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Beyond their dark trunks he saw caves in the wall.
Suddenly the fragrance of blossom was overwhelmed by the stronger fragrance
of smoke from a wood fire. Swiftly he strode under the spruces. Quail
fluttered before him as tame as chickens. Big gray rabbits scarcely moved out
of his way. The branches above him were full of mockingbirds. And then there
before him stood three figures.
Fay Larkin was held close to the side of a magnificent woman, barbarously
clad in garments made of skins and pieces of blanket. Her face worked in noble
emotion. Shefford seemed to see the ghost of that fair beauty Venters had said
was Jane Withersteen's. Her hair was gray. Near her stood a lean,
stoop-shouldered man whose long hair was perfectly white. His gaunt face was
bare of beard. It had strange, sloping, sad lines. And he was staring with
mild, surprised eyes.
The moment held Shefford mute till sight of Fay Larkin's tear-wet face broke
the spell. He leaped forward and his strong hands reached for the woman and
the man.
"Jane Withersteen! . . . Lassiter! I have found you!"
"Oh, sir, who are you?" she cried, with rich and deep and quivering voice.
"This child came running screaming. She could not speak. We thought she had
gone mad and escaped to come back to us."
"I am John Shefford," he replied, swiftly. "I am a friend of Bern Venters of
his wife Bess. I learned your story. I came west. I've searched a year. I
found Fay. And we've come to take you away."
"You found Fay? But that masked Mormon who forced her to sacrifice herself to
save us! . . . What of him? It's not been so many long years I remember what
my father was and Dyer and Tull all those cruel churchmen."
"Waggoner is dead," replied Shefford.
"Dead? She is free! Oh, what how did he die?"
"He was killed."
"Who did it?"
"That's no matter," replied Shefford, stonily, and he met her gaze with
steady eyes. "He's out of the way. Fay was never his wife. Fay's free. We've
come to take you out of the country. We must hurry. We'll be tracked pursued.
But we've horses and an Indian guide. We'll get away. . . . I think it better
to leave here at once. There's no telling how soon we'll be hunted. Get what
things you want to take with you."
"Oh yes Mother Jane, let us hurry!" cried Fay. "I'm so full I can't talk my
heart hurts so!"
Jane Withersteen's face shone with an exceedingly radiant light, and a glory
blended with a terrible fear in her eyes.
"Fay! my little Fay!"
Lassiter had stood there with his mild, clear blue eyes upon Shefford.
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"I shore am glad to see you all," he drawled, and extended his hand as if the
meeting were casual. "What'd you say your name was?"
Shefford repeated it as he met the proffered hand.
"How's Bern an' Bess?" Lassiter inquired.
"They were well, prosperous, happy when last I saw them. . . . They had a
baby."
"Now ain't thet fine? . . . Jane, did you hear? Bess has a baby. An', Jane,
didn't I always say Bern would come back to get us out? Shore it's just the
same."
How cool, easy, slow, and mild this Lassiter seemed! Had the man grown old,
Shefford wondered? The past to him manifestly was only yesterday, and the
danger of the present was as nothing. Looking in Lassiter's face, Shefford was
baffled. If he had not remembered the greatness of this old gun-man he might
have believed that the lonely years in the valley had unbalanced his mind. In
an hour like this coolness seemed inexplicable assuredly would have been
impossible in an ordinary man. Yet what hid behind that drawling coolness?
What was the meaning of those long, sloping, shadowy lines of the face? What
spirit lay in the deep, mild, clear eyes? Shefford experienced a sudden check
to what had been his first growing impression of a drifting, broken old man.
"Lassiter, pack what little you can carry mustn't be much and we'll get out
of here," said Shefford.
"I shore will. Reckon I ain't a-goin' to need a pack-train. We saved the
clothes we wore in here. Jane never thought it no use. But I figgered we might
need them some day. They won't be stylish, but I reckon they'll do better 'n
these skins. An' there's an old coat thet was Venters's."
The mild, dreamy look became intensified in Lassiter's eyes.
"Did Venters have any hosses when you knowed him?" he asked.
"He had a farm full of horses," replied Shefford, with a smile. "And there
were two blacks the grandest horses I ever saw. Black Star and Night! You
remember, Lassiter?"
"Shore. I was wonderin' if he got the blacks out. They must be growin' old by
now. . . . Grand hosses, they was. But Jane had another hoss, a big devil of a
sorrel. His name was Wrangle. Did Venters ever tell you about him an' thet
race with Jerry Card?"
"A hundred times!" replied Shefford.
"Wrangle run the blacks off their legs. But Jane never would believe thet.
An' I couldn't change her all these years. . . . Reckon mebbe we'll get to see
them blacks?"
"Indeed, I hope I believe you will," replied Shefford, feelingly.
"Shore won't thet be fine. Jane, did you hear? Black Star an' Night are
livin' an' we'll get to see them."
But Jane Withersteen only clasped Fay in her arms, and looked at Lassiter
with wet and glistening eyes.
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Shefford told them to hurry and come to the cliff where the ascent from the
valley was to be made. He thought best to leave them alone to make their
preparations and bid farewell to the cavern home they had known for so long.
Then he strolled back along the wall, loitering here to gaze into a cave, and
there to study crude red paintings in the nooks. And sometimes he halted
thoughtfully and did not see anything. At length he rounded a corner of cliff
to espy Nas Ta Bega sitting upon the ledge, reposeful and watchful as usual.
Shefford told the Indian they would be climbing out soon, and then he sat down
to wait and let his gaze rove over the valley.
He might have sat there a long while, so sad and reflective and wondering was
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