Rainbow Trail, The The. Zane Grey

an Indian who interested him as this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared young, wild, silent, locked in his primeval apathy, just a healthy savage; but looked at more attentively, he appeared matured, even old, a strange, sad, brooding figure, with a burden on his shoulders. Shefford found himself growing curious.

      “What place?” asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark opening between the black cliffs.

      “Sagi,” replied the Indian.

      That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was the pass, but the Indian shook his head.

      “Wife?” asked Shefford, pointing to the girl.

      The Indian shook his head again. “Bi-la,” he said.

      “What you mean?” asked Shefford. “What bi-la?”

      “Sister,” replied the Indian. He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the white man’s language did not please him, but the clearness and correct pronunciation surprised Shefford.

      “What name—what call her?” he went on.

      “Glen Naspa.”

      “What your name?” inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian.

      “Nas Ta Bega,” answered the Indian.

      “Navajo?”

      The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.

      “My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come stay here long.”

      Nas Ta Bega’s dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He reflected that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. But neither the Indian’s eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.

      “Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ,” said the Indian, and his voice rolled out low and deep.

      Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a missionary.

      “No!... Me no missionary,” cried Shefford, and he flung up a passionately repudiating hand.

      A singular flash shot from the Indian’s dark eyes. It struck Shefford even at this stinging moment when the past came back.

      “Trade—buy wool—blanket?” queried Nas Ta Bega.

      “No,” replied Shefford. “Me want ride—walk far.” He waved his hand to indicate a wide sweep of territory. “Me sick.”

      Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.

      “No,” replied Shefford. “Me strong. Sick here.” And with motions of his hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.

      Shefford received instant impression of this Indian’s intelligent comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the feeling. Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow. Shefford heard him working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had probably gone to get fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering crash, which was followed by a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he was astounded to see the Indian enter the lighted circle dragging the whole cedar-tree, trunk first. Shefford would have doubted the ability of two men to drag that tree, and here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it easily. He laid the trunk on the fire, and then proceeded to break off small branches, to place them advantageously where the red coals kindled them into a blaze.

      The Indian’s next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meant to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, lay down upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-haired saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. His sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther away from the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. It appeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.

      Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he could soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.

      There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had not experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling—the aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy grip. Nas Ta Bega’s arrival had frightened away that dark and silent prowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved his life. The measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him. Had he cared so much for life? Yes—he had, when face to face with death. That was something to know. It helped him. And he gathered from his strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought him into the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbid bitterness of heart.

      With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was very pleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire. There was a deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones. What joy it was to rest! He had felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the pang of hunger. How wonderful to learn the real meaning of water and food! He had just finished the longest, hardest day’s work of his life! Had that anything to do with a something almost like peace which seemed to hover near in the shadows, trying to come to him? He had befriended an Indian girl, and now her brother had paid back the service. Both the giving and receiving were somehow sweet to Shefford. They opened up hitherto vague channels of thought. For years he had imagined he was serving people, when he had never lifted a hand. A blow given in the defense of an Indian girl had somehow operated to make a change in John Shefford’s existence. It had liberated a spirit in him. Moreover, it had worked its influence outside his mind. The Indian girl and her brother had followed his trail to return his horse, perhaps to guide him safely, but, unknowingly perhaps, they had done infinitely more than that for him. As Shefford’s eye wandered over the dark, still figures of the sleepers he had a strange, dreamy premonition, or perhaps only a fancy, that there was to be more come of this fortunate meeting.

      For the rest, it was good to be there in the speaking silence, to feel the heat on his outstretched palms and the cold wind on his cheek, to see the black wall lifting its bold outline and the crags reaching for the white stars.

      CHAPTER III.

      KAYENTA

      The stamping of horses awoke Shefford. He saw a towering crag, rosy in the morning light, like a huge red spear splitting the clear blue of sky. He got up, feeling cramped and sore, yet with unfamiliar exhilaration. The whipping air made him stretch his hands to the fire. An odor of coffee and broiled meat mingled with the fragrance of wood smoke. Glen Naspa was on her knees broiling a rabbit on a stick over the red coals. Nas Ta Bega was saddling the ponies. The canyon appeared to be full of purple shadows under one side of dark cliffs and golden streaks of mist on the other where the sun struck high up on the walls.

      “Good morning,” said Shefford.

      Glen Naspa shyly replied in Navajo.

      “How,” was Nas Ta Bega’s greeting.

      In daylight the Indian lost some of the dark somberness of face that had impressed Shefford. He had a noble head, in poise like that of an eagle, a bold, clean-cut profile, and stern, close-shut lips. His eyes were the most striking and attractive feature about him; they were coal-black and piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to come from a keen and inquisitive mind.

      Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the few preparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointed to horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made by Shefford’s threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explained by word and sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had been in danger. Nas Ta Bega followed the tracks a little way and presently returned.

      “Shadd,” he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did not understand whether he meant the name of his visitor or something else, but the menace connected with the word was clear enough.

      Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased Shefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas Ta Bega got up and pointed northward.

      “Kayenta?” he inquired.

      Shefford