VII. SAGO-LILIES
The Indian returned to camp that night, and early the next day, whichwas Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-beardedpersonage wearing a long black coat.
"Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford," said the trader.
Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesyevidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clearblue eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; hespoke quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase; andhe had an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach at themorning 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--ahandsome young fellow left alone with a lot of pretty Mormon women!You'll understand when you learn to know Mormons. Bishop Kane's a squareold 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 Stonebridgewere huffy because I hadn't consulted them before fetching you overhere. If I had, of course you'd never have gotten here. It was Joe Lakewho made it all right with them. Joe's well thought of, and he certainlystood up for you."
"I owe him something, then," replied Shefford. "Hope my obligationsdon'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 uprough. His gang shot up some Piutes over here across the line. Then hegot run out of Durango a few weeks ago for murder. A posse of cowboystrailed him. But he slipped them. He's a fox. You know he was trailingus here. He left the trail, Nas Ta Bega said. I learned at Stonebridgethat Shadd is well disposed toward Mormons. It takes the Mormons tohandle Indians. Shadd knows of this village and that's why he shuntedoff our trail. But he might hang down in the pass and wait for us. Ithink I'd better go back to Kayenta alone, across country. You stay heretill Joe and the Indian think it safe to leave. You'll be going up onthe slope of Navajo to load a pack-train, and from there it may be wellto go down West Canyon to Red Lake, and home over the divide, the wayyou came. Joe'll decide what's best. And you might as well buckle on agun and get used to it. Sooner or later you'll have to shoot your waythrough."
Shefford did not respond with his usual enthusiasm, and the omissioncaused 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 thismorning. 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, beautifulplace."
"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'vebeen 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 dangerhere for any man, Shefford. Even for you who think you've turned yourback 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 holdsthem, not love. And the peculiar thing is this: they're second, third,or fourth wives, all sealed. That means their husbands are old, havepicked them out for youth and physical charms, have chosen the veryopposite to their first wives, and then have hidden them here in thislonely 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. Beas nice as you can, Shefford. Lord knows it would be good for these poorwomen if every last one of them fell in love with you. That won't hurtthem so long as you keep your head. Savvy? Perhaps I seem rough andcoarse to a man of your class. Well, that may be. But human nature ishuman nature. And in this strange and beautiful place you might lovean Indian girl, let alone the Sago Lily. That's all. I sure feel betterwith that load off my conscience. Hope I don't offend."
"No indeed. I thank you, Withers," replied Shefford, with his handon the trader's shoulder. "You are right to caution me. I seem to bewild--thirsting for adventure--chasing a gleam. In these unstable daysI can't answer for my heart. But I can for my honor. These unfortunatewomen 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 STRANGEwoman, if you want to put it that way. It's nature. It seems all thebeautiful young women in Utah are corralled in this valley. When Icome over here I feel natural, but I'm not happy. I'd like to make loveto--to that flower-faced girl. And I'm not ashamed to own it. I've toldMolly, my wife, and she understands. As for Joe, it's much harder forhim. Joe never has had a wife or sweetheart. I tell you he's sick, andif 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 toShefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange. The trader was a man whospoke his inmost thought. And what he said suddenly focused Shefford'smental vision clear and whole upon the appalling significance of thetragedy 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 offabout his tasks.
Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in theschool-house. Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the villagewas there. The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in white andlooked exceedingly well. Manifestly they had bestowed care upon thisSabbath morning's toilet. One thing surely this dress occasion broughtout, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were not poor, whatevertheir misfortunes might be. Jewelry was not wanting, nor fine lace. Andthey all wore beautiful wild flowers of a kind unknown to Shefford. Hereceived many a bright smile. He looked for Mary, hoping to see her facefor the first time in the daylight, but she sat far forward and did notturn. He saw her graceful white neck, the fine lines of her throat, andher colorless cheek. He recognized her, yet in the light she seemed astranger.
The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing ofa hymn. Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices.How deeply they affected him! Had any man ever fallen into a strangeradventure than this? He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all acreation of his fancy--the square log cabin with its red mud betweenthe chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan--the old bishop in his blackcoat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune--the few oldwomen, dignified and stately--the many young women, fresh and handsome,lifting their voices.
Shefford listened intently to the bishop's sermon. In some respectsit was the best he had ever heard. In others it was impossible for anintelligent man to regard seriously. It was very long, lasting an hourand a half, and the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from theexperience and wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert. Thephysical things that had molded characters of iron, the obstacles thatonly strong, patient men could have overcome, the making of homes in awilderness, showed the greatness of this alien band of Mormons. Sheffordconceded greatness to them. But the strange religion--the narrowing downof the world to the soil of Utah, the intimations of prophets on earthwho had direct converse with God, the austere self-conscious omnipotenceof this old bishop--these were matters that Shefford felt he mustunderstand better, and see more favorably, if he were not to considerthem impossible.
Immediately after the service, forgetting that his intention had been toget the long-waited-for look at Mary in the light of the sun, Sheff
ordhurried back to camp and to a secluded spot among the cedars. Strikinglyit had come to him that the fault he had found in Gentile religion henow found in the Mormon religion. An old question returned to haunthim--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 Churchof his own kind was a place where narrow men and women went to think oftheir own salvation. They did not go there to think of others. And nowShefford's keen mind saw something of Mormonism and found it wanting.Bishop Kane was a sincere, good, mistaken man. He believed what hepreached, but that would not stand logic. He taught blindness and mostlyit appeared to be directed at the women. Was there no religion divorcedfrom power, no religion as good for one man as another, no religion inthe spirit of brotherly love? Nas Ta Bega's "Bi Nai" (brother)--that waslove, 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 ofthe Mormons.
Later, when opportunity afforded, he did speak to the Indian. NasTa Bega threw away his cigarette and made an impressive gesture thatconveyed as much sorrow as scorn.
"The first Mormon said God spoke to him and told him to go to a certainplace and dig. He went there and found the Book of Mormon. It saidfollow me, marry many wives, go into the desert and multiply, send yoursons out into the world and bring us young women, many young women. Andwhen the first Mormon became strong with many followers he said again:Give to me part of your labor--of your cattle and sheep--of yoursilver--that I may build me great cathedrals for you to worship in. AndI will commune with God and make it right and good that you have morewives. That is Mormonism."
"Nas Ta Bega, you mean the Mormons are a great and good people blindlyfollowing 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 creepinggrowths 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 andhalted on his way to speak to Shefford. He was kind and fatherly. "Youngman, 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 desertI heard its cry.'... God bless you. Visit me when you ride toStonebridge."
He flicked his horse with a cedar branch and trotted away beside thetrader, and presently the green-choked neck of the valley hid them fromview. 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 thesunset gilding the peaks, he was visited by three of the young Mormonwomen--Ruth, Joan, and Hester. They deliberately sought him and merrilyled him off to the village and to the evening service of singing andprayer. Afterward he was surrounded and made much of. He had beenpopular before, but this was different. When he thoughtfully wended hisway campward under the quiet stars he realized that the coming of BishopKane had made a subtle change in the women. That change was at firsthard to define, but from every point by which he approached it he cameto the same conclusion--the bishop had not objected to his presence inthe village. The women became natural, free, and unrestrained. A dozenor twenty young and attractive women thrown much into companionship withone man. He might become a Mormon. The idea made him laugh. But uponreflection it was not funny; it sobered him. What a situation! He feltinstinctively that he ought to fly from this hidden valley. But he couldnot have done it, even had he not been in the trader's employ. The thingwas provokingly seductive. It was like an Arabian Nights' tale. Whatcould these strange, fatally bound women do? Would any one of thembecome involved in sweet toils such as were possible to him? He was nofool. Already eyes had flashed and lips had smiled.
A thousand like thoughts whirled through his mind. And when he hadcalmed down somewhat two things were not lost upon him--an intricate andfascinating situation, with no end to its possibilities, threatened andattracted him--and the certainty that, whatever change the bishop hadinaugurated, it had made these poor women happier. The latter factweighed more with Shefford than fears for himself. His word was given toWithers. He would have felt just the same without having bound himself.Still, in the light of the trader's blunt philosophy, and of his ownassurance that he was no fool, Shefford felt it incumbent upon him toaccept a belief that there were situations no man could resist withoutan anchor. The ingenuity of man could not have devised a stranger, amore enticing, a more overpoweringly fatal situation. Fatal in that itcould not be left untried! Shefford gave in and clicked his teeth as helet himself go. And suddenly he thought of her whom these bitter womencalled the Sago Lily.
The regret that had been his returned with thought of her. The saddestdisillusion 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 thennever go near her again. And now it came to him that if he did seemuch of her these other women would find him like the stone wall in thevalley. 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 thework and play of the village. He helped the women and made games for thechildren. And he talked or listened. In the early evening he called onRuth, 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 pathto 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 toexpress something that would not come. She was happier to see him thanshe should have been, Shefford thought. He talked, swiftly, eloquently,about whatever he believed would interest her. He stayed long, andfinally left, not having seen her face except in pale starlight andshadow; and the strong clasp of her hand remained with him as he wentaway under the pinyons.
Days passed swiftly. Joe Lake did not return. The Indian rode in and outof camp, watered and guarded the pack-burros and the mustangs. Sheffordgrew strong and active. He made gardens for the women; he cut cords offire-wood; he dammed the brook and made an irrigation ditch; he learnedto love these fatherless children, and they loved him.
In the afternoons there was leisure for him and for the women. He had nofavorites, and let the occasion decide what he should do and with whomhe should be. They had little parties at the cottages and picnics underthe cedars. He rode up and down the valley with Ruth, who could ridea horse as no other girl he had ever seen. He climbed with Hester. Hewalked with Joan. Mostly he contrived to include several at once in thelittle excursions, though it was not rare for him to be out alone withone.
It was not a game he was playing. More and more, as he learned to knowthese young women, he liked them better, he pitied them, he was good forthem. It shamed him, hurt him, somehow, to see how they tried to forgetsomething when they were with him. Not improbably a little of it wascoquetry, as natural as a laugh to any pretty woman. But that was notwhat hurt him. It was to see Ruth or Rebecca, as the case might be, fullof life and fun, thoroughly enjoying some jest or play, all of a suddenbe strangely recalled from the wholesome pleasure of a girl to becomea deep and somber woman. The crimes in the name of religion! How hethought of the blood and the ruin laid at the door of religion! Hewondered if that were so with Nas Ta Bega's religion, and he meantto find out some day. The women he liked best he imagined the leastreligious, and they made less effort to attract him.
Every night in the dark he went to Mary's home and sat with her on theporch. He never went inside. For all he knew, his visits were unknown toher neighbors. Still, it did not matter to him if they found out. To herhe could talk as he had neve
r talked to any one. She liberated all histhought and fancy. He filled her mind.
As there had been a change in the other women, so was there in Mary;however, it had no relation to the bishop's visit. The time came whenShefford could not but see that she lived and dragged through the longday for the sake of those few hours in the shadow of the stars withhim. She seldom spoke. She listened. Wonderful to him--sometimes shelaughed--and it seemed the sound was a ghost of childhood pleasure. Whenhe stopped to consider that she might fall in love with him he drove thethought from him. When he realized that his folly had become sweetand that the sweetness imperiously drew him, he likewise cast off thatthought. The present was enough. And if he had any treasures of mind andheart he gave them to her.
She never asked him to stay, but she showed that she wanted him to. Thatmade it hard to go. Still, he never stayed late. The moment of partingwas like a break. Her good-by was sweet, low music; it lingered on hisear; it bade him come to-morrow night; and it sent him away into thevalley to walk under the stars, a man fighting against himself.
One night at parting, as he tried to see her face in the wan glow of aclouded moon, he said:
"I've been trying to find a sago-lily."
"Have you never seen one?" she asked.
"No." He meant to say something with a double meaning, in reference toher face and the name of the flower, but her unconsciousness made himhold his tongue. She was wholly unlike the other women.
"I'll show you where the lilies grow," she said.
"When?"
"To-morrow. Early in the afternoon I'll come to the spring. Then I'lltake you."
. . . . . . . . . . .
Next morning Joe Lake returned and imparted news that was perturbingto Shefford. Reports of Shadd had come in to Stonebridge from differentIndian villages; Joe was not inclined to linger long at the camp, andfavored taking the trail with the pack-train.
Shefford discovered that he did not want to leave the valley, and theknowledge made him reflective. That morning he did not go into thevillage, and stayed in camp alone. A depression weighed upon him. Itwas dispelled, however, early in the afternoon by the sight of a slenderfigure in white swiftly coming down the path to the spring. He had anappointment with Mary to go to see the sago lilies; everything elseslipped his mind.
Mary wore the long black hood that effectually concealed her face. Itmade of her a woman, a Mormon woman, and strangely belied the lithe formand the braid of gold hair.
"Good day," she said, putting down her bucket. "Do you still want togo--to see the lilies?"
"Yes," replied Shefford, with a short laugh.
"Can you climb?"
"I'll go where you go."
Then she set off under the cedars and Shefford stalked at her side. Hewas aware that Nas Ta Bega watched them walk away. This day, so far, atleast, Shefford did not feel talkative; and Mary had always been one whomostly listened. They came at length to a place where the wall rose inlow, smooth swells, not steep, but certainly at an angle Shefford wouldnot of his own accord have attempted to scale.
Light, quick, and sure as a mountain-sheep Mary went up the first swellto an offset above. Shefford, in amaze and admiration, watched thelittle moccasins as they flashed and held on to the smooth rock.
When he essayed to follow her he slipped and came to grief. A secondattempt resulted in like failure. Then he backed away from the wall, torun forward fast and up the slope, only to slip, halfway up, and fallagain.
He made light of the incident, but she was solicitous. When he assuredher he was unhurt she said he had agreed to go where she went.
"But I'm not a--a bird," he protested.
"Take off your boots. Then you can climb. When we get over the wallit'll be easy," she said.
In his stocking-feet he had no great difficulty walking up the firstbulge of the walls. And from there she led him up the strange waves ofwind-worn rock. He could not attend to anything save the red, polishedrock under him, and so saw little. The ascent was longer than he wouldhave imagined, and steep enough to make him pant, but at last a hugeround summit was reached.
From here he saw down into the valley where the village lay. But for thelazy columns of blue smoke curling up from the pinyons the place wouldhave seemed uninhabited. The wall on the other side was about level withthe one upon which he stood. Beyond rose other walls and cliffs, upand up to the great towering peaks between which the green-and-blackmountain loomed. Facing the other way, Shefford had only a restrictedview. There were low crags and smooth stone ridges, between which wereaisles green with cedar and pinyon. Shefford's companion headed towardone of these, and when he had followed her a few steps he could nolonger see down into the valley. The Mormon village where she lived wasas if it were lost, and when it vanished Shefford felt a difference.Scarcely had the thought passed when Mary removed the dark hood. Hersmall head glistened like gold in the sunlight.
Shefford caught up with her and walked at her side, but could not bringhimself at once deliberately to look at her. They entered a narrow,low-walled lane where cedars and pinyons grew thickly, their fragranceheavy in the warm air, and flowers began to show in the grassy patches.
"This is Indian paint-brush," she said, pointing to little, low, scarletflowers. A gray sage-bush with beautiful purple blossoms she calledpurple sage; another bush with yellow flowers she named buck-brush,and there were vermilion cacti and low, flat mounds of lavender daisieswhich she said had no name. A whole mossy bank was covered with lacelike green leaves and tiny blossoms the color of violets, which shecalled loco.
"Loco? Is this what makes the horses go crazy when they eat it?" heasked.
"It is, indeed," she said, laughing.
When she laughed it was impossible not to look at her. She walked alittle in advance. Her white cheek and temple seemed framed in the goldof her hair. How white her skin! But it was like pearl, faintly veinedand flushed. The profile, clear-cut and pure, appeared cold, almoststern. He knew now that she was singularly beautiful, though he had yetto see her full face.
They walked on. Quite suddenly the lane opened out between two roundedbluffs, and Shefford looked down upon a grander and more awe-inspiringscene than ever he had viewed in his dreams.
What appeared to be a green mountainside sloped endlessly down toa plain, and that rolled and billowed away to a boundless region ofstrangely carved rock. The greatness of the scene could not be graspedin a glance. The slope was long; the plain not as level as it seemedto be on first sight; here and there round, red rocks, isolated andstrange, like lonely castles, rose out of the green. Beyond the greenall the earth seemed naked, showing smooth, glistening bones. It wasa formidable wall of rock that flung itself up in the distance, carvedinto a thousand canyon and walls and domes and peaks, and there wasnot a straight nor a broken nor a jagged line in all that wildness. Thecolor low down was red, dark blue, and purple in the clefts, yellowupon the heights, and in the distance rainbow-hued. A land of curves andcolor!
Shefford uttered an exclamation.
"That's Utah," said Mary. "I come often to sit here. You see thatwinding blue line. There.... That's San Juan Canyon. And the other darkline, that's Escalante Canyon. They wind down into this great purplechasm--'way over here to the left--and that's the Grand Canyon. They saynot even the Indians have been in there."
Shefford had nothing to say. The moment was one of subtle and vitalassimilation. Such places as this to be unknown to men! What strength,what wonder, what help, what glory, just to sit there an hour, slowlyand appallingly to realize! Something came to Shefford from thedistance, out of the purple canyon and from those dim, wind-worn peaks.He resolved to come here to this promontory again and again, alone andin humble spirit, and learn to know why he had been silenced, why peacepervaded his soul.
It was with this emotion upon him that he turned to find his companionwatching him. Then for the first time he saw her face fully, and wasthrilled that chance had reserved the privilege for this moment. It wasa girl's face he saw, fl
ower-like, lovely and pure as a Madonna's, andstrangely, tragically sad. The eyes were large, dark gray, the color ofthe sage. They were as clear as the air which made distant things close,and yet they seemed full of shadows, like a ruffled pool under midnightstars. They disturbed him. Her mouth had the sweet curves and redness ofyouth, but it showed bitterness, pain, and repression.
"Where are the sago-lilies?" he asked, suddenly.
"Farther down. It's too cold up here for them. Come," she said.
He followed her down a winding trail--down and down till the green plainrose to blot out the scrawled wall of rock, down into a verdant canyonwhere a brook made swift music over stones, where the air was sultryand hot, laden with the fragrant breath of flower and leaf. This was acanyon of summer, and it bloomed.
The girl bent and plucked something from the grass.
"Here's a white lily," she said. "There are three colors. The yellow andpink ones are deeper down in the canyon."
Shefford took the flower and regarded it with great interest. He hadnever seen such an exquisite thing. It had three large petals, curvingcuplike, of a whiteness purer than new-fallen snow, and a heart of rich,warm gold. Its fragrance was so faint as to be almost indistinguishable,yet of a haunting, unforgettable sweetness. And even while he looked atit the petals drooped and their whiteness shaded and the gold paled. Ina moment the flower was wilted.
"I don't like to pluck the lilies," said Mary. "They die so swiftly."
Shefford saw the white flowers everywhere in the open, sunny placesalong the brook. They swayed with stately grace in the slow, warm wind.They seemed like three-pointed stars shining out of the green. He bentover one with a particularly lofty stem, and after a close survey of ithe rose to look at her face. His action was plainly one of comparison.She laughed and said it was foolish for the women to call her the SagoLily. She had no coquetry; she spoke as she would have spoken of thestones at her feet; she did not know that she was beautiful. Sheffordimagined there was some resemblance in her to the lily--the samewhiteness, the same rich gold, and, more striking than either, astrange, rare quality of beauty, of life, intangible as somethingfleeting, the spirit that had swiftly faded from the plucked flower.Where had the girl been born--what had her life been? Shefford wasintensely curious about her. She seemed as different from any otherwomen he had known as this rare canyon lily was different from the tameflowers at home.
On the return up the slope she outstripped him. She climbed lightly andtirelessly. When he reached her upon the promontory there was a stain ofred in her cheeks and her expression had changed.
"Let's go back up over the rocks," she said. "I've not climbed for--forso long."
"I'll go where you go," he replied.
Then she was off, and he followed. She took to the curves of thebare rocks and climbed. He sensed a spirit released in her. It was sostrange, so keen, so wonderful to be with her, and when he did catchher he feared to speak lest he break this mood. Her eyes grew dark anddaring, and often she stopped to look away across the wavy sea of stonesto something beyond the great walls. When they got high the wind blewher hair loose and it flew out, a golden stream, with the sun brightupon it. He saw that she changed her direction, which had been in linewith the two peaks, and now she climbed toward the heights. They cameto a more difficult ascent, where the stone still held to the smoothcurves, yet was marked by steep bulges and slants and crevices. Here shebecame a wild thing. She ran, she leaped, she would have left him farbehind had he not called. Then she appeared to remember him and waited.
Her face had now lost its whiteness; it was flushed, rosy, warm.
"Where--did you--ever learn--to run over rocks--this way?" he panted.
"All my life I've climbed," she said. "Ah! it's so good to be up on thewalls again--to feel the wind--to see!"
Thereafter he kept close to her, no matter what the effort. He wouldnot miss a moment of her, if he could help it. She was wonderful. Heimagined she must be like an Indian girl, or a savage who loved thelofty places and the silence. When she leaped she uttered a strange,low, sweet cry of wildness and exultation. Shefford guessed she was agirl freed from her prison, forgetting herself, living again youthfulhours. Still she did not forget him. She waited for him at the badplaces, lent him a strong hand, and sometimes let it stay long in hisclasp. Tireless and agile, sure-footed as a goat, fleet and wildshe leaped and climbed and ran until Shefford marveled at her. Thisadventure was indeed fulfilment of a dream. Perhaps she might lead himto the treasure at the foot of the rainbow. But that thought, sad withmemory daring forth from its grave, was irrevocably linked with agirl who was dead. He could not remember her, in the presence ofthis wonderful creature who was as strange as she was beautiful. WhenShefford reached for the brown hand stretched forth to help him in aleap, when he felt its strong clasp, the youth and vitality and life ofit, he had the fear of a man who was running towards a precipice and whocould not draw back. This was a climb, a lark, a wild race to theMormon girl, bound now in the village, and by the very freedom of it shebetrayed her bonds. To Shefford it was also a wild race, but toward onesure goal he dared not name.
They went on, and at length, hand in hand, even where no steep step orwide fissure gave reason for the clasp. But she seemed unconscious. Theywere nearing the last height, a bare eminence, when she broke from himand ran up the smooth stone. When he surmounted it she was standing onthe very summit, her arms wide, her full breast heaving, her slenderbody straight as an Indian's, her hair flying in the wind and blazing inthe sun. She seemed to embrace the west, to reach for something afar,to offer herself to the wind and distance. Her face was scarlet from theexertion of the climb, and her broad brow was moist. Her eyes hadthe piercing light of an eagle's, though now they were dark. Sheffordinstinctively grasped the essence of this strange spirit, primitiveand wild. She was not the woman who had met him at the spring. Shehad dropped some side of her with that Mormon hood, and now she stoodtotally strange.
She belonged up here, he divined. She was a part of that wildness. Shemust have been born and brought up in loneliness, where the wind blewand the peaks loomed and silence held dominion. The sinking sun touchedthe rim of the distant wall, and as if in parting regret shone withrenewed golden fire. And the girl was crowned as with a glory.
Shefford loved her then. Realizing it, he thought he might have lovedher before, but that did not matter when he was certain of it now.He trembled a little, fearfully, though without regret. Everythingpertaining to his desert experience had been strange--this the strangestof all.
The sun sank swiftly, and instantly there was a change in the goldenlight. Quickly it died out. The girl changed as swiftly. She seemedto remember herself, and sat down as if suddenly weary. Shefford wentcloser and seated himself beside her.
"The sun has set. We must go," she said. But she made no movement.
"Whenever you are ready," replied he.
Just as the blaze had died out of her eyes, so the flush faded out ofher face. The whiteness stole back, and with it the sadness. He hadto bite his tongue to keep from telling her what he felt, to keep frompouring out a thousand questions. But the privilege of having seen her,of having been with her when she had forgotten herself--that he believedwas enough. It had been wonderful; it had made him love her But itneed not add to the tragedy of her life, whatever that was. He tried toeliminate himself. And he watched her.
Her eyes were fixed upon the gold-rimmed ramparts of the distant wall inthe west. Plain it was how she loved that wild upland. And there seemedto be some haunting memory of the past in her gaze--some happy part oflife, agonizing to think of now.
"We must go," she said, and rose.
Shefford rose to accompany her. She looked at him, and her haunting eyesseemed to want him to know that he had helped her to forget the present,to remember girlhood, and that somehow she would always associate awonderful happy afternoon with him. He divined that her silence then wasa Mormon seal on lips.
"Mary, this has been the happie
st, the best, the most revealing day ofmy life," he said, simply.
Swiftly, as if startled, she turned and faced down the slope. At the topof the wall above the village she put on the dark hood, and with it thatsomber something which was Mormon.
Twilight had descended into the valley, and shadows were so thickShefford had difficulty in finding Mary's bucket. He filled it at thespring, and made offer to carry it home for her, which she declined.
"You'll come to-night--later?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied, hurriedly promising. Then he watched her white formslowly glide down the path to disappear in the shadows.
Nas Ta Bega and Joe were busy at the camp-fire. Shefford joined them.This night he was uncommunicative. Joe peered curiously at him inthe flare of the blaze. Later, after the meal, when Shefford appearedrestless and strode to and fro, Joe spoke up gruffly:
"Better hang round camp to-night."
Shefford heard, but did not heed. Nevertheless, the purport of theremark, which was either jealousy or admonition, haunted him with thepossibility of its meaning.
He walked away from the camp-fire, under the dark pinyons, out into thestarry open; and every step was hard to take, unless it pointed towardthe home of the girl whose beauty and sadness and mystery had bewitchedhim. After what seemed hours he took the well-known path toward hercabin, and then every step seemed lighter. He divined he was rushing tosome fate--he knew not what.
The porch was in shadow. He peered in vain for the white form againstthe dark background. In the silence he seemed to hear his heart-beatsthick and muffled.
Some distance down the path he heard the sound of hoofs. Withdrawinginto the gloom of a cedar, he watched. Soon he made out moving horseswith riders. They filed past him to the number of half a score. Likea flash of fire the truth burned him. Mormons come for one of thosemysterious night visits to sealed wives!
Shefford stalked far down the valley, into the lonely silence and thenight shadows under the walls.