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? 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,”
