by Zane Grey
“Blue Valley.”
“And where is Blue Valley?”
“Sixty miles from Torrey.”
“Torrey? Never heard of it.”
“It’s a Mormon settlement, friend. Yes, I’ve stuck it out here, but I’ll be givin’ up soon. No use tryin’ to fight thet Dirty Devil River. Five years ago there was eighty people livin’ hyar. Blue Valley has a story, friend—”
“One I’d be glad to hear,” interrupted Jim. “Will you help me? I have money and can pay you.”
“Stay an’ welcome, friend. An’ keep your money. Me an’ my womenfolks ask nothin’ fer good will toward those in need.”
“Thank — you,” Jim replied, huskily. “Will you call them to look after my — my wife?”
Helen was staring up at Jim with wondering, troubled eyes.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, faintly.
“Yes, if to find friends an’ care is that,” replied the Mormon, kindly. Then he stepped to the door to call within. “Mary, this rider was not alone. It was his wife he was carryin’. They got lost in the brakes an’ she gave out. We must take them in.”
CHAPTER 18
THAT NIGHT, AFTER the good Mormons assured Jim that Helen was just worn out and she had smiled a wistful guaranty of that, Jim went to sleep under the cottonwoods and never moved for seventeen hours.
When he awoke it seemed to be a transfigured world. The Dirty Devil had ceased its rumble. There was a sunset glory crowning the purple butte — a light that seemed not of the earth. Some day soon Jim promised himself the reward of climbing high where he could see this challenging sentinel that had so guided him. It had done more — what, he could not tell, any more than he understood the thing that had come to him in the fury and thunder of the storm. But he felt almost free of terrible fetters, of a past that had gone.
At supper the Mormon bowed his head and prayed: “O Lord, bless this food to our use. Bless this good stranger within our gates. Heal his wife and send them on their journey rejoicin’ in Thy name. Amen.”
That night Jim heard the sad story of Blue Valley and the brief conquest of the Dirty Devil. Yet, singularly, this settlement had ever been given a wide berth by the rustlers and robbers of Utah. At least, when strange riders went through, as used to happen in former days, they left only pleasant recollection. The Mormon, accustomed to loneliness and loving men, loosed his tongue; and when Jim went to bed that night he knew where and how to go out of the country.
Helen sat up the second day, white and shaky indeed, but recovering with a promise that augured well. Her eyes hung upon Jim with a mute observance. They haunted him in his walks along the river, under the cottonwoods where the sunflowers followed the sun with their faces, and at night when he watched the stars. He never went far from the cabin. He had never yet climbed to make his in memory forever that grand purple butte. Factory Butte the Mormon called it, and there was where he dug the coal he burned. No blade of grass or bit of shrub grew upon this mountain. It would not sustain life. Even the eagles shunned it.
Next morning while the women were at work in the fields and Tasker was away somewhere, Jim approached Helen on the porch. She sat in a home-made rocking-chair, and she had marvelously improved, considering the short space of time. Her hair, once again under care, shone like burnished gold.
“Well, you look wonderful this morning,” he said. “We must begin to think of getting away from this haven of rest.”
“Oh, I’m able to start,” she replied, eagerly. “We mustn’t overdo it. Tomorrow, perhaps. And then, if we’re lucky, in three days you’ll be back at Star Ranch. . . . And I—”
His evident depression, as he broke off, checked her vivid gladness.
“You will never go back to — to your old life?” she questioned, quickly.
“No, so help me God! This I owe to you alone, Helen. It will be possible now for me even to be happy. But enough of myself. . . . You are gaining daily. Oh, you have such beauty! . . . But — we are still in the wilds of Utah, with its strange secret, underground channels. With its Dirty Devils! . . . I have traded two of the horses for Tasker’s light wagon. I will take you to the stage line and soon you will be at Grand Junction.”
Jim ceased. Her hands slipped from her eyes, to expose them wide, filmed with tears, through which shone that which made him flee.
“Wait — please wait!” she called after him as he made with giant strides for the gate. But he did not go back. If she pitied him he did not want to see it.
This time he made for the bluff which he had promised himself he would climb. He had to walk far to cross the deep gully out in the level floor of the valley. And he found the bluff farther away and much higher than it had looked from the ranch. And then what had appeared the top was only a rim of a slope, rising gradually to a rock-studded summit.
At last, hot and wet, with his heart thumping audibly against his ribs, and his breath coming in whistling pants, he surmounted the ridge.
Then he stood transfixed and gasping. The wild brakes, the mysterious canyon country, the illimitable, lilac-hued escarpments, the grand, black-sloped, white-peaked Henry Mountains — these lost incomparably to the scene unrolled before his rapt eyes.
Far out there on a plain rose the butte which had influenced him from afar. But he had seen only its crown. This pyramid towered alone and its effect was staggering. Jim had spent days and weeks in the silence and solitude of the brakes; and now he recognized the top of this butte as the one he had so many times watched with longing, as the loftiest and farthest point from his prison in Robbers’ Roost. It had typified not only freedom, but for him the unattainable. His idle, dreaming thoughts, gaining a foothold now and then in the interstices of his plans of blood and capture, had made of this rock thing a goal.
And now not only was it a possession of magnifying vision, but something he had attained symbolically.
From the bluff a gulf yawned at his feet leagues wide in every direction, dominated by this phenomenon of nature in the center. It was a naked plain. Beginning under him the rust-colored rocks, ragged as a stubblefield, marched in an endless circle round the margin of that vast plain. Barren threaded soil and stone, deceiving the eye, stretched on and on, for miles and miles, to the first rise of the base of this incredible butte. Ridged and traced, the slow upheaval of the mountain burned to flaming saffron, which merged into blue, and that to violet, and through all the darker shades, up and up the swelling slopes, with their millions of tiny irregular lines of cleavage, to the great wall of purple-black that crowned the peak.
The creation which had built this stupendous edifice of isolation and grandeur, flaunting its millions of years, yet melancholy with the evidence of decay and erosion that would sometime lay it flat on the plain — the Nature or the Omniscience that had made it was responsible for him, for his unwelcomed birth, his wayward boyhood, his footsteps that partook of evil, and the maturity that had seen his moral collapse and his victory. He had looked upon a physical thing that typified his conception of himself. And the future held the same for both.
But inscrutably, though none the less surely, he felt that he had arisen out of that whorled and traced rock, alive, with beating heart, with mind and soul and will, and in that he was incalculably more. He had risen out of the depths, he had found love, the greatness of which might be denied better men.
In the moonlit hour that night, late, when the good Taskers had gone to well-earned rest, Jim heard his name called. He ran with swift, noiseless feet to Helen’s bedside.
“You did not come back,” she whispered. “I cannot sleep. . . . There is something I — want to say.”
He sat down upon the bedside and clasped her hand in his, to look down into the white face, with its unfathomable, midnight eyes.
“Is your real name Jim Wall?” she asked, with more composure.
“No. I will tell it, if you wish.”
“Are you a free man?”
“Free? What do you mean? Yes
, free — of course!”
“You called me your — your wife to these kind people.”
“I thought that best. They would be less curious.”
“I was not offended — and I understood. . . . I want you to go back to Star Ranch with me.”
“You ask me — that!” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, I do.”
“But you will be perfectly safe. Some one will drive you from Grand Junction.”
“Perhaps. Only I’ll never feel safe in Utah again — unless you are near. I’ve had too great a shock, Jim. I suppose one of your Western girls could have stood this adventure. But this was my first rough experience. It was a — a little too much.”
“I can never go back to Star Ranch,” he replied, gravely.
“Why not? Because you are — you were a member of a robber gang? I had an ancestor who was a robber baron. To be a robber is not such a degradation — provided he be great — like you.”
“That’s not the reason,” he said.
“What is it — then?”
“If I leave you now — soon as I’ve placed you in good hands — I can ride off in peace — go to Arizona, or somewhere, and be a cowboy — and be happy in the memory of having served you and loved you — and through that having turned my back on the old life. . . . But if I went back to Star Ranch — to see you every day — to — to—”
“To ride with me,” she interfered, softly.
“Yes — to ride with you,” he went on, hoarsely. “That’d be like what you called your rough experience — a little too much. It would be terribly too much. I’m only human.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady,” she whispered, averting her face and withdrawing her hand. “Jim, I believe if I were you, I’d risk it.”
Jim gazed down at the clear-cut profile, at the shadowed eyes, hair silvered in the moonlight; then stricken and mute, he rushed away.
CHAPTER 19
BEFORE DAWN JIM had beaten his vain and exalted consciousness into a conviction that the heaven Helen hinted at for him was the generosity of a woman’s heart. She could not yet be wholly herself. He must not take advantage of that. But to reassure her he decided he would conduct her to Star Ranch, careful never to reopen that delicate and impossible subject, and after she was safely there and all was well, he would ride away in the night, letting his silence speak his farewell.
At sunrise Jim acquainted Tasker with his desire to leave for Torrey, provided Helen felt recovered sufficiently.
“Reckon I’d better see you through Capital Wash an’ as fur as Torrey,” replied the Mormon.
That was a relief to Jim. A whole day with its endless scenes and incidents, and the companionship of the Mormon, might make it possible for him to stand by his resolve.
At breakfast and in the bustle of departure he was sure Helen felt something aloof and strange in him, and he dared not meet her thoughtful eyes.
Soon they were on the way, Helen comfortably settled in the back of the two-seated wagon, and Jim riding beside Tasker in front.
Factory Butte furnished a fascinating hour for Jim, and from that on the scenery lost nothing by its vicinity to this grand monument. The Mormon was talkative and told the story of Blue Valley, and other narratives relative to the region. Capital Wash was a rent through a high ridge of red rock and the road was a stream bed, running free with muddy water. Toward the end, this passage grew to be a splendid canyon.
A Mormon rancher, at whose place Tasker stopped, invited them to pass the night at his house, and next morning take the road from there to Grand Junction, which could be reached in a long day’s drive. Jim accepted both invitation and advice. In the morning Tasker bade them good-by and Godspeed.
“Thank you, Mr. Tasker,” replied Helen. “I shall remember your kindness. And I’d like to buy back the two horses Jim traded you.”
“I’ll fetch them, if you’ll tell me where,” replied the Mormon.
“Star Ranch, north of Grand Junction.”
“I’ve heerd of thet. Wal, you may expect me some day, though I had taken a likin’ to your bay hoss.”
Jim drove off in the clear cold air of a mountain autumn morning before the sun had come up.
“Helen, you shouldn’t have asked him to fetch the horses,” said Jim, reprovingly. “He’ll find out I lied.”
“Lied! What about?”
“I told Tasker you were my wife.”
“Oh, that!” laughed Helen, and turned away a scarlet face. “It can be explained easily — if necessary. . . . Look! — This glorious country! . . . No, I don’t ever want to leave it.”
Somehow Jim got through that long ride of suspense, fear, and thrills, and when they reached Grand Junction just after dark, it was none too soon for him. Fortunately, he got Helen into the little inn before she was recognized, and then returned to put the tired horses in the care of a stable-boy. Jim did not risk entering store or saloon. Hays had secret friends there. Yet Jim was keen to hear the gossip about Star Ranch. He was late for supper, having taken time to shave and change his shirt.
To his surprise, he found Helen radiant.
“What do you think Bernie has done?”
“Bernie!” ejaculated Jim.
“Yes. My brother. This good woman told me. . . . Jim, you are the richer by ten thousand dollars.”
“Richer? . . . Me!”
“Indeed. Bernie offered ten thousand dollars for my safe return.”
“I won’t take it,” replied Jim, darkly.
“I certainly wouldn’t either,” she retorted. “It is not the half or quarter what your service was worth.”
“You know I wouldn’t take a dollar!” flashed Jim.
“Well, what do you want, Jim?” she inquired, with a woman’s sweet tantalizing mystery. “However, never mind that now. Listen. Bernie raised the very devil. He hired all the riders available to hunt for me. Also he found where Hays sold our cattle, and he forced the buyers to sell back every head, at the price they paid. He threatened to take the case to Salt Lake City.”
“That’s sure good news. It might have a tendency to end rustling, at least in wholesale bunches. Did you hear how badly your brother was hurt?”
“She did not mention that. Anyway, it couldn’t have been much, for Bernie has been here. . . . Aren’t you going to eat any supper? Oh, I shall not sleep much tonight. . . . And what shall I tell Bernie?”
That query was arresting to Jim and he hastened to direct her mind into other channels, trying to make her feel concerned that they had still fifty miles to cover.
“Jim, I’ll never pooh-pooh dough again,” she replied, her eyes darkening.
“It’s you who is not eating,” he reproved. “Better eat and drink. And go to bed soon. We will be leaving before daylight.”
Every moment of that ride next day was a joy and a pang. It seemed as short as the preceding one had been long. Helen was gay, sad, thoughtful, and talkative by turns, but she did not infringe on the one subject that crucified Jim.
It chanced that as they surmounted the pass that led down into Star Ranch Valley, the sun was setting out of a glorious cloud-pageant over Wild Horse Mesa and the canyon brakes of the Dirty Devil. Jim judged of its beauty and profundity by the sudden silence it enjoined upon his companion. She never spoke another word until Jim halted the team in front of the ranch-house porch. “Home!” she whispered, as if she had never expected to see it again.
At Jim’s halloa Herrick came out on the porch. “By Jove! here you are!” was his greeting, as cool and unemotional as if they were returning from a day’s visit to the village.
“Yes, Bernie, here I am — thanks to my gentleman escort,” replied Helen.
Jim helped her out, while some cowboys came running, shouting to others below.
“I’ll take the team down,” Jim said, hurriedly.
“You come in,” returned Herrick, as he gripped Jim’s hand and gave him a searching glance. He kissed Helen and led her in, with his a
rm around her. Jim purposely lingered at the task of collecting Helen’s worn and muddy luggage, and carried them in. Brother and sister stood with arms locked, and their gaze was hard to meet.
“Jim, you will have supper with us,” she said. “I’ll leave you and Bernie. . . . Oh, what will a tub and a change feel like!”
She gathered up her things and ran out of the living-room.
“Jim Wall, you bloody shooting cowboy!” ejaculated Herrick.
“That’s not my right name,” Jim made haste to reply.
“To hell with that, as you Westerners say. . . . Jim, come have a drink.”
Herrick poured out red liquor with a hand that shook. They drank, and the rancher refilled the glasses.
“Helen hadn’t time to tell me much,” he said. “Hays kidnapped her for ransom. Took her to a hell hole down in the brakes. Robbers’ Roost she called it. Held her there captive — and she would have been degraded but for you. They fought among themselves — gambling with my money. Heeseman’s crew found them. There was a battle. In the end you killed Hays, and brought Helen back. . . . That’s the gist of her story. But I want it in detail.”
“I have all the money, almost to a dollar, Herrick,” replied Jim.
The Englishman waived that as of little consequence, and urged Jim to a recital of the whole affair. At its conclusion Herrick said, hoarsely:
“Let’s have another drink! Let’s have two.”
“As a rule I don’t drink. But this is an exceptional occasion. . . . To your good health, Herrick, and to your sister’s happiness and well-being in Utah!”
Presently Herrick spoke with something of gravity. “Helen told me that I was to keep you at Star Ranch. I hope you won’t let this Hays débâcle drive you away.”
“It’ll be impossible for me to stay,” rejoined Jim, briefly. “But thanks for your kindness.”
“I’ll have you manage the ranch — give you an interest. Anything—”
“Please don’t embarrass me further. I can’t stay. . . . It’s hard to confess — but I have had the gall, the absurd luck, to fall in love with your sister. I couldn’t help it. . . . I want you to know, however, that it has turned me from the old outlaw life. I’ll go away and begin life over again.”
