by Zane Grey
"Then he finished, an' by this time he'd almost lost his voice. But his whisper was enough. `Tull,' he said, `she begged me not to draw on you today. She would pray for you if you burned her at the stake. But, lis ten... I swear if you and I ever come face to face again... I'll kill you!'
"We backed out the door then, an' up the road. But nobody followed us."
Jane found herself gasping passionately. She had not been conscious of it till Lassiter ended his story, and she experienced exquisite pain and relief in shedding tears. Long had her eyes been dry, her grief deep, long had her emotions been dumb. Lassiter's story put her on the rack. The appalling nature of Venters's act and speech had no parallel as an outrage; it was worse than bloodshed. Men like Tull had been shot, but had one ever been so terribly denounced in public? Over-mounting her horror, an uncontrollable, quivering passion shook her very soul. It was sheer human glory in the deed of a fearless man. It was hot, primitive instinct to live-to fight. It was a kind of mad joy in Venters's chivalry. It was close to the wrath that had first shaken her in the beginning of this war waged upon her.
"Well, well, Jane, don't take it that way," said Lassiter in evident distress. "I had to tell you. There's some things a feller jest can't keep. It's strange you give up on hearin' that, when all this long time you've been the gamest woman I ever seen. But I don't know women. Mebbe there's reason for you to cry. I know this... nothin' ever rang in my soul an' so filled it as what Venters did. I'd like to have done it, but... I'm only good for throwin' a gun, an' it seems you hate that. Well, I'll be goin' now."
"Where?"
"Venters took Wrangle to the stable. The sorrel's shy a shoe, an' I've got to help hold the big devil an' put on another."
"Tell Bern to come for the pack I want to give him... and... and to say good-bye!" called Jane, as Lassiter went out.
Jane passed the rest of that day in vain endeavor to decide what and what not to put in the pack for Venters. This task was the last she would ever perform for him, and the gifts were the last she would ever make him. So she picked and chose and rejected, and chose again, and often paused in sad reverie, and began again, till at length she filled the pack.
It was about sunset, and she and Fay had finished supper, and were sitting in the court, when Venters's quick steps rang on the stones. She scarcely knew him, for he had changed the tattered garments, and she missed the dark beard and long hair. Still he was not the Venters of old. As he came up the steps, she felt herself pointing to the pack, and heard herself speaking words that were meaningless to her. He said good-bye. He folded her in his arms and kissed her, released her, and turned away. His tall figure blurred in her sight, grew dim through dark, streaked vision, and then he vanished.
Twilight fell around Withersteen House, and dusk and night. Little Fay slept, but Jane lay with strained, aching eyes. She heard the wind moaning in the cottonwoods and mice squeaking in the walls. The night was interminably long, yet she prayed to hold back the dawn. What would another day bring forth? The blackness of her room seemed blacker for the sad, entering gray of morning light. She heard the chirp of awakening birds, and fancied she caught the faint clatter of hoofs. Then low, dull, distant, throbbed a heavy gunshot. She had expected it, was waiting for it, nevertheless, an electric shock checked her heart, froze the very living fiber of her bones. That vise-like hold on her faculties apparently did not relax for a long time, and it was a voice under her window that released her.
"Jane... Jane," softly called Lassiter.
She answered somehow.
"It's all right. Venters got away. I thought mebbe you'd heard that shot, an' I was worried some."
"What was it... who fired?"
"Well... some fool feller tried to stop Venters out there in the sage... an' he only stopped lead. I think it'll be all right. I haven't seen or heard from any other fellers 'round. Venters'll go through safe. An' Jane, I've got Bells saddled, an' I'm going to trail Venters. Mind, I won't show myself unless he falls foul of somebody an' needs me. I want to see if this place where he's goin' is safe for him. He says nobody can track him there. I never seen the place yet I couldn't track a man to. Now, Jane, you stay indoors while I'm gone, an' keep close watch on Fay. Will you?"
"Yes! Oh, yes!"
"An' another thing, Jane," he continued, then paused for long time, "another thing... if you ain't here when I come back... if you're gone... don't fear. I'll trail you... I'll find you."
"My dear Lassiter, where could I be gone... as you put it?" asked Jane in curious surprise.
"I reckon you might be somewhere. Mebbe tied in an old barn... or corralled in some gulch... or chained in a cave! Milly Erne was... till she give in! Mebbe that's news to you. Well, if you're gone, I'll hunt for you."
"No, Lassiter," she replied, sadly and low. "If I'm gone, just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded, selfish deceit you repaid with kindness and love."
She heard a deep, muttering curse under his breath, and then the silvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away.
Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared without his usual cheer, and Jerd wore a harassed look of a worn and worried man. When Jud kins put in an appearance, riding a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazed expression told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words.
"Miss Withersteen, I have to report... loss of the... white herd," said Judkins hoarsely.
"Come, sit down, you look played out," replied Jane solicitously. She brought him brandy and food, and, while he partook of refreshments, of which he appeared badly in need, she asked no questions.
"No one rider... could hev' done more... Miss Withersteen," he went on presently.
"Judkins, don't be distressed. You've done more than any other rider. I've long expected to lose the white herd. It's no surprise. It's in line with other things that are happening. I'm grateful for your service."
"Miss Withersteen, I knew how you'd take it. But if anythin', that makes it harder to tell. You see, a feller wants to do so much for you, an' I'd got fond of my job. We hed the herd a ways off to the north of the break in the valley. There was a big level an' pools of water an' tip-top browse. But the cattle was in a high nervous condition. Wild... wild as antelope! You see, they'd been so scared they never slept. I ain't a-goin' to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off out there in the sage. But there wasn't a day fer weeks thet the herd didn't get started to run. We allus managed to ride 'em close an' drive 'em back an' keep 'em bunched. Honest, Miss Withersteen, them steers was thin. They was thin when water and grass was everywhere. Thin at this season... thet'll tell you how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, one night a strange streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak was a coyote... with an oiled an' blazin' tail! Fer I shot it an' found out. We hed hell with the herd that night, an' if the sage an' grass hedn't been wet... we, hosses, steers, an' all would hev' burned up. But I said I wasn't goin' to tell you any of the tricks. Strange now, Miss Withersteen, when the stampede did come, it was from natural cause... jest a whirlin' devil of dust. You've seen the like often. An' this wasn't no big whirl, fer the dust was mostly settled. It had dried out in a little swale, an' ordinarily no steer would ever hev' run fer it. But the herd was nervous an' wild. An' jest as Lassiter said, when that bunch of white steers got to movin', they was as bad as buffalo. I've seen some buffalo stampedes back in Nebraska, an' this bolt of the steers was the same kind.
"I tried to mill the herd jest as Lassiter did. But I wasn't equal to it, Miss Withersteen. I don't believe the rider still lives who could hev' turned thet herd. We kept along of the herd fer miles, an' more'n one of my boys tried to get the steers a-millin'. It wasn't no use. We got off level ground, goin' down, an' then the steers was makin' to pass a kind of low pocket between ridges. There was a hogback... as we used t
o call 'em... a pile of rocks stickin' up, an' I saw the herd was goin' to split 'round it, or swing out to the left. An' I wanted 'em to go to the right so mebbe we'd be able to drive 'em into the pocket. So, with all my boys except three, I rode hard to turn the herd a little to the right. We couldn't budge 'em. They went on an' split 'round the rocks, an' the most of 'em was turned sharp to the left by a deep wash we hadn't seen... hed no chance to see.
"The other three boys... Jimmy Vail, Joe Wills, an' thet little Cairns boy... a nervy kid! They, with Cairns leadin', tried to buck thet herd 'round to the pocket. It was a wild, fool idea. I couldn't do nothin'. The boys got hemmed in between the steers an' the wash... thet they hedn't no chance to see, either. Vail an' Wills was run down right before our eyes. An' Cairns, who rode a fine hoss, he did some ridin' I never seen equaled, an' would hev' beat the steers if there'd been any room to run in. I was high up an' could see how the steers kept spillin' by twos an' threes over into the wash. Cairns put his hoss to a place thet was too wide fer any hoss, an' broke his neck an' the hoss's, too. We found thet out after, an', as fer Vail an' Wills... two thousand steers ran over the poor boys. There wasn't much left to pack home fer burying! An', Miss Withersteen, thet all happened yesterday, an', I believe, if the white herd didn't run over the wall of the pass, it's runnin' yet."
On the morning of the second day after Judkins's recital, during which time Jane remained indoors, prey to regret and sorrow for the boy riders, and a new and now strangely insistent fear for her own person, she again heard what she had missed more than she dared honestly confess-the soft, jingling step of Lassiter. Almost overwhelming relief surged through her, a feeling as akin to joy as any she could have been capable of in those gloomy hours of shadow, and one that suddenly stunned her with the significance of what Lassiter had come to mean to her. She had begged him, for his own sake, to leave Cottonwoods. She might yet beg that, if her weakening courage permitted her to dare absolute loneliness and helplessness, but she realized now that, if she were left alone, her life would become one long, hideous nightmare.
When his soft steps clinked into the hall, in answer to her greeting, and his tall, black-garbed form filled the door, she felt an inexpressible sense of immediate safety. In his presence she lost her fear of the dim passageways of Withersteen House and of every sound. Always it had been that, when he entered the court or the hall, she had experienced a distinctly sickening but gradually lessening shock at sight of the huge black guns swinging at his sides. This time the sickening shock again visited her. It was, however, because a re vealing flash of thought told her that it was not alone Lassiter who was thrillingly welcome, but also his fatal weapons. They meant so much. How she had fallenhow broken and spiritless must she be-to have still the same old horror of Lassiter's guns and his name, yet feel somehow a cold, shrinking protection in their law and might and use.
"Did you trail Venters... find his wonderful valley?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes, an' I reckon it's sure a wonderful place."
"Is he safe there?"
"That's been botherin' me some. I tracked him an' part of the trail was the hardest I ever tackled. Mebbe there's a rustler or somebody in this country who's as good at trackin' as I am. If that's so, Venters ain't safe."
"Well... tell me all about Bern and his valley."
To Jane's surprise Lassiter showed disinclination for further talk about his trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. Jane reflected that 120 miles, with probably a great deal of climbing on foot, all in three days, was enough to tire any rider. Moreover, it presently developed that Lassiter had returned in a mood of singular sadness and preoccupation. She put it down to a moodiness over the loss of her white herd and the now precarious condition of her fortune.
Several days passed, and, as nothing happened, Jane's spirits began to brighten. Once in her musings she thought that this tendency of hers to rebound was as sad as it was futile. Meanwhile, she had resumed her walks through the grove with little Fay.
One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen the slope since the beginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a rich, deep purple. There was a high wind blowing, and the sage tossed and waved and colored beautifully from light to dark. Clouds scudded across the sky and their shadows sailed darkly down the sunny slope.
Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to the stables, and she had scarcely entered the great open space with its corrals and sheds when she saw Lassiter hurriedly approaching. Fay broke from her and, running to a corral fence, began to pat and pull the long, hanging ears of a drowsy burro.
One look at Lassiter armed her for a blow. Without a word he led her across the wide yard to the rise of the ground upon which the stable stood.
"Jane... look," he said, and pointed to the ground.
Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision, made out splotches of blood on the stones and broad, smooth marks in the dust, leading out toward the sage.
"What made these?" she asked.
"I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where there was hosses in the sage."
"Dead... or... wounded... men?"
"I reckon... Jane, are you strong? Can you bear up?"
His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyessuddenly she could no longer look into them. "Strong?" she echoed, trembling. "I... I will be."
Up on the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shod hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer.
"Where's Blake... and... and Jerd?" she asked haltingly.
"I don't know where Jerd is. Bolted, most likely," replied Lassiter as he took her through the stone door. "But Blake... poor Blake! He's gone forever. Be prepared, Jane."
With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with the chambers swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near.
Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white-dead-one hand clutching a gun and the other twisted in his bloody blouse.
"Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers... Blake killed some of them," said Lassiter.
"Thieves?" whispered Jane.
"I reckon. Hoss thieves. Look!" Lassiter waved his hand toward the stalls.
The first stall-Bells's stall-was empty. All the stalls were empty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone! Black Star was gone!
While Venters lay under the silver spruces, recuperating from his almost prostrating exertion in dragging packs and burros up the slope and through the entrance to Surprise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time went in regretting that he had not been frank and honest with Jane Withersteen. But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more face to face with her and had been shocked at the change in her, and had heard the details of her adversity, he had not had the heart to tell what might have hurt her more than all else. He had not lied, yet he had kept silent. If only he could always keep her in ignorance of his love for another woman! And, if through some ill chance, she ever learned it, then he knew his regret would grow into a sleepless remorse.
Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the outfit he had packed from Cottonwoods. Certain it was that he had fetched a hundred times more than he had gone for, enough, surely, for years, perhaps to make a permanent home in the valley. He saw no reason why he need ever leave there again.
After a day of rest he recovered his strength, and shared Bess's pleasure in rummaging over the endless packs, and began to plan for the future. In this planning, his trip to Cottonwoods, with its revived hate of Tull and consequent unleashing of fierce passions, soon faded out of mind. By slower degrees his love for Jane Withersteen and the poignancy of his grief and contrition drifted slowly from the active preoccupation of his present thought to a place in memory, with more and more infrequent recalls.
As far as the state of his mi
nd was concerned, upon the second day after his return, the valley with its golden hues and purple shades, the speaking west wind and the cool, silent night, and Bess's watching eyes with their wonderful light so wrought upon Venters that he might never have left them at all.
That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered him upon beginning, although it in no way checked his delight, and that was in the multiplicity of tasks planned to make a paradise out of the valley, he could not choose the one with which to commence. He had so grown into the habit of passing from one dreamy pleasure to another, like a bee going from flower to flower in the valley, that he found this wandering habit likely to extend to his labors. Nevertheless, he made a start.
At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable help in some ways, and a very great hindrance in others. Her excitement and joy were spurs, inspirations, but she was utterly impracticable in her ideas, and she flitted from one plan to another with bewildering vacillation. Moreover, he fancied that she grew more eager, youthful, and sweet, and he marked that it was far easier to watch her and listen to her than it was to work. Therefore, he gave her tasks that necessitated her going often to the cave where he had stored the packs.
