Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 291
He stopped out in the open, near the line where dark shadow of the wall met the silver moonlight on the grass, and here, by a huge flat stone where he had come often alone and sometimes with Ruth, he faced Fay Larkin in the spirit to tell her gently that he knew her, and sternly to force her secret from her.
“Am I your friend?” he began.
“Ah! — my only friend,” she said.
“Do you trust me, believe I mean well by you, want to help you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well, then, let me speak of you. You know one topic we’ve never touched upon. You!”
She was silent, and looked wonderingly, a little fearfully, at him, as if vague, disturbing thoughts were entering the fringe of her mind.
“Our friendship is a strange one, is it not?” he went on.
“How do I know? I never had any other friendship. What do you mean by strange?”
“Well, I’m a young man. You’re a — a married woman. We are together a good deal — and like to be.”
“Why is that strange?” she asked.
Suddenly Shefford realized that there was nothing strange in what was natural. A remnant of sophistication clung to him and that had spoken. He needed to speak to her in a way which in her simplicity she would understand.
“Never mind strange. Say that I am interested in you, and, as you’re not happy, I want to help you. And say that your neighbors are curious and oppose my idea. Why do they?”
“They’re jealous and want you themselves,” she replied, with sweet directness. “They’ve said things I don’t understand. But I felt they — they hated in me what would be all right in themselves.”
Here to simplicity she added truth and wisdom, as an Indian might have expressed them. But shame was unknown to her, and she had as yet only vague perceptions of love and passion. Shefford began to realize the quickness of her mind, that she was indeed awakening.
“They are jealous — were jealous before I ever came here. That’s only human nature. I was trying to get to a point. Your neighbors are curious. They oppose me. They hate you. It’s all bound up in the — the fact of your difference from them, your youth, beauty, that you’re not a Mormon, that you nearly betrayed their secret at the trial in Stonebridge.”
“Please — please don’t — speak of that!” she faltered.
“But I must,” he replied, swiftly. “That trial was a torture to you. It revealed so much to me.... I know you are a sealed wife. I know there has been a crime. I know you’ve sacrificed yourself. I know that love and religion have nothing to do with — what you are.... Now, is not all that true?”
“I must not tell,” she whispered.
“But I shall MAKE you tell,” he replied, and his voice rang.
“Oh no, you cannot,” she said.
“I can — with just one word!”
Her eyes were great, starry, shadowy gulfs, dark in the white beauty of her face. She was calm now. She had strength. She invited him to speak the word, and the wistful, tremulous quiver of her lips was for his earnest thought of her.
“Wait — a — little,” said Shefford, unsteadily. “I’ll come to that presently. Tell me this — have you ever thought of being free?”
“Free!” she echoed, and there was singular depth and richness in her voice. That was the first spark of fire he had struck from her. “Long ago, the minute I was unwatched, I’d have leaped from a wall had I dared. Oh, I wasn’t afraid. I’d love to die that way. But I never dared.”
“Why?” queried Shefford, piercingly.
She was silent then.
“Suppose I offered to give you freedom that meant life?”
“I — couldn’t — take it.”
“Why?”
“Oh, my friend, don’t ask me any more.”
“I know, I can see — you want to tell me — you need to tell.”
“But I daren’t.”
“Won’t you trust me?”
“I do — I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“No — no — oh no!”
The moment had come. How sad, tragic, yet glorious for him! It would be like a magic touch upon this lovely, cold, white ghost of Fay Larkin, transforming her into a living, breathing girl. He held his love as a thing aloof, and, as such, intangible because of the living death she believed she lived, it had no warmth and intimacy for them. What might it not become with a lightning flash of revelation? He dreaded, yet he was driven to speak. He waited, swallowing hard, fighting the tumultuous storm of emotion, and his eyes dimmed.
“What did I come to this country for?” he asked, suddenly, in ringing, powerful voice.
“To find a girl,” she whispered.
“I’ve found her!”
She began to shake. He saw a white hand go to her breast.
“Where is Surprise Valley?... How were you taken from Jane Withersteen and Lassiter?... I know they’re alive. But where?”
She seemed to turn to stone.
“Fay! — FAY LARKIN!... I KNOW YOU!” he cried, brokenly.
She slipped off the stone to her knees, swayed forward blindly with her hands reaching out, her head falling back to let the moon fall full upon the beautiful, snow-white, tragically convulsed face.
XIII. THE STORY OF SURPRISE VALLEY
“... OH, I remember so well! Even now I dream of it sometimes. I hear the roll and crash of falling rock — like thunder.... We rode and rode. Then the horses fell. Uncle Jim took me in his arms and started up the cliff. Mother Jane climbed close after us. They kept looking back. Down there in the gray valley came the Mormons. I see the first one now. He rode a white horse. That was Tull. Oh, I remember so well! And I was five or six years old.
“We climbed up and up and into dark canyon and wound in and out. Then there was the narrow white trail, straight up, with the little cut steps and the great, red, ruined walls. I looked down over Uncle Jim’s shoulder. I saw Mother Jane dragging herself up. Uncle Jim’s blood spotted the trail. He reached a flat place at the top and fell with me. Mother Jane crawled up to us.
“Then she cried out and pointed. Tull was ‘way below, climbing the trail. His men came behind him. Uncle Jim went to a great, tall rock and leaned against it. There was a bloody hole in his hand. He pushed the rock. It rolled down, banging the loose walls. They crashed and crashed — then all was terrible thunder and red smoke. I couldn’t hear — I couldn’t see.
“Uncle Jim carried me down and down out of the dark and dust into a beautiful valley all red and gold, with a wonderful arch of stone over the entrance.
“I don’t remember well what happened then for what seemed a long, long time. I can feel how the place looked, but not so clear as it is now in my dreams. I seem to see myself with the dogs, and with Mother Jane, learning my letters, marking with red stone on the walls.
“But I remember now how I felt when I first understood we were shut in for ever. Shut in Surprise Valley where Venters had lived so long. I was glad. The Mormons would never get me. I was seven or eight years old then. From that time all is clear in my mind.
“Venters had left supplies and tools and grain and cattle and burros, so we had a good start to begin life there. He had killed off the wildcats and kept the coyotes out, so the rabbits and quail multiplied till there were thousands of them. We raised corn and fruit, and stored what we didn’t use. Mother Jane taught me to read and write with the soft red stone that marked well on the walls.
“The years passed. We kept track of time pretty well. Uncle Jim’s hair turned white and Mother Jane grew gray. Every day was like the one before. Mother Jane cried sometimes and Uncle Jim was sad because they could never be able to get me out of the valley. It was long before they stopped looking and listening for some one. Venters would come back, Uncle Jim always said. But Mother Jane did not think so.
“I loved Surprise Valley. I wanted to stay there always. I remembered Cottonwoods, how the children there hated me, and I didn’t want to go back. The only unhappy times I ever had in the valley were when Ring and Whitie, my dogs, grew old and died. I roamed the valley. I climbed to every nook upon the mossy ledges. I learned to run up the steep cliffs. I could almost stick on the straight walls. Mother Jane called me a wild girl. We had put away the clothes we wore when we got there, to save them, and we made clothes of skins. I always laughed when I thought of my little dress — how I grew out of it. I think Uncle Jim and Mother Jane talked less as the years went by. And after I’d learned all she could teach me we didn’t talk much. I used to scream into the caves just to hear my voice, and the echoes would frighten me.
“The older I grew the more I was alone. I was always running round the valley. I would climb to a high place and sit there for hours, doing nothing. I just watched and listened. I used to stay in the cliff-dwellers’ caves and wonder about them. I loved to be out in the wind. And my happiest time was in the summer storms with the thunder echoes under the walls. At evening it was such a quiet place — after the night bird’s cry, no sound. The quiet made me sad but I loved it. I loved to watch the stars as I lay awake.
“So it was beautiful and happy for me there till — till...
“Two years or more ago there was a bad storm, and one of the great walls caved. The walls were always weathering, slipping. Many and many a time have I heard the rumble of an avalanche, but most of them were in other canyon. This slide in the valley made it possible, Uncle Jim said, for men to get down into the valley. But we could not climb out unless helped from above. Uncle Jim never rested well after that. But it never worried me.
“One day, over a year ago, while I was across the valley, I heard strange shouts, and then screams. I ran to our camp. I came upon men with ropes and guns. Uncle Jim was tied, and a rope was round his neck. Mother Jane was lying on the ground. I thought she was dead until I heard her moan. I was not afraid. I screamed and flew at Uncle Jim to tear the ropes off him. The men held me back. They called me a pretty cat. Then they talked together, and some were for hanging Lassiter — that was the first time I ever knew any name for him but Uncle Jim — and some were for leaving him in the valley. Finally they decided to hang him. But Mother Jane pleaded so and I screamed and fought so that they left off. Then they went away and we saw them climb out of the valley.
“Uncle Jim said they were Mormons, and some among them had been born in Cottonwoods. I was not told why they had such a terrible hate for him. He said they would come back and kill him. Uncle Jim had no guns to fight with.
“We watched and watched. In five days they did come back, with more men, and some of them wore black masks. They came to our cave with ropes and guns. One was tall. He had a cruel voice. The others ran to obey him. I could see white hair and sharp eyes behind the mask. The men caught me and brought me before him.
“He said Lassiter had killed many Mormons. He said Lassiter had killed his father and should be hanged. But Lassiter would be let live and Mother Jane could stay with him, both prisoners there in the valley, if I would marry the Mormon. I must marry him, accept the Mormon faith, and bring up my children as Mormons. If I refused they would hang Lassiter, leave the heretic Jane Withersteen alone in the valley, and take me and break me to their rule.
“I agreed. But Mother Jane absolutely forbade me to marry him. Then the Mormons took me away. It nearly killed me to leave Uncle Jim and Mother Jane. I was carried and lifted out of the valley, and rode a long way on a horse. They brought me here, to the cabin where I live, and I have never been away except that — that time — to — Stonebridge. Only little by little did I learn my position. Bishop Kane was kind, but stern, because I could not be quick to learn the faith.
“I am not a sealed wife. But they’re trying to make me one. The master Mormon — he visited me often — at night — till lately. He threatened me. He never told me a name — except Saint George. I don’t — know him — except his voice. I never — saw his face — in the light!”
. . . . . . . . . . .
Fay Larkin ended her story. Toward its close Shefford had grown involuntarily restless, and when her last tragic whisper ceased all his body seemed shaken with a terrible violence of his joy. He strode to and fro in the dark shadow of the stone. The receding blood left him cold, with a pricking, sickening sensation over his body, but there seemed to be an overwhelming tide accumulating deep in his breast — a tide of passion and pain. He dominated the passion, but the ache remained. And he returned to the quiet figure on the stone.
“Fay Larkin!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief that the secret was disclosed. “So you’re not a wife!... You’re free! Thank Heaven! But I felt it was sacrifice. I knew there had been a crime. For crime it is. You child! You can’t understand what crime. Oh, almost I wish you and Jane and Lassiter had never been found. But that’s wrong of me. One year of agony — that shall not ruin your life. Fay, I will take you away.”
“Where?” she whispered.
“Away from this Mormon country — to the East,” he replied, and he spoke of what he had known, of travel, of cities, of people, of happiness possible for a young girl who had spent all her life hidden between the narrow walls of a silent, lonely valley — he spoke swiftly and eloquently till he lost his breath.
There was an instant of flashing wonder and joy on her white face, and then the radiance paled, the glow died. Her soul was the darker for that one strange, leaping glimpse of a glory not for such as she.
“I must stay here,” she said, shudderingly.
“Fay! — How strange to SAY Fay aloud to YOU! — Fay, do you know the way to Surprise Valley?”
“I don’t know where it is, but I could go straight to it,” she replied.
“Take me there. Show me your beautiful valley. Let me see where you ran and climbed and spent so many lonely years.”
“Ah, how I’d love to! But I dare not. And why should you want me to take you? We can run and climb here.”
“I want to — I mean to save Jane Withersteen and Lassiter,” he declared.
She uttered a little cry of pain. “Save them?”
“Yes, save them. Get them out of the valley, take them out of the country, far away where they and YOU—”
“But I can’t go,” she wailed. “I’m afraid. I’m bound. It CAN’T be broken. If I dared — if I tried to go they would catch me. They would hang Uncle Jim and leave Mother Jane alone there to starve.”
“Fay, Lassiter and Jane both will starve — at least they will die there if we do not save them. You have been terribly wronged. You’re a slave. You’re not a wife.”
“They — said I’ll be burned in hell if I don’t marry him.... Mother Jane never taught me about God. I don’t know. But HE — he said God was there. I dare not break it.”
“Fay, you have been deceived by old men. Let them have their creed. But YOU mustn’t accept it.”
“John, what is God to you?”
“Dear child, I — I am not sure of that myself,” he replied, huskily. “When all this trouble is behind us, surely I can help you to understand and you can help me. The fact that you are alive — that Lassiter and Jane are alive — that I shall save you all — that lifts me up. I tell you — Fay Larkin will be my salvation.”
“Your words trouble me. Oh, I shall be torn one way and another.... But, John, I daren’t run away. I will not tell you where to find Lassiter and Mother Jane.”
“I shall find them — I have the Indian. He found you for me. Nas Ta Bega will find Surprise Valley.”
“Nas Ta Bega!... Oh, I remember. There was an Indian with the Mormons who found us. But he was a Piute.”
“Nas Ta Bega never told me how he learned about you. That he learned was enough. And, Fay, he will find Surprise Valley. He will save Uncle Jim and Mother Jane.”
Fay’s hands clasped Shefford’s in strong, trembling pressure; the tears streamed down her white cheeks; a tragic and eloquent joy convulsed her face.
“Oh, my friend, save them! But I can’t go.... Let them keep me! Let him kill me!”
“Him! Fay — he shall not harm you,” replied Shefford in passionate earnestness.
She caught the hand he had struck out with.
“You talk — you look like Uncle Jim when he spoke of the Mormons,” she said. “Then I used to be afraid of him. He was so different. John, you must not do anything about me. Let me be. It’s too late. He — and his men — they would hang you. And I couldn’t bear that. I’ve enough to bear without losing my friend. Say you won’t watch and wait — for — for him.”
Shefford had to promise her. Like an Indian she gave expression to primitive feeling, for it certainly never occurred to her that, whatever Shefford might do, he was not the kind of man to wait in hiding for an enemy. Fay had faltered through her last speech and was now weak and nervous and frightened. Shefford took her back to the cabin.
“Fay, don’t be distressed,” he said. “I won’t do anything right away. You can trust me. I won’t be rash. I’ll consult you before I make a move. I haven’t any idea what I could do, anyway.... You must bear up. Why, it looks as if you’re sorry I found you.”
“Oh! I’m glad!” she whispered.
“Then if you’re glad you mustn’t break down this way again. Suppose some of the women happened to run into us.”
“I won’t again. It’s only you — you surprised me so. I used to think how I’d like you to know — I wasn’t really dead. But now — it’s different. It hurts me here. Yet I’m glad — if my being alive makes you — a little happier.”
Shefford felt that he had to go then. He could not trust himself any further.
“Good night, Fay,” he said.
“Good night, John,” she whispered. “I promise — to be good to-morrow.”
She was crying softly when he left her. Twice he turned to see the dim, white, slender form against the gloom of the cabin. Then he went on under the pinyons, blindly down the path, with his heart as heavy as lead. That night as he rolled in his blanket and stretched wearily he felt that he would never be able to sleep. The wind in the cedars made him shiver. The great stars seemed relentless, passionless, white eyes, mocking his little destiny and his pain. The huge shadow of the mountain resembled the shadow of the insurmountable barrier between Fay and him.
