The Rainbow Trail by Zane Grey (best sales books of all time txt) 📗
- Author: Zane Grey
Book online «The Rainbow Trail by Zane Grey (best sales books of all time txt) 📗». Author Zane Grey
“Oh, you mustn't talk like that!”
“Do you love me?” she asked, with a low and deathless sweetness.
“Love you? With all my heart! Nothing can change that!”
“Do you want me—as you used to want the Fay Larkin lost in Surprise Valley? Do you love me that way? I understand things better than before, but still—not all. I AM Fay Larkin. I think I must have dreamed of you all my life. I was glad when you came here. I've been happy lately. I forgot—till last night. Maybe it needed that to make me see I've loved you all the time.... And I fought him like a wildcat!... Tell me the truth. I feel I'm yours. Is that true? If I'm not—I'll not live another hour. Something holds me up. I am the same.... Do you want me?”
“Yes, Fay Larkin, I want you,” replied Shefford, steadily, with his grip on her arms.
“Then take me away. I don't want to live here another hour.”
“Fay, I'll take you. But it can't be done at once. We must plan. I need help. There are Lassiter and Jane to get out of Surprise Valley. Give me time, dear—give me time. It'll be a hard job. And we must plan so we can positively get away. Give me time, Fay.”
“Suppose HE comes back?” she queried, with a singular depth of voice.
“We'll have to risk that,” replied Shefford, miserably. “But—he won't come soon.”
“He said he would,” she flashed.
Shefford seemed to freeze inwardly with her words. Love had made her a woman and now the woman in her was speaking. She saw the truth as he could not see it. And the truth was nature. She had been hidden all her life from the world, from knowledge as he had it, yet when love betrayed her womanhood to her she acquired all its subtlety.
“If I wait and he DOES come will you keep me from him?” she asked.
“How can I? I'm staking all on the chance of his not coming soon. ... But, Fay, if he DOES come and I don't give up our secret—how on earth can I keep you from him?” demanded Shefford.
“If you love me you will do it,” she said, as simply as if she were fate.
“But how?” cried Shefford, almost beside himself.
“You are a man. Any man would save the woman who loves him from—from—Oh, from a beast!... How would Lassiter do it?”
“Lassiter!”
“YOU CAN KILL HIM!”
It was there, deep and full in her voice, the strength of the elemental forces that had surrounded her, primitive passion and hate and love, as they were in woman in the beginning.
“My God!” Shefford cried aloud with his spirit when all that was red in him sprang again into a flame of hell. That was what had been wrong with him last night. He could kill this stealthy night-rider, and now, face to face with Fay, who had never been so beautiful and wonderful as in this hour when she made love the only and the sacred thing of life, now he had it in him to kill. Yet, murder—even to kill a brute—that was not for John Shefford, not the way for him to save a woman. Reason and wisdom still fought the passion in him. If he could but cling to them—have them with him in the dark and contending hour!
She leaned against him now, exhausted, her soul in her eyes, and they saw only him. Shefford was all but powerless to resist the longing to take her into his arms, to hold her to his heart, to let himself go. Did not her love give her to him? Shefford gazed helplessly at the stricken Joe Lake, at the somber Indian, as if from them he expected help.
“I know him now,” said Fay, breaking the silence with startling suddenness.
“What!”
“I've seen him in the light. I flashed a candle in his face. I saw it. I know him now. He was there at Stonebridge with us, and I never knew him. But I know him now. His name is—”
“For God's sake don't tell me who he is!” implored Shefford.
Ignorance was Shefford's safeguard against himself. To make a name of this heretofore intangible man, to give him an identity apart from the crowd, to be able to recognize him—that for Shefford would be fatal.
“Fay—tell me—no more,” he said, brokenly. “I love you and I will give you my life. Trust me. I swear I'll save you.”
“Will you take me away soon?”
“Yes.”
She appeared satisfied with that and dropped her hands and moved back from him. A light flitted over her white face, and her eyes grew dark and humid, losing their fire in changing, shadowing thought of submission, of trust, of hope.
“I can lead you to Surprise Valley,” she said. “I feel the way. It's there!” And she pointed to the west.
“Fay, we'll go—soon. I must plan. I'll see you to-night. Then we'll talk. Run home now, before some of the women see you here.”
She said good-by and started away under the cedars, out into the open where her hair shone like gold in the sunlight, and she took the stepping-stones with her old free grace, and strode down the path swift and lithe as an Indian. Once she turned to wave a hand.
Shefford watched her with a torture of pride, love, hope, and fear contending within him.
XIV. THE NAVAJO
That morning a Piute rode into the valley.
Shefford recognized him as the brave who had been in love with Glen Naspa. The moment Nas Ta Bega saw this visitor he made a singular motion with his hands—a motion that somehow to Shefford suggested despair—and then he waited, somber and statuesque, for the messenger to come to him. It was the Piute who did all the talking, and that was brief. Then the Navajo stood motionless, with his hands crossed over his breast. Shefford drew near and waited.
“Bi Nai,” said the Navajo, “Nas Ta Bega said his sister would come home some day.... Glen Naspa is in the hogan of her grandfather.”
He spoke in his usual slow, guttural voice, and he might have been bronze for all the emotion he expressed; yet Shefford instinctively felt the despair that had been hinted to him, and he put his hand on the Indian's shoulder.
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