by Zane Grey
“Miss Withersteen, mother’s dead,” he said.
“Oh—Blake!” exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.
“She died free from pain in the end, and she’s buried—resting at last, thank God!… I’ve come to ride for you again, if you’ll have me. Don’t think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy. When she was living and your riders quit, I had to also. I was afraid of what might be done—said to her.… Miss Withersteen, we can’t talk of—of what’s going on now—”
“Blake, do you know?”
“I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. But without explanation or excuse I offer my services. I’m a Mormon—I hope a good one. But—there are some things!… It’s no use, Miss Withersteen, I can’t say any more—what I’d like to. But will you take me back?”
“Blake!… You know what it means?”
“I don’t care. I’m sick of—of—I’ll show you a Mormon who’ll be true to you!”
“But, Blake—how terribly you might suffer for that!”
“Maybe. Aren’t you suffering now?”
“God knows indeed I am!”
“Miss Withersteen, it’s a liberty on my part to speak so, but I know you pretty well—know you’ll never give in. I wouldn’t if I were you. And I—I must—Something makes me tell you the worst is yet to come. That’s all. I absolutely can’t say more. Will you take me back—let me ride for you—show everybody what I mean?”
“Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when they quit!” Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash down upon her hands. “I thought so much of them—tried so hard to be good to them. And not one was true. You’ve made it easy to forgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet I want you so much.”
“Do it, then. If you’re going to make your life a lesson to Mormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is right. I believe in you, and here’s my life to prove it.”
“You hint it may mean your life!” said Jane, breathless and low.
“We won’t speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do what every rider aches in his secret heart to do for you.… Miss Withersteen, I hoped it’d not be necessary to tell you that my mother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how the thing galled me—she told me to come back.… Will you take me?”
“God bless you, Blake! Yes, I’ll take you back. And will you—will you accept gold from me?”
“Miss Withersteen!”
“I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I’ll give you one. If you will not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a few months—weeks—days till the storm breaks. Then you’d have nothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We’ll forearm you against poverty, and me against endless regret. I’ll give you gold which you can hide—till some future time.”
“Well, if it pleases you,” replied Blake. “But you know I never thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see this man Lassiter. Is he here?”
“Yes, but, Blake—what—Need you see him? Why?” asked Jane, instantly worried. “I can speak to him—tell him about you.”
“That won’t do. I want to—I’ve got to tell him myself. Where is he?”
“Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I’ll call him,” answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for the rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step—then his tall form crossed the threshold.
“Lassiter, here’s Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back to me and he wishes to speak to you.”
Blake’s brown face turned exceedingly pale.
“Yes, I had to speak to you,” he said, swiftly. “My name’s Blake. I’m a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I’ve come to beg her to take me back. Now I don’t know you; but I know—what you are. So I’ve this to say to your face. It would never occur to this woman to imagine—let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn’t think it might just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn’t that kind of a mind.… Well, I’ve not come for that. I want to help her—to pull a bridle along with Judkins and—and you. The thing is—do you believe me?”
“I reckon I do,” replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speech contrasted with Blake’s hot, impulsive words! “You might have saved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! An’ mebbe—”
“Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at once and fetch me a report of my horses.”
“Miss Withersteen!… You mean the big drove—down in the sage-cleared fields?”
“Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, except the blooded stock I keep here.”
“Haven’t you heard—then?”
“Heard? No! What’s happened to them?”
“They’re gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself.”
“Lassiter—did you know?” asked Jane, whirling to him.
“I reckon so.… But what was the use to tell you?”
It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such a blow.
“My horses! My horses! What’s become of them?”
“Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring.… And I trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass.”
“My red herd’s gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next. I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter—Blake—am I in danger of losing my racers?”
“A rustler—or—or anybody stealin’ hosses of yours would most of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter. His evasive reply was affirmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence.
“Oh! Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.
“Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake. “One more rider won’t be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star and Night, if you put such store on their value.”
“Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there’s another reason why I mustn’t lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every day when he runs the horses, and don’t let them out of your sight. If you would please me—win my gratitude, guard my black racers.”
When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.
“’Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses. Now I ain’t gainsayin’ that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an’ run neck en’ neck with Black Star.”
“Lassiter, don’t tease me now. I’m miserable—sick. Bells is fast, but he can’t stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only Wrangle can do that.”
“I’ll bet that big raw-boned brute can more’n show his heels to your black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wrangle could kill your favorites.”
“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do you say that so often? I know you’ve teased me at times, and I believe it’s only kindness. You’re always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?”
“I reckon so.” Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting the silver pieces on the band. “Well, Jane, I’ve sort of read a little that’s passin’ in your mind.”
“You think I might fly from my home—from Cottonwoods—from the Utah border?”
“I reckon. An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks I wouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. I know Venters had him. But
you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn’t got him now.… Besides—things are happenin’, an’ somethin’ of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”
“God knows you’re right!… Poor Bern, how long he’s gone! In my trouble I’ve been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I’ve little fear for him. I’ve heard my riders say he’s as keen as a wolf.… As to your reading my thoughts—well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I’ve strange dreams. I’m not always practical and thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance—if I dared—if I dared I’d ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me—and hide me.”
“Jane!”
The rider’s sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seen Lassiter’s cool calm broken—when he had met little Fay, when he had learned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne’s grave. But one and all they could not be considered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white—not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to his breast.
“Lassiter!” cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she took sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her. “Forgive me!” went on Jane. “I’m always forgetting your—your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I’m always making you out more than human… only, let me say—I meant that—about riding away. I’m wretched, sick of this—this—Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!”
“Jane, the hell—of it,” he replied, with deep intake of breath, “is you can’t ride away. Mebbe realizin’ it accounts for my grabbin’ you—that way, as much as the crazy boy’s rapture your words gave me. I don’t understand myself.… But the hell of this game is—you can’t ride away.”
“Lassiter!… What on earth do you mean? I’m an absolutely free woman.”
“You ain’t absolutely anythin’ of the kind.… I reckon I’ve got to tell you!”
“Tell me all. It’s uncertainty that makes me a coward. It’s faith and hope—blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every day I awake believing—still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into my heart. Then comes night—I pray—I pray for all, and for myself—I sleep—and I awake free once more, trustful, faithful, to believe—to hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a thousand years till night again!… But if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can’t ride away—tell me what more I’m to lose—tell me the worst.”
“Jane, you’re watched. There’s no single move of yours, except when you’re hid in your house, that ain’t seen by sharp eyes. The cottonwood grove’s full of creepin’, crawlin’ men. Like Indians in the grass. When you rode, which wasn’t often lately, the sage was full of sneakin’ men. At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an’ I reckon into the house. Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This here grove’s a hummin’ bee-hive of mysterious happenin’s. Jane, it ain’t so much that these soles keep out of my way as me keepin’ out of theirs. They’re goin’ to try to kill me. That’s plain. But mebbe I’m as hard to shoot in the back as in the face. So far I’ve seen fit to watch only. This all means, Jane, that you’re a marked woman. You can’t get away—not now. Mebbe later, when you’re broken, you might. But that’s sure doubtful. Jane, you’re to lose the cattle that’s left—your home en’ ranch—en’ amber Spring. You can’t even hide a sack of gold! For it couldn’t be slipped out of the house, day or night, an’ hid or buried, let alone be rid off with. You may lose all. I’m tellin’ you, Jane, hopin’ to prepare you, if the worst does come. I told you once before about that strange power I’ve got to feel things.”
“Lassiter, what can I do?”
“Nothin’, I reckon, except know what’s comin’ an’ wait an’ be game. If you’d let me make a call on Tull, an’ a long-deferred call on—”
“Hush!… Hush!” she whispered.
“Well, even that wouldn’t help you any in the end.”
“What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean? I am my father’s daughter—a Mormon, yet I can’t see! I’ve not failed in religion—in duty. For years I’ve given with a free and full heart. When my father died I was rich. If I’m still rich it’s because I couldn’t find enough ways to become poor. What am I, what are my possessions to set in motion such intensity of secret oppression?”
“Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder.”
“But, Lassiter, I would give freely—all I own to avert this—this wretched thing. If I gave—that would leave me with faith still. Surely my—my churchmen think of my soul? If I lose my trust in them—”
“Child, be still!” said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had in it something of pity. “You are a woman, fine en’ big an’ strong, an’ your heart matches your size. But in mind you’re a child. I’ll say a little more—then I’m done. I’ll never mention this again. Among many thousands of women you’re one who has bucked against your churchmen. They tried you out, an’ failed of persuasion, an’ finally of threats. You meet now the cold steel of a will as far from Christlike as the universe is wide. You’re to be broken. Your body’s to be held, given to some man, made, if possible, to bring children into the world. But your soul?… What do they care for your soul?”
CHAPTER XIII
SOLITUDE AND STORM
In his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his ears rang with innumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds, and his eyes opened wide upon the glorious golden shaft of sunlight shining through the great stone bridge. The circle of cliffs surrounding Surprise Valley lay shrouded in morning mist, a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, moving cloud along the ramparts. The oak forest in the center was a plumed and tufted oval of gold.
He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery of strength she always rose with the dawn. At the moment she was feeding the quail she had tamed. And she had begun to tame the mocking-birds. They fluttered among the branches overhead and some left off their songs to flit down and shyly hop near the twittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits crouched in the grass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching the dogs.
Venters’s swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess and her pets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to return again and rest upon the girl. She had changed. To the dark trousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, but she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to mark the rounded contours of a woman. The change had been to grace and beauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint of red shone in the clear dark brown of cheeks. The haunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been illusive, a promise, had become a living fact. She fitted harmoniously into that wonderful setting; she was like Surprise Valley—wild and beautiful.
Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day.
He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after the passing of the summer rains. The rains were due soon. But until their arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village he sequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of his past life, and almost that of the present. It was enough to live. He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distant future. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home of the cliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, and another thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight, that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand.
The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. He was assimilating something from this valley of gleams and shadows. From this strange girl he was assimilating more.
The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As Venters had no tools with which to build, or to till the terraces, he remained idle. Beyond the cooking of the
simple fare there were no tasks. And as there were no tasks, there was no system. He and Bess began one thing, to leave it; to begin another, to leave that; and then do nothing but lie under the spruces and watch the great cloud-sails majestically move along the ramparts, and dream and dream. The valley was a golden, sunlit world. It was silent. The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the singing birds, even the rare and seldom-occurring hollow crack of a sliding weathered stone, only thickened and deepened that insulated silence.
Venters and Bess had vagrant minds.
“Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle?” inquired Venters.
“A hundred times,” she replied.
“Oh, have I? I’d forgotten. I want you to see him. He’ll carry us both.”
“I’d like to ride him. Can he run?”
“Run? He’s a demon. Swiftest horse on the sage! I hope he’ll stay in that canyon.
“He’ll stay.”
They left camp to wander along the terraces, into the aspen ravines, under the gleaming walls. Ring and Whitie wandered in the fore, often turning, often trotting back, open-mouthed and solemn-eyed and happy. Venters lifted his gaze to the grand archway over the entrance to the valley, and Bess lifted hers to follow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held their attention for a long time. Today a soaring eagle attracted them.
“How he sails!” exclaimed Bess. “I wonder where his mate is?”
“She’s at the nest. It’s on the bridge in a crack near the top. I see her often. She’s almost white.”
They wandered on down the terrace, into the shady, sun-flecked forest. A brown bird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess peeped into the leaves. “Look! A nest and four little birds. They’re not afraid of us. See how they open their mouths. They’re hungry.”
