Riders of the Purple Sage (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Zane Grey

  After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters lost no time there, but slunk again into the sage on his back trail. With the discovery of Oldring's hidden cattle range had come enlightenment on several problems. Here the rustler kept his stock; here was Jane Withersteen's red herd; here were the few cattle that had disappeared from the Cottonwoods slopes during the last two years. Until Oldring had driven the red herd, his thefts of cattle for that time had not been more than enough to supply meat for his men. Of late no drives had been reported from Sterling or the villages north. Venters knew that the riders had wondered at Oldring's inactivity in that particular field. He and his band had been active enough in their visits to Glaze and Cottonwoods; they always had gold, but of late the amount gambled away and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to much conjecture. Oldring's more frequent visits had resulted in new saloons, and, where there had formerly been one raid or shooting fray in the little hamlets, there were now many. Perhaps Oldring had another range farther on up the pass and, from there, drove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he was little known. But Venters came finally to doubt this. From what he had learned in the last few days, a belief began to form in Venters's mind that Oldring's intimidations of the villages and the mystery of the Masked Rider with his alleged evil deeds, and the fierce resistance offered any trailing riders, and the rustling of cattle-these things were only the craft of the rustler chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work in Deception Pass.

  Like a scouting Indian, Venters crawled through the sage of the oval valley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, and at last entered the canon out of which headed the cattle trail and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear. If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to force himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He crawled along so hidden that he could not use his eyes except to aid himself in the toilsome progress through the brakes and ruins of cliff wall. Yet from time to time, as he rested, he saw the massive red walls growing higher and wilder, more looming and broken. He made note of the fact that he was turning and climbing. The sage and thickets of oak and brakes of alder gave place to pinon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low, dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought it was thunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But it was incessant, and, as he progressed, it filled out deeper and from a murmur changed into a dull roar.

  "Falling water," he said. "There's volume to that. I wonder if it's the stream I lost."

  The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise, however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this, and sure that nothing but a bird could see him, he arose from his hands and knees to hurry on. An opening in the pinons warned him that he was nearing the height of slope.

  He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment. Before him stretched a short canon with a rounded stone floor bare of grass or sage or tree and with curved, shelving walls. A broad, rippling stream flowed toward him, and at the back of the canon a waterfall burst from a wide rent in the cliff, and, bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet.

  If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had entered the right canon, his astonishment would not have been so great. There had been no breaks in the walls, no side canons entering this one where the rustlers' tracks and the cattle trail had guided him, and, therefore, he could not be wrong. But here the canon ended, and presumably the trails, also.

  That cattle trail headed out of here, Venters kept thinking to himself. It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earth did cattle ever get in here?

  If he could be sure of anything, it was of the careful scrutiny he had given that cattle track, every hoof mark of which headed straight west. He was now looking east at an immense, round, boxed corner of canon down which tumbled a thin, white veil of water, scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his calculations had gone wrong. For the first time in years he found himself doubting his rider's skill in finding tracks and his memory of what he had actually seen. In his anxiety to keep under cover he must have lost himself in this offshoot of Deception Pass and, thereby, in some unaccountable manner missed the canon with the trails. There was nothing else for him to think. Rustlers could not fly, nor cattle jump down 1,000-foot precipices. He was only proving what the sage riders had long said of this labyrinthine system of deceitful canons and valleys-trails led down into Deception Pass, but no rider had ever followed them.

  On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an unusual sound that he could not define. He dropped flat behind a stone and listened. From the direction he had come swelled something that resembled a strange, muffled pounding and splashing and ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat began to dampen his forehead. What might not be possible in this stonewalled maze of mystery? The unnatural sound passed beyond him as he lay, gripping his rifle and fighting for coolness. Then from the open came the sound, now distinct and different. Venters recognized a hobble bell of a horse, the cracking of iron on submerged stones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water. Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, and curiosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock.

  In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burros driven by three superbly mounted men. Had Venters met these dark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men anywhere in Utah, let alone in this robbers' retreat, he would have recognized them as rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider saw the signs of a long, arduous trip. These men were packing in supplies from one of the northern villages. They were tired, and their horses were almost played out, and the burros plodded on, after the manner of their kind when exhausted, faithful and patient, but as if every weary, splashing, slipping step would be their last.

  All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched with a thrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers drove the burros, and straight through the middle, where the water spread into a fleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke. Following closely, the rustlers rode into this white mist, showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then they vanished.

  Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden utterance. "Good heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler! There's a cavern under that waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a canon beyond. Oldring hides in there. He needs only to guard a trail leading down from the sage flat above. Little danger of this outlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled on it by luck, after I had given up. And now I know the truth of what puzzled me most... why that cattle trail was wet."

  He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of the sagebrush. Returning, he had no time to spare, only now and then, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyes ahead. The abundant grass left no trace of his trail. Short work he made of the distance to the circle of canons. He doubted that he would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted to; yet he looked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a rider picturing landmarks never to be forgotten.

  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 canons 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 canon. 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 canon 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!"

  Meantime, at the ranch, after 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. Then, with a 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 wildly 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. Besides 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 that she rendered to the Gentile families of the village. Although 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 com munity, 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 campfire 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 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 my horse anymore 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 that 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 around 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 an' 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 an' 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 and 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 an' try to hold them."

  "Judkins, I'll reward you someday 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 no 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. 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 arouse passion. 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 that 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.