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were coming. I'm the trader Withers," he said to Shefford. His voice was
welcoming and the grip of his hand made Shefford's ache.
Shefford told his name and said he was as glad as he was lucky to arrive at
Kayenta.
"Hello! Nas Ta Bega!" exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a surprise his
face did not show. "Did this Indian bring you in?"
Withers shook hands with the Navajo while Shefford briefly related what he
owed to him. Then Withers looked at Nas Ta Bega and spoke to him in the Indian
tongue.
"Shadd," said Nas Ta Bega. Withers let out a dry little laugh and his strong
hand tugged at his mustache.
"Who's Shadd?" asked Shefford.
"He's a half-breed Ute bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He's in with a gang of
outlaws who hide in the San Juan country. . . . Reckon you're lucky. How'd you
come to be there in the Sagi alone?"
"I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against it,
but I came anyway."
"Well." Withers's gray glance was kind, if it did express the foolhardiness
of Shefford's act. "Come into the house. . . . Never mind the horse. My wife
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will sure be glad to see you."
Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was the
trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was large, with logs
smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets covering every foot of floor
space, and Indian baskets and silver ornaments everywhere, and strange Indian
designs painted upon the whitewashed walls. Withers called his wife and made
her acquainted with Shefford. She was a slight, comely little woman, with
keen, earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be serious and quiet, but she made
Shefford feel at home immediately. He refused, however, to accept the room
offered him, saying that he me meant to sleep out under the open sky. Withers
laughed at this and said he understood. Shefford, remembering Presbrey's
hunger for news of the outside world, told this trader and his wife all he
could think of; and he was listened to with that close attention a traveler
always gained in the remote places.
"Sure am glad you rode in," said Withers, for the fourth time. "Now you make
yourself at home. Stay here come over to the store do what you like. I've got
to work. To-night we'll talk."
Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as Presbrey's,
though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of everything, and smelled
strongly of sheep and goats. There was a narrow aisle between sacks of flour
and blankets on one side and a high counter on the other. Behind this counter
Withers stood to wait upon the buying Indians. They sold blankets and skins
and bags of wool, and in exchange took silver money. Then they lingered and
with slow, staid reluctance bought one thing and then another flour, sugar,
canned goods, coffee, tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never without two
or three Indians leaning on their dark, silver-braceleted arms. But as they
were slow to sell and buy and go, so were others slow to come in. Their voices
were soft and low and it seemed to Shefford they were whispering. He liked to
hear them and to look at the banded heads, the long, twisted rolls of black
hair tied with white cords, the still dark faces and watchful eyes, the silver
ear- rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the lean and sinewy shapes, the
corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small, close-fitting buckskin moccasins
buttoned with coins. These Indians all appeared young, and under the quiet,
slow demeanor there was fierce blood and fire.
By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The former was a
huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if not jolly.
She had the corners of a blanket tied under her chin, and in the folds behind
on her broad back was a naked Indian baby, round and black of head,
brown-skinned, with eyes as bright as beads. When the youngster caught sight
of Shefford he made a startled dive into the sack of the blanket. Manifestly,
however, curiosity got the better of fear, for presently Shefford caught a
pair of wondering dark eyes peeping at him.
"They're good spenders, but slow," said Withers. "The Navajos are careful and
cautious. That's why they're rich. This squaw, Yan As Pa, has flocks of sheep
and more mustangs than she knows about."
"Mustangs. So that's what you call the ponies?" replied Shefford.
"Yep. They're mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits."
Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers's helper, a
Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past maturity, and his
sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open desert. He was engaged in
weighing sacks of wool brought in by the Indians. Near by stood a framework of
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poles from which an immense bag was suspended. From the top of this bag
protruded the head and shoulders of an Indian who appeared to be stamping and
packing wool with his feet. He grinned at the curious Shefford. But Shefford
was more interested in the Mormon. So far as he knew, Whisner was the first
man of that creed he had ever met, and he could scarcely hide his eagerness.
Venters's stories had been of a long-past generation of Mormons, fanatical,
ruthless, and unchangeable. Shefford did not expect to meet Mormons of this
kind. But any man of that religion would have interested him. Besides this,
Whisner seemed to bring him closer to that wild secret canyon he had come West
to find. Shefford was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have his polite and
friendly overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an Indian. He was cold,
incommunicative, aloof; and there was something about him that made the
sensitive Shefford feel his presence was resented.
Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy
mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish that he
would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes, and then he found [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]