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This communication lent an added zest to the journey. Shefford could hardly
believe the truth that his eyes and his ears brought to his consciousness. He
turned in behind Withers and rode down the rough trail, helping the mustang
all in his power. It occurred to him that Nack-yal had been entirely different
since that meeting with his mother in the draw. He turned no more off the
trail; he answered readily to the rein; he did not look afar from every ridge.
Shefford conceived a liking for the mustang.
Withers turned sidewise in his saddle and let his mustang pick the way.
"Another time we'll go up round the base of the mountain, where you can look
down on the grandest scene in the world," said he. "Two hundred miles of
wind-worn rock, all smooth and bare, without a single straight line canyon,
caves, bridges the most wonderful country in the world! Even the Indians
haven't explored it. It's haunted, for them, and they have strange gods. The
Navajos will hunt on this side of the mountain, but not on the other. That
north side is consecrated ground. My wife has long been trying to get the
Navajos to tell her the secret of Nonnezoshe. Nonnezoshe means Rainbow Bridge.
The Indians worship it, but as far as she can find out only a few have ever
seen it. I imagine it'd be worth some trouble."
"Maybe that's the bridge Venters talked about the one overarching the
entrance to Surprise Valley," Said Shefford.
"It might be," replied the trader. "You've got a good chance of finding out.
Nas Ta Bega is the man. You stick to that Indian. . . . Well, we start down
here into this canyon, and we go down some, I reckon. In half an hour you'll
see sago-lilies and Indian paint- brush and vermilion cactus."
. . . . . . . . . . .
About the middle of the afternoon the pack-train and its drivers arrived at
the hidden Mormon village. Nas Ta Bega had not returned from his scout back
along the trail.
Shefford's sensibilities had all been overstrained, but he had left in him
enthusiasm and appreciation that made the situation of this village a
fairyland. It was a valley, a canyon floor, so long that he could not see the
end, and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. The air was hot, still, and sweetly
odorous of unfamiliar flowers. Pinyon and cedar trees surrounded the little
log and stone houses, and along the walls of the canyon stood sharp-pointed,
dark-green spruce-trees. These walls were singular of shape and color. They
were not imposing in height, but they waved like the long, undulating swell of
a sea. Every foot of surface was perfectly smooth, and the long curved lines
of darker tinge that streaked the red followed the rounded line of the slope
at the top. Far above, yet overhanging, were great yellow crags and peaks, and
between these, still higher, showed the pine-fringed slope of Navajo Mountain
with snow in the sheltered places, and glistening streams, like silver
threads, running down.
All this Shefford noticed as he entered the valley from round a corner of
wall. Upon nearer view he saw and heard a host of children, who, looking up to
see the intruders, scattered like frightened quail. Long gray grass covered
the ground, and here and there wide, smooth paths had been worn. A swift and
murmuring brook ran through the middle of the valley, and its banks were
bordered with flowers.
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Withers led the way to one side near the wall, where a clump of cedar- trees
and a dark, swift spring boiling out of the rocks and banks of amber moss with
purple blossoms made a beautiful camp site. Here the mustangs were unsaddled
and turned loose without hobbles. It was certainly unlikely that they would
leave such a spot. Some of the burros were unpacked, and the others Withers
drove off into the village.
"Sure's pretty nice," said Joe, wiping his sweaty face. "I'll never want to
leave. It suits me to lie on this moss. . . . Take a drink of that spring."
Shefford complied with alacrity and found the water cool and sweet, and he
seemed to feel it all through him. Then he returned to the mossy bank. He did
not reply to Joe. In fact, all his faculties were absorbed in watching and
feeling, and he lay there long after Joe went off to the village. The murmur
of water, the hum of bees, the songs of strange birds, the sweet, warm air,
the dreamy summer somnolence of the valley all these added drowsiness to
Shefford's weary lassitude, and he fell asleep. When he awoke Nas Ta Bega was
sitting near him and Joe was busy near a camp-fire.
"Hello, Nas Ta Bega!" said Shefford. "Was there any one trailing us?"
The Navajo nodded.
Joe raised his head and with forceful brevity said, "Shadd."
"Shadd!" echoed Shefford, remembering the dark, sinister face of his visitor
that night in the Sagi. "Joe, is it serious his trailing us?"
"Well, I don't know how durn serious it is, but I'm scared to death," replied
Lake. "He and his gang will hold us up somewhere on the way home."
Shefford regarded Joe with both concern and doubt. Joe's words were at
variance with his looks.
"Say, pard, can you shoot a rifle?" queried Joe.
"Yes. I'm a fair shot at targets."
The Mormon nodded his head as if pleased. "That's good. These outlaws are all
poor shots with a rifle. So 'm I. But I can handle a six- shooter. I reckon
we'll make Shadd sweat if he pushes us."
Withers returned, driving the burros, all of which had been unpacked down to
the saddles. Two gray-bearded men accompanied him. One of them appeared to be
very old and venerable, and walked with a stick. The other had a sad-lined
face and kind, mild blue eyes. Shefford observed that Lake seemed unusually
respectful. Withers introduced these Mormons merely as Smith and Henninger.
They were very cordial and pleasant in their greetings to Shefford. Presently
another, somewhat younger, man joined the group, a stalwart, jovial fellow
with ruddy face. There was certainly no mistaking his kindly welcome as he
shook Shefford's hand. His name was Beal. The three stood round the camp-fire [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
