by Zane Grey
Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of the sage-oval and the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred except the gentle wave of the tips of the brush. Then he pressed on past the mouths of several canyons and over ground new to him, now close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved to be easy traveling, well screened from possible observation from the north and west, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepening shade of his own canyon. Then the huge, notched bulge of red rim loomed over him, a mark by which he knew again the deep cove where his camp lay hidden. As he penetrated the thicket, safe again for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl he had left there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he find her? He ran into camp, frightening the dogs.
The girl lay with wide-open, dark eyes, and they dilated when he knelt beside her. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. He lifted her and held water to her dry lips, and felt an inexplicable sense of lightness as he saw her swallow in a slow, choking gulp. Gently he laid her back.
“Who—are—you?” she whispered, haltingly.
“I’m the man who shot you,” he replied.
“You’ll—not—kill me—now?”
“No, no.”
“What—will—you—do—with me?”
“When you get better—strong enough—I’ll take you back to the canyon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall.”
As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the marble whiteness of her face seemed to change.
“Don’t—take—me—back—there!”
CHAPTER VI
THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS
Meantime, at the ranch, when Judkins’s news had sent Venters on the trail of the rustlers, Jane Withersteen led the injured man to her house and with skilled fingers dressed the gunshot wound in his arm.
“Judkins, what do you think happened to my riders?”
“I—I d rather not say,” he replied.
“Tell me. Whatever you’ll tell me I’ll keep to myself. I’m beginning to worry about more than the loss of a herd of cattle. Venters hinted of—but tell me, Judkins.”
“Well, Miss Withersteen, I think as Venters thinks—your riders have been called in.”
“Judkins!… By whom?”
“You know who handles the reins of your Mormon riders.”
“Do you dare insinuate that my churchmen have ordered in my riders?”
“I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’, Miss Withersteen,” answered Judkins, with spirit. “I know what I’m talking about. I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Oh, I can’t believe that! I’ll not believe it! Would Tull leave my herds at the mercy of rustlers and wolves just because—because—? No, no! It’s unbelievable.”
“Yes, thet particular thing’s onheard of around Cottonwoods But, beggin’ pardon, Miss Withersteen, there never was any other rich Mormon woman here on the border, let alone one thet’s taken the bit between her teeth.”
That was a bold thing for the reserved Judkins to say, but it did not anger her. This rider’s crude hint of her spirit gave her a glimpse of what others might think. Humility and obedience had been hers always. But had she taken the bit between her teeth? Still she wavered. And then, with quick spurt of warm blood along her veins, she thought of Black Star when he got the bit fast between his iron jaws and ran wild in the sage. If she ever started to run! Jane smothered the glow and burn within her, ashamed of a passion for freedom that opposed her duty.
“Judkins, go to the village,” she said, “and when you have learned anything definite about my riders please come to me at once.”
When he had gone Jane resolutely applied her mind to a number of tasks that of late had been neglected. Her father had trained her in the management of a hundred employees and the working of gardens and fields; and to keep record of the movements of cattle and riders. And beside the many duties she had added to this work was one of extreme delicacy, such as required all her tact and ingenuity. It was an unobtrusive, almost secret aid which she rendered to the Gentile families of the village. Though Jane Withersteen never admitted so to herself, it amounted to no less than a system of charity. But for her invention of numberless kinds of employment, for which there was no actual need, these families of Gentiles, who had failed in a Mormon community, would have starved.
In aiding these poor people Jane thought she deceived her keen churchmen, but it was a kind of deceit for which she did not pray to be forgiven. Equally as difficult was the task of deceiving the Gentiles, for they were as proud as they were poor. It had been a great grief to her to discover how these people hated her people; and it had been a source of great joy that through her they had come to soften in hatred. At any time this work called for a clearness of mind that precluded anxiety and worry; but under the present circumstances it required all her vigor and obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon her task.
Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor a patient calmness and power to wait that had not been hers earlier in the day. She expected Judkins, but he did not appear. Her house was always quiet; tonight, however, it seemed unusually so. At supper her women served her with a silent assiduity; it spoke what their sealed lips could not utter—the sympathy of Mormon women. Jerd came to her with the key of the great door of the stone stable, and to make his daily report about the horses. One of his daily duties was to give Black Star and Night and the other racers a ten-mile run. This day it had been omitted, and the boy grew confused in explanations that she had not asked for. She did inquire if he would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in mingled surprise and relief, assured her he would always work for her. Jane missed the rattle and trot, canter and gallop of the incoming riders on the hard trails. Dusk shaded the grove where she walked; the birds ceased singing; the wind sighed through the leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running water murmured down its stone-bedded channel. The glimmering of the first star was like the peace and beauty of the night. Her faith welled up in her heart and said that all would soon be right in her little world. She pictured Venters about his lonely camp-fire sitting between his faithful dogs. She prayed for his safety, for the success of his undertaking.
Early the next morning one of Jane’s women brought in word that Judkins wished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in her surprise to see him armed with rifle and revolver, she forgot her intention to inquire about his wound.
“Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns.”
“It’s high time, Miss Withersteen,” he replied. “Will you come into the grove? It ain’t jest exactly safe for me to be seen here.”
She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods.
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother’s house last night. While there, someone knocked, an’ a man asked for me. I went to the door. He wore a mask. He said I’d better not ride any more for Jane Withersteen. His voice was hoarse an’ strange, disguised I reckon, like his face. He said no more, an’ ran off in the dark.”
“Did you know who he was?” asked Jane, in a low voice.
“Yes.”
Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she feared to know. All her calmness fled at a single thought.
“Thet’s why I’m packin’ guns,” went on Judkins. “For I’ll never quit ridin’ for you, Miss Withersteen, till you let me go.”
“Judkins, do you want to leave me?”
“Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss—a fast hoss, an’ send me out on the sage.”
“Oh, thank you, Judkins! You’re more faithful than my own people. I ought not accept your loyalty—you might suffer more through it. But what in the world can I do? My head whirls. The wrong to Venters—the stolen herd—these masks, threats, this coil in the dark! I can’t understand! But I feel something dark and terrible closing in arou
nd me.”
“Miss Withersteen, it’s all simple enough,” said Judkins, earnestly. “Now please listen—an’ beggin’ your pardon—jest turn thet deaf Mormon ear aside, an’ let me talk clear an’ plain in the other. I went around to the saloons an’ the stores an’ the loafin’ places yesterday. All your riders are in. There’s talk of a vigilance band organized to hunt down rustlers. They call themselves ‘The Riders.’ Thet’s the report—thet’s the reason given for your riders leavin’ you. Strange thet only a few riders of other ranchers joined the band! An’ Tull’s man, Jerry Card—he’s the leader. I seen him en’ his hoss. He ain’t been to Glaze. I’m not easy to fool on the looks of a hoss thet’s traveled the sage. Tull an’ Jerry didn’t ride to Glaze!… Well, I met Blake en’ Dorn, both good friends of mine, usually, as far as their Mormon lights will let ’em go. But these fellers couldn’t fool me, an’ they didn’t try very hard. I asked them, straight out like a man, why they left you like thet. I didn’t forget to mention how you nursed Blake’s poor old mother when she was sick, an’ how good you was to Dorn’s kids. They looked ashamed, Miss Withersteen. An’ they jest froze up—thet dark set look thet makes them strange an’ different to me. But I could tell the difference between thet first natural twinge of conscience an’ the later look of some secret thing. An’ the difference I caught was thet they couldn’t help themselves. They hadn’t no say in the matter. They looked as if their bein’ unfaithful to you was bein’ faithful to a higher duty. An’ there’s the secret. Why it’s as plain as—as sight of my gun here.”
“Plain!… My herds to wander in the sage—to be stolen! Jane Withersteen a poor woman! Her head to be brought low and her spirit broken!… Why, Judkins, it’s plain enough.”
“Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an’ hold the white herd. It’s on the slope now, not ten miles out—three thousand head, an’ all steers. They’re wild, an’ likely to stampede at the pop of a jack-rabbit’s ears. We’ll camp right with them, en’ try to hold them.”
“Judkins, I’ll reward you some day for your service, unless all is taken from me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you pick of my horses, except Black Star and Night. But—do not shed blood for my cattle nor heedlessly risk your lives.”
Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room, and there could not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath. She went stone-blind in the fury of a passion that had never before showed its power. Lying upon her bed, sightless, voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossed there while her fury burned and burned, and finally burned itself out.
Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression that would break her, but of this new revelation of self. Until the last few days there had been little in her life to rouse passions. Her forefathers had been Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their will. Her father had inherited that temper; and at times, like antelope fleeing before fire on the slope, his people fled from his red rages. Jane Withersteen realized that the spirit of wrath and war had lain dormant in her. She shrank from black depths hitherto unsuspected. The one thing in man or woman that she scorned above all scorn, and which she could not forgive, was hate. Hate headed a flaming pathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her control there had been in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man who had dragged her peaceful and loving spirit to this degradation was a minister of God’s word, an Elder of her church, the counselor of her beloved Bishop.
The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the Old Stone House, no longer concerned Jane Withersteen, she faced the foremost thought of her life, what she now considered the mightiest problem—the salvation of her soul.
She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had never prayed in all her life—prayed to be forgiven for her sin to be immune from that dark, hot hate; to love Tull as her minister, though she could not love him as a man; to do her duty by her church and people and those dependent upon her bounty; to hold reverence of God and womanhood inviolate.
When Jane Withersteen rose from that storm of wrath and prayer for help she was serene, calm, sure—a changed woman. She would do her duty as she saw it, live her life as her own truth guided her. She might never be able to marry a man of her choice, but she certainly never would become the wife of Tull. Her churchmen might take her cattle and horses, ranges and fields, her corrals and stables, the house of Withersteen and the water that nourished the village of Cottonwoods; but they could not force her to marry Tull, they could not change her decision or break her spirit. Once resigned to further loss, and sure of herself, Jane Withersteen attained a peace of mind that had not been hers for a year. She forgave Tull, and felt a melancholy regret over what she knew he considered duty, irrespective of his personal feeling for her. First of all, Tull, as he was a man, wanted her for himself; and secondly, he hoped to save her and her riches for his church. She did not believe that Tull had been actuated solely by his minister’s zeal to save her soul. She doubted her interpretation of one of his dark sayings—that if she were lost to him she might as well be lost to heaven. Jane Withersteen’s common sense took arms against the binding limits of her religion; and she doubted that her Bishop, whom she had been taught had direct communication with God—would damn her soul for refusing to marry a Mormon. As for Tull and his churchmen, when they had harassed her, perhaps made her poor, they would find her unchangeable, and then she would get back most of what she had lost. So she reasoned, true at last to her faith in all men, and in their ultimate goodness.
The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her hurriedly from her retirement. There, beside his horse, stood Lassiter, his dark apparel and the great black gun-sheaths contrasting singularly with his gentle smile. Jane’s active mind took up her interest in him and her half-determined desire to use what charm she had to foil his evident design in visiting Cottonwoods. If she could mitigate his hatred of Mormons, or at least keep him from killing more of them, not only would she be saving her people, but also be leading back this bloodspiller to some semblance of the human.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, black sombrero in hand.
“Lassiter I’m not an old woman, or even a madam,” she replied, with her bright smile. “If you can’t say Miss Withersteen—call me Jane.”
“I reckon Jane would be easier. First names are always handy for me.”
“Well, use mine, then. Lassiter, I’m glad to see you. I’m in trouble.”
Then she told him of Judkins’s return, of the driving of the red herd, of Venters’s departure on Wrangle, and the calling-in of her riders.
“’Pears to me you’re some smilin’ an’ pretty for a woman with so much trouble,” he remarked.
“Lassiter! Are you paying me compliments? But, seriously I’ve made up my mind not to be miserable. I’ve lost much, and I’ll lose more. Nevertheless, I won’t be sour, and I hope I’ll never be unhappy—again.”
Lassiter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, and took his time in replying.
“Women are strange to me. I got to back-trailin’ myself from them long ago. But I’d like a game woman. Might I ask, seein’ as how you take this trouble, if you’re goin’ to fight?”
“Fight! How? Even if I would, I haven’t a friend except that boy who doesn’t dare stay in the village.”
“I make bold to say, ma’am—Jane—that there’s another, if you want him.”
“Lassiter!… Thank you. But how can I accept you as a friend? Think! Why, you’d ride down into the village with those terrible guns and kill my enemies—who are also my churchmen.”
“I reckon I might be riled up to jest about that,” he replied, dryly.
She held out both hands to him.
“Lassiter! I’ll accept your friendship—be proud of it—return it—if I may keep you from killing anot
her Mormon.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, bluntly, as the gray lightning formed in his eyes. “You’re too good a woman to be sacrificed as you’re goin’ to be.… No, I reckon you an’ me can’t be friends on such terms.”
In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet fascinated by the sudden transition of his moods. That he would fight for her was at once horrible and wonderful.
“You came here to kill a man—the man whom Milly Erne—”
“The man who dragged Milly Erne to hell—put it that way!… Jane Withersteen, yes, that’s why I came here. I’d tell so much to no other livin’ soul.… There’re things such a woman as you’d never dream of—so don’t mention her again. Not till you tell me the name of the man!”
“Tell you! I? Never!”
“I reckon you will. An’ I’ll never ask you. I’m a man of strange beliefs an’ ways of thinkin’, an’ I seem to see into the future an’ feel things hard to explain. The trail I’ve been followin’ for so many years was twisted en’ tangled, but it’s straightenin’ out now. An’, Jane Withersteen, you crossed it long ago to ease poor Milly’s agony. That, whether you want or not, makes Lassiter your friend. But you cross it now strangely to mean somethin to me—God knows what!—unless by your noble blindness to incite me to greater hatred of Mormon men.”
Jane felt swayed by a strength that far exceeded her own. In a clash of wills with this man she would go to the wall. If she were to influence him it must be wholly through womanly allurement. There was that about Lassiter which commanded her respect. She had abhorred his name; face to face with him, she found she feared only his deeds. His mystic suggestion, his foreshadowing of something that she was to mean to him, pierced deep into her mind. She believed fate had thrown in her way the lover or husband of Milly Erne. She believed that through her an evil man might be reclaimed. His allusion to what he called her blindness terrified her. Such a mistaken idea of his might unleash the bitter, fatal mood she sensed in him. At any cost she must placate this man; she knew the die was cast, and that if Lassiter did not soften to a woman’s grace and beauty and wiles, then it would be because she could not make him.
