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"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?"
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"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
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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 be listening. Indeed, they were a singularly
interesting couple, and I grew genuinely fond of them. By and by they had a
little girl whom they named Jane. The coming of the baby made a change in my
friends. They were happier, and I observed that the haunting shadow did not so
often return.
"Venters had spoken of a journey west that he and his wife meant to take some
time. But after the baby came he never mentioned his wife in connection with
the trip. I gathered that he felt compelled to go to clear up a mystery or to
find something I did not make out just what. But eventually, and it was about
a year ago, he told me his story the strangest, wildest, and most tragic I
ever heard. I can't tell it all now. It is enough to say that fifteen years
before he had been a rider for a rich Mormon woman named Jane Withersteen, of
this village Cottonwoods. She had adopted a beautiful Gentile child named Fay
Larkin. Her interest in Gentiles earned the displeasure of her churchmen, and
as she was proud there came a breach. Venters and a gunman named Lassiter
became involved in her quarrel. Finally Venters took to the canyon. Here in
the wilds he found the strange girl he eventually married. For a long time
they lived in a wonderful hidden valley, the entrance to which was guarded by
a huge balancing rock. Venters got away with the girl. But Lassiter and Jane
Withersteen and the child Fay Larkin were driven into the canyon. They escaped
to the valley where Venters had lived. Lassiter rolled the balancing rock,
and, crashing down the narrow trail, it loosened the weathered walls and
closed the narrow outlet for ever."
IV. NEW FRIENDS
Shefford ended his narrative out of breath, pale, and dripping with sweat.
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