The Rainbow Trail by Zane Grey (best sales books of all time txt) 📗

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.”

“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