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Updated: June 15, 2025
Shefford thought he heard a yell in the rear, but he could not see anything of the gang. They rounded this precipice only to face a worse one. Shefford's nerve was sorely tried when he saw steep slants everywhere, all apparently leading down into chasms, and no place a man, let alone a horse, could put a foot with safety. Nevertheless the imperturbable Indian never slacked his pace.
They were silhouetted against the starry sky. The horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent black statue, somehow wild and strange, in Shefford's sight. Then he came on, vanished in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge into the circle of camp-fire light. He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse was dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run.
Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature of which did not at once dawn upon Shefford. "By God! you've got nerve or you're crazy!" he ejaculated, hoarsely. Then it was Shefford's turn to stare. The Mormon was haggard, grieved, frightened, and utterly amazed. He appeared to be trying to make certain of Shefford's being there in the flesh and then to find reason for it.
But I was stolen from my home, and now I cannot ride well enough to race the braves of my tribe," the Indian replied, bitterly. In another place Joe Lake halted his horse and called Shefford's attention to a big yellow rock lying along the trail. And then he spoke in Navajo to the Indian. "I've heard of this stone Isende Aha," said Joe, after Nas Ta Bega had spoken. "Get down, and let's see."
There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta Bega's dark face and inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to be felt in his presence. But the Indian did not speak, and turned to walk by Shefford's side. Shefford could not long be silent. "Nas Ta Bega, were you looking for me?" he asked. "You had no gun," replied the Indian.
Yes, to save her had been Shefford's dream, and he had loved that dream. He had loved the dream and he had loved the child. The secret of her hiding-place as revealed by the story told him and his slow growth from dream to action these had strangely given Fay Larkin to him. Then had come the bitter knowledge that she was dead.
Shefford's sensibilities had all been overstrained, but he had left in him enthusiasm and appreciation that made the situation of this village a fairyland. It was a valley, a canyon floor, so long that he could not see the end, and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. The air was hot, still, and sweetly odorous of unfamiliar flowers.
Shefford's sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once the crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty wool, the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses, little lazy burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles, blankets, guns, and packs. Then a white man came out of the door. He waved a hand and shouted.
He's got a face big as a ham, dark, fierce. That's Shadd!... You ought to know him. Shadd and his outfit here! How's that for nerve? But he pulls a rein with the Mormons." Shefford's keen eye took in a lounging group of ten or twelve Indians and several white men.
Always as a boy and as a man he had fared forth to find the treasure at the foot of the rainbow. Next morning the Indian girl was gone and the tracks of her pony led north. Shefford's first thought was to wonder if he would overtake her on the trail; and this surprised him with the proof of how unconsciously his resolve to go on had formed. Presbrey made no further attempt to turn Shefford back.
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