Rainbow Trail, The The. Zane Grey

on to the corral, which was full of shaggy mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish that he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes, and then he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and after a while any of them. Shefford did not understand himself, but he fought his natural instinctive reluctance to meet obstacles, peril, suffering.

      He traced the white-bordered little stream that made the pool in the corral, and when he came to where it oozed out of the sand under the bluff he decided that was not the spring which had made Kayenta famous. Presently down below the trading-post he saw a trough from which burros were drinking. Here he found the spring, a deep well of eddying water walled in by stones, and the overflow made a shallow stream meandering away between its borders of alkali, like a crust of salt. Shefford tasted the water. It bit, but it was good.

      Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyed burros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but the mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; they raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.

      Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake. Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were others riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported out of the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed road led off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away to the north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.

      Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so across the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildness and loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It held something for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl from a wild canyon.

      . . . . . . . . . . .

      That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before the blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on Shefford’s and said, with directness and force:

      “I’ve lived my life in the desert. I’ve met many men and have been a friend to most.... You’re no prospector or trader or missionary?”

      “No,” replied Shefford.

      “You’ve had trouble?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you come in here to hide? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I won’t give you away.”

      “I didn’t come to hide.”

      “Then no one is after you? You’ve done no wrong?”

      “Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else,” replied Shefford, steadily.

      “I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret—it’s all one to me.”

      Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong, persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.

      “You’re welcome in Kayenta,” went on Withers. “Stay as long as you like. I take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it aplenty.”

      “Thank you. That is good. I need to work. We’ll talk of it later. ... But just yet I can’t tell you why I came to Kayenta, what I want to do, how long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem so like dreams. Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I’m only chasing a phantom—perhaps I’m only hunting the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.”

      “Well, this is the country for rainbows,” laughed Withers. “In summer from June to August when it storms we have rainbows that’ll make you think you’re in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains, rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure is rainbow country.”

      That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was again—something tangible at the bottom of his dream.

      Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if he read his visitor’s mind he began to talk about the wild country he called home.

      He had lived at Kayenta for several years—hard and profitless years by reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been brought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection by both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of the Indians’ habits, religion, and life than any white person in the West. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad Indians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a venture Withers had long considered precarious, 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?