Life was eternal.  Man’s immortality lay in himself.  Love of a woman was hope—­happiness.  Brotherhood—­that mystic and grand “Bi Nai!” of the Navajo—­that was religion.

XIX.  THE GRAND CANYON OF THE COLORADO

The night passed, the gloom turned gray, the dawn stole cool and pale into the canyon.  When Nas Ta Bega drove the mustangs into camp the lofty ramparts of the walls were rimmed with gold and the dark arch of Nonnezoshe began to lose its steely gray.

The women had rested well and were in better condition to travel.  Jane was cheerful and Fay radiant one moment and in a dream the next.  She was beginning to live in that wonderful future.  They talked more than usual at breakfast, and Lassiter made droll remarks.  Shefford, with his great and haunting trouble ended for ever, with now only danger to face ahead, was a different man, but thoughtful and quiet.

This morning the Indian leisurely made preparations for the start.  For all the concern he showed he might have known every foot of the canyon below Nonnezoshe.  But, for Shefford, with the dawn had returned anxiety, a restless feeling of the need of hurry.  What obstacles, what impassable gorges, might lie between this bridge and the river!  The Indian’s inscrutable serenity and Fay’s trust, her radiance, the exquisite glow upon her face, sustained Shefford and gave him patience to endure and conceal his dread.

At length the flight was resumed, with Nas Ta Bega leading on foot, and Shefford walking in the rear.  A quarter of a mile below camp the Indian led down a declivity into the bottom of the narrow gorge, where the stream ran.  He did not gaze backward for a last glance at Nonnezoshe; nor did Jane or Lassiter.  Fay, however, checked Nack-yal at the rim of the descent and turned to look behind.  Shefford contrasted her tremulous smile, her half-happy good-by to this place, with the white stillness of her face when she had bade farewell to Surprise Valley.  Then she rode Nack-yal down into the gorge.

Shefford knew that this would be his last look at the rainbow bridge.  As he gazed the tip of the great arch lost its cold, dark stone color and began to shine.  The sun had just arisen high enough over some low break in the wall to reach the bridge.  Shefford watched.  Slowly, in wondrous transformation, the gold and blue and rose and pink and purple blended their hues, softly, mistily, cloudily, until once again the arch was a rainbow.

Ages before life had evolved upon the earth it had spread its grand arch from wall to wall, black and mystic at night, transparent and rosy in the sunrise, at sunset a flaming curve limned against the heavens.  When the race of man had passed it would, perhaps, stand there still.  It was not for many eyes to see.  Only by toil, sweat, endurance, blood, could any man ever look at Nonnezoshe.  So it would always be alone, grand, silent, beautiful, unintelligible.