Riders of the Purple Sage (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Zane Grey

  Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of land. Straight away for five miles the trail stretched, and then it disappeared in hummocky ground. To the right some few rods Venters saw a break in the sage and this was the rim of Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the pass somewhere north of those ridges, and he realized that he must, and would, overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of five miles.

  Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. Now with a ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular convulsion and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by-and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once more. The way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make his last, desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then, while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain-for another mile he gained little if at all. In the third he caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly on the other black.

  Only 100 yards now stretched between Black Star and Wrangle. The great sorrel thundered on-and on-and on. In every yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils, wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever-strong as ever-fast as ever-but each tremendous stride almost jarred Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit and momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great race was nearly won-and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a mere dot, bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered onon-on! Venters felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap. Lather flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him see all the sage as red. In that red haze before him he suddenly seemed to see Black Star riderless and with broken gait. Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop-gallop to canter-canter to trot-trot to walk-and walk to stop, the great sorrel ended his race.

  Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night came trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficiently to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But he had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had no fears.

  As Venters ran back to Black Star, he saw the horse stagger on shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him, Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful body in convulsions.

  Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would keep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be lost on the sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger in the vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Night soon came trotting up hot and wet and run out. Venters led him down near the others and, unsaddling him, let him loose to rest. Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, which action proved he was not in bad condition.

  Venters thereupon seated himself to rest and to consider the situation. Whatever the risk, he was compelled to stay right where he was, or comparatively near, for the night. The horses must rest and drink. Venters would have to find water. He was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods and he believed close to the canon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go down into the pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.

  His position was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canon into which the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes and these sloped into the canon. Following the canon line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting canons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove cattle into the pass. There was, however, no indication at all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had many holes to his burrow.

  In searching around in the little hollows, Venters, much to his relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest, and Night followed suit. So long as they were down, Venters intended to make no move. The longer they rested, the better and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead, he found the racer partially, if not wholly, recovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big, black eyes. Venters was overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at one draft, as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time Black Star, also. Then the blacks began to graze.

  The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and the canon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything but easy to catch. And true enough, he could not come within roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour and gave up in disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a quandary, Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet doubting more that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself, he might be caught.

  As the afternoon wore away, Venters's concern diminished, yet he kept close watch on the blacks, and the trail, and the sage. There was no telling what Jerry Card might be capable of. Venters sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely, and doggedly, however, Venters clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.

  The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western rise of slope; the long, creeping, purple shadows lengthened. The rims of the canon gleamed crimson, and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

  It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse, and the thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle once more in thundering flight.

  Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His head was high and twisted, in most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Venters decried a frog-like shape clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange position and the sorrel's strange, horrid neigh that strung Venters's nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went down. Like a blind horse he plunged. More than one of his jumps took him near the verge of the precipice.

  Jerry Card bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it. Moreover, there
flashed over him a memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or control wildly fierce horses. Wrangle had, indeed, gone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the halfbrute-the more than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. In a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail, leading down into the canon.

  "No, Jerry," whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little, humped, frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast-it was too small. Yet Venters shot-oncetwice-the third time-four times-five! All wasted shots and precious seconds!

  With a deep-muttered, broken curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible, strangling sound. In swift nimbleness of death action he whirled, and, leaping in a last, magnificent stride, he cleared the canon rim. Down-down-down with the little, frog-like shape humped on his neck!

  Unending pause-shock-silence-paralyzed Venters.

  Then up rolled a heavy crash-long roar of sliding rock-rumble dying away in distant echo-into dead silence. Wrangle's race was run.

  Some forty hours or more later, Venters created a commotion in Cottonwoods by riding down the main street on Black Star and leading Bells and Night. He had come upon Bells, grazing near the body of a dead rustler, and no other incident had marked his quick ride into the village. Nothing was further from Venters's mind than bravado. No thought came to him of the defiance and boldness of riding Jane Withersteen's racers straight into the arch-plotter's stronghold. He wanted men to see the famous Arabians; he wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing all the signs of having been driven to their limit; he wanted men to see and to know that the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage had not ridden them back. Venters had come for that, and for more-he wanted to meet Tull face to face-if not Tull, then Dyer-if not Dyer, then anyone in the secret of these master conspirators. Such was Venters's passion. The meeting with the rustlers, the unpresaged attack upon him, the spilling of blood, the recognition of Jerry Card and the horses, the race, and that last plunge of mad Wrangle-all these things, fuel on fuel to the smoldering fire, had kindled and swelled and leaped into living flame. His wrongs Jane's wrongs-Bess's wrongs-all fire, consuming fire! His mind was a seething hell. He could have shot Dyer in the midst of his religious services at the altar; he could have killed Tull in front of wife-wives and babes.

  He walked the three racers down the broad, greenbordered village road. He heard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring. Bitter waters for Jane Withersteen! Men and women stopped to gaze at him and the horses. All knew him, all knew the blacks and the bay. As well as if it had been spoken, Venters read in the faces of men the intelligence that Jane Withersteen's Arabians had been known to have been stolen. Venters reined in and halted before Dyer's residence. It was a low, long, stone structure, resembling Withersteen House. The gracious front yard was green and luxuriant with grass and flowers; a gravel walk led to the huge porch; a well-trimmed hedge of purple sage separated the yard from the church grounds; birds sang in the trees; water flowed musically along the walks; there were glad, careless shouts of children. For Venters, the beauty of this home, and the serenity, and its apparent happiness all turned red and black. For Venters a shade overspread the lawn, the flowers, the old, vine-clad, stone house. In the music of the singing birds-in the murmur of the running water-he heard a presaging warning sound. Where on earth did gaiety of children mean what it meant here? Quiet beauty-sweet musicinnocent laughter! By what monstrous abortion of fate did these abide in the shadow of Dyer?

  Venters rode on and stopped before Tull's cottage. Women stared at him with white faces, and then flew from the porch. Tull himself appeared at the door, but low, craning his neck. His dark face flashed out of sight; the door banged; a heavy bar dropped with hollow sound.

  Then Venters flipped Black Star's bridle and, sharply trotting, led the other horses to the center of the village. Here at the intersecting streets and in front of the stores he halted once more. The usual, lounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was not now in evidence. Riders and ranchers and villagers broke up what must have been absorbing conversation. There was a rush of many feet, and then the walk was lined with faces.

  Venters's glance swept down the line of silent, stone-faced men. He recognized many riders and villagers, but none of those he had hoped to meet. There was not enough expression in the whole crowd to give a single man an animated face. All of them knew him, most were inimical to him, but surely there were few who were not burning up with curiosity and wonder in regard to the return of Jane Withersteen's racers. Yet all were as silent and expressionless as dummies. Here was the thing-that masked feeling-that strange secretiveness-that expressionless expression of mystery and hidden power.

  "Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?" queried Venters in loud voice.

  In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, not so much as dropping eye or twitching lipnothing but a quiet, stony stare.

  "Been under the knife? You've a fine knife-wielder here... one Tull, I believe! Maybe you've all had your tongues cut out?"

  This passionate sarcasm of Venters elicited no response, and the stony calm was as oil on the fire within him.

  "I see some of you pack guns, too!" he added in biting scorn. In the long, tense pause, strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat motionlessly on Black Star. "All right," he went on, "then let some of you take this message to Tull. Tell him I've seen Jerry Card! Tell him Jerry Card will never return!"

  Thereupon, in the same dead calm, Venters backed Black Star into the street and out of range. He was ready now to ride up to Withersteen House and turn the racers over to Jane.

  "Hello, Venters!" cried a familiar voice in hoarse accents, and he saw a man running toward him. It was the rider, Judkins, who came up and gripped Venters's hand. "By God, Venters, I could hev' dropped when I seen them bosses. But that sight ain't a marker to the looks of you. What the hell's wrong? Hev' you gone crazy? You must be crazy to ride in here this way... with them hosses... talkin' that way about Tull an' Jerry Card."

  "Jud, I'm not crazy... only mad clean through," replied Venters.

  "Wal, now, Bern, I'm glad to hear some of your old self in your voice. Fer when you come up, you looked like the corpse of a dead rider with fire fer eyes. You hed thet crowd too stiff fer throwin' guns. Come, we've got to have a talk. Let's go up the lane. We ain't much safe here."

  Judkins mounted Bells, and rode with Venters up to the cottonwood grove. Here they dismounted, and went among the trees.

  "Let's hear from you first," said Judkins. "You fetched back them hosses. Thet is the trick. An', of course, you got Jerry Card the same as you got Horne."

  "Horne!"

  "Sure. He was found dead yesterday, all chewed by coyotes, an' he'd been shot plumb center."

  "Where was he found?"

  "At the split down the trail... you know where Oldring's cattle trail runs off north from the trail to the pass."

  "That's where I met Jerry and the rustlers. What was Horne doing with them? I thought Horne was an honest cattleman."

  "Lord, Bern, don't ask me thet! I'm all muddled now tryin' to figure things."

  Venters told of the fight and the race with Jerry Card and its tragic conclusion.

  "I knew it! I knew all along that Wrangle was the best boss!" exclaimed Judkins with his lean face working and his eyes lighting. "Thet was a race! Lord, I'd like to hev' seen Wrangle jump the cliff with Jerry. An' thet was good-bye to the grandest hoss an' rider ever on the sage! But, Bern, after you got the bosses, why'd you want to bolt right in Tull's face?"

  "I want him to know. An', if I can get to him, I'll...

  "You can't get near Tull," interrupted Judkins. "Thet vigilante bunch hev' takin' to bein' bodyguard for Tull, an' Dyer, too."

  "Hasn't Lassiter made
a break yet?" inquired Venters curiously.

  "Naw!" replied Judkins scornfully. "I'll tell you now what I couldn't tell you when you was... was still engaged to Jane. She turned his head. He's mad in love over her... follers her like a dog. He ain't no more Lassiter! He's lost his nerve. He doesn't look like the same feller. It's village talk. Everybody knows it. He hasn't thrown a gun, an' he won't...