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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 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.
Shefford sustained a vivifying shock. "To save her?" he echoed. "Think, man!" "Joe, I can hit the trail and let you tell them I killed him," burst out Shefford in panting excitement. "Reckon I can." "So help me God I'll do it!" The Mormon turned a dark and austere glance upon Shefford. "You mustn't leave her. She killed him for your sake.... You must fight for her now save her take her away."
Fatal in that it could not be left untried! Shefford gave in and clicked his teeth as he let himself go. And suddenly he thought of her whom these bitter women called the Sago Lily. The regret that had been his returned with thought of her. The saddest disillusion of his life, the keenest disappointment, the strangest pain, would always be associated with her.
It's out of creation. There's only six men in the party, with a poor lot of horses. Really, government officers or not, they're not safe. And they've taken a hunch." "Have they left already?" inquired Shefford. "Were packed an hour ago. I didn't see them go, but somebody said they went.
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.
Thereupon the proceedings rested a few moments while the judge consulted with his assistants. Shefford was grateful for this respite. He had been worked up to an unusual degree of interest, and now, as the next Mormon woman to be examined was she whom he had loved and loved still, he felt rise in him emotion that threatened to make him conspicuous unless it could be hidden.
"I'm closing up here soon for a spell," said Presbrey, and now his face lost its set hardness and seemed singularly changed. It was a difference, of light and softness. "Won't be so lonesome over at Willow Springs.... I'm being married soon." "That's fine," replied Shefford, warmly. He was glad for the sake of this lonely desert man. What good a wife would bring into a trader's life!
There were a few melancholy notes from a night bird of the stone walls. The air was clear and cold, with a tang of frost in it. Shefford gazed about him at the vast, uplifted, insulating walls, and that feeling of his which was more than a sense told him how walls like these and the silence and shadow and mystery had been nearly all of Fay Larkin's life. He felt them all in her.
The shadow of that baneful trial hovered over her, and he came to sense a strange terror in her. It was mostly always present. Was she thinking of Jane Withersteen and Lassiter, left dead or imprisoned in the valley from which she had been brought so mysteriously? Shefford wearied his brain revolving these questions.
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