Confess.”

  That forced her to lift her head and face him, yet still she did not speak. It was the strength of despair. She could not endure much more.

  “Who is your husband?” he thundered at her.

  She rose wildly, terror-stricken. It was terror that dominated her, not of the stern judge, for she took a faltering step toward him, lifting a shaking hand, but of someone or of some thing far more terrible than any punishment she could have received in the sentence of a court. Still she was not proof against the judge’s will. She had weakened, and the terror must have been because of that weakening.

  “Who is the Mormon who visits you?” he thundered, relentlessly.

  “I—never—knew—his—name.

  “But you’d know his face. I’ll arrest every Mormon in this country and bring him before you. You’d know his face?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t tell!… I—never—saw his face—in the light!”

  The tragic beauty of her, the certainty of some monstrous crime to youth and innocence, the presence of an agony and terror that unfathomably seemed not to be for he
rself—these transfixed the court and the audience, and held them silenced, till she reached out blindly and then sank in a heap to the floor.

  CHAPTER XI

  AFTER THE TRIAL

  Shefford might have leaped over the railing but for Withers’s restraining hand, and when there appeared to be some sign of kindness in those other women for the unconscious girl Shefford squeezed through the crowd and got out of the hall.

  The gang outside that had been denied admittance pressed upon Shefford, with jest and curious query, and a good nature that jarred upon him. He was far from gentle as he jostled off the first importuning fellows; the others, gaping at him, opened a lane for him to pass through.

  Then there was a hand laid on his shoulder that he did not shake off. Nas Ta Bega loomed dark and tall beside him. Neither the trader nor Joe Lake nor any white man Shefford had met influenced him as this Navajo.

  “Nas Ta Bega! you here, too. I guess the whole country is here. We waited at Kayenta. What kept you so long?”

  The Indian, always slow to answer, did not open his lips till he drew Shefford apart from the noisy crowd.

  “Bi Nai, there is sorrow in the hogan of Hosteen Doetin,” he said.

  “Glen Naspa!” exclaimed Shefford.

  “My sister is gone from the home of her brother. She went away alone in the summer.”

  “Blue canyon! She went to the missionary. Nas Ta Bega, I thought I saw her there. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to make sure. I was afraid it might be true.”

  “A brave who loved my sister trailed her there.”

  “Nas Ta Bega, will you—will we go find her, take her home?”

  “No. She will come home some day.”

  What bitter sadness and wisdom in his words!

  “But, my friend, that damned missionary—” began Shefford, passionately. The Indian had met him at a bad hour.

  “Willetts is here. I saw him go in there,” interrupted Nas Ta Bega, and he pointed to the hall.

  “Here! He gets around a good deal,” declared Shefford. “Nas Ta Bega, what are you going to do to him?”

  The Indian held his peace and there was no telling from his inscrutable face what might be in his mind. He was dark, impassive. He seemed a wise and bitter Indian, beyond any savagery of his tribe, and the suffering Shefford divined was deep.

  “He’d better keep out of my sight,” muttered Shefford, more to himself than to his companion.

  “The half-breed is here,” said Nas Ta Bega.

  “Shadd? Yes, we saw him. There! He’s still with his gang. Nas Ta Bega, what are they up to?”

  “They will steal what they can.”

  “Withers says Shadd is friendly with the Mormons.”

  “Yes, and with the missionary, too.”

  “With Willetts?”

  “I saw them talk together—strong talk.”

  “Strange. But maybe it’s not so strange. Shadd is known well in Monticello and Bluff. He spends money there. They are afraid of him, but he’s welcome just the same. Perhaps everybody knows him. It’d be like him to ride into Kayenta. But, Nas Ta Bega, I’ve got to look out for him, because Withers says he’s after me.”

  “Bi Nai wears a scar that is proof,” said the Indian.

  “Then it must be he found out long ago I had a little money.”

  “It might be. But, Bi Nai, the half-breed has a strange step on your trail.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Shefford.

  “Nas Ta Bega cannot tell what he does not know,” replied the Navajo. “Let that be. We shall know some day. Bi Nai, there is sorrow to tell that is not the Indian’s.… Sorrow for my brother!”

  Shefford lifted his eyes to the Indian’s, and if he did not see sadness there he was much deceived.

  “Bi Nai, long ago you told a story to the trader. Nas Ta Bega sat before the fire that night. You did not know he could understand your language. He listened. And he learned what brought you to the country of the Indian. That night he made you his brother.… All his lonely rides into the canyon have been to find the little golden-haired child, the lost girl—Fay Larkin.… Bi Nai, I have found the girl you wanted for your sweetheart.”

  Shefford was bereft of speech. He could not see steadily, and the last solemn words of the Indian seemed far away.

  “Bi Nai, I have found Fay Larkin,” repeated Nas Ta Bega.

  “Fay Larkin!” gasped Shefford, shaking his head. “But—she’s dead.”

  “It would be less sorrow for Bi Nai if she were dead.”

  Shefford clutched at the Indian. There was something terrible to be revealed. Like an aspen-leaf in the wind he shook all over. He divined the revelation—divined the coming blow—but that was as far as his mind got.

  “She’s in there,” said the Indian, pointing toward hall.

  “Fay Larkin?” whispered Shefford.

  “Yes, Bi Nai.”

  “My God! How do you know? Oh, I could have seen. I’ve been blind.… Tell me, Indian. Which one?”

  “Fay Larkin is the Sago Lily.”

  * * * *

  Shefford strode away into a secluded corner of the Square, where in the shade and quiet of the trees he suffered a storm of heart and mind. During that short or long time—he had no idea how long—the Indian remained with him. He never lost the feeling of Nas Ta Bega close beside him. When the period of acute pain left him and some order began to replace the tumult in his mind he felt in Nas Ta Bega the same quality—silence or strength or help—that he had learned to feel in the deep canyon and the lofty crags. He realized then that the Indian was indeed a brother. And Shefford needed him. What he had to fight was more fatal than suffering and love—it was hate rising out of the unsuspected dark gulf of his heart—the instinct to kill—the murder in his soul. Only now did he come to understand Jane Withersteen’s tragic story and the passion of Venters and what had made Lassiter a gun-man. The desert had transformed Shefford. The elements had entered into his muscle and bone, into the very fiber of his heart. Sun, wind, sand, cold, storm, space, stone, the poison cactus, the racking toil, the terrible loneliness—the iron of the desert man, the cruelty of the desert savage, the wildness of the mustang, the ferocity of hawk and wolf, the bitter struggle of every surviving thing—these were as if they had been melted and merged together and now made a dark and passionate stream that was his throbbing blood. He realized what he had become and gloried in it, yet there, looking on with grave and earnest eyes, was his old self, the man of reason, of intellect, of culture, who had been a good man despite the failure and shame of his life. And he gave heed to the voice of warning, of conscience. Not by revengefully seeking the Mormon who had ruined Fay Larkin and blindly dealing a wild justice could he help this unfortunate girl. This fierce, newborn strength and passion must be tempered by reason, lest he become merely elemental, a man answering wholly to primitive impulses. In the darkness of that hour he mined deep into his heart, understood himself, trembled at the thing he faced, and won his victory. He would go forth from that hour a man. He might fight, and perhaps there was death in the balance, but hate would never overthrow him.

  Then when he looked at future action he felt a strange, unalterable purpose to save Fay Larkin. She was very young—seventeen or eighteen, she had said—and there could be, there must be some happiness before her. It had been his dream to chase a rainbow—it had been his determination to find her in the lost Surprise Valley. Well, he had found her. It never occurred to him to ask Nas Ta Bega how he had discovered that the Sago Lily was Fay Larkin. The wonder was, Shefford thought, that he had so long been blind himself. How simply everything worked out now! Every thought, every recollection of her was proof. Her strange beauty like that of the sweet and rare lily, her low voice that showed the habit of silence, her shapely hands with the clasp strong as a man’s, her lithe form, her swift step, her wonderful agility upon the smooth, steep trails, and the wildness of her upon the heights, and the haunting, brooding shadow of her eyes when she gazed
across the canyon—all these fitted so harmoniously the conception of a child lost in a beautiful Surprise Valley and growing up in its wildness and silence, tutored by the sad love of broken Jane and Lassiter. Yes, to save her had been Shefford’s dream, and he had loved that dream. He had loved the dream and he had loved the child. The secret of her hiding-place as revealed by the story told him and his slow growth from dream to action—these had strangely given Fay Larkin to him. Then had come the bitter knowledge that she was dead. In the light of this subsequent revelation how easy to account for his loving Mary, too. Never would she be Mary again to him! Fay Larkin and the Sago Lily were one and the same. She was here, near him, and he was powerless for the present to help her or to reveal himself. She was held back there in that gloomy hall among those somber Mormons, alien to the women, bound in some fatal way to one of the men, and now, by reason of her weakness in the trial, surely to be hated. Thinking of her past and her present, of the future, and that secret Mormon whose face she had never seen, Shefford felt a sinking of his heart, a terrible cold pang in his breast, a fainting of his spirit. She had sworn she was no sealed wife. But had she not lied? So, then, how utterly powerless he was!

  But here to save him, to uplift him, came that strange mystic insight which had been the gift of the desert to him. She was not dead. He had found her. What mattered obstacles, even that implacable creed to which she had been sacrificed, in the face of this blessed and overwhelming truth? It was as mighty as the love suddenly dawning upon him. A strong and terrible and deathly sweet wind seemed to fill his soul with the love of her. It was her fate that had drawn him; and now it was her agony, her innocence, her beauty, that bound him for all time. Patience and cunning and toil, passion and blood, the unquenchable spirit of a man to save—these were nothing to give—life itself were little, could he but free her.