by Zane Grey
"What are... what were you to... to Oldring?" he panted fiercely.
"I am his daughter," she replied instantly.
Venters slowly let go of her. There was a violent break in the force of his feeling-then creeping blankness. "What... was it... you said?" he asked in a kind of dull wonder.
"I am his daughter."
"Oldring's daughter?" queried Venters with life gathering in his voice.
"Yes."
With a passionately awakening start he grasped her hands and drew her close. "All the time... you've been Oldring's daughter?"
"Yes, of course, all the time... always."
"But, Bess, you told me... you let me think... I made out you were... so... so... ashamed."
"It is my shame," she said with voice deep and full, and now the scarlet fired her cheek. "I told you... I'm nothing... nameless... just Bess, Oldring's girl."
"I know. I remember. But I never thought...," he went on hurriedly, huskily. "That time... when you lay dying... you prayed... you... somehow I got the idea you were bad."
"Bad?" she asked with a little laugh.
She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment and the absolute unconsciousness of a child. Venters gasped in the gathering might of the truth. She did not understand his meaning.
"Bess! Bess!" He clasped her in his arms, hiding her eyes against his breast. She must not see his face in that moment. And he held her while he looked out across the valley. In his dim and blinded sight, in the blue of golden light and moving mist, he saw Oldring. She was the rustler's nameless daughter. Oldring had loved her. He had so guarded her, so kept her from women and men, and knowledge of life, that her mind was as a child's. That was part of the secret-part of the mystery. That was the wonderful truth-not only was she not bad but good-pure-innocent, above all innocence in the world-the innocence of lonely girlhood. He saw Oldring's magnificent eyes-inquisitive-searchingsoftening. He saw them flare in amazement, in gladness, with love, then suddenly strain in terrible effort of will. He heard Oldring whisper and saw him sway like a log, and fall. Then a million billowing, thundering voicesgunshots of conscience-thunderbolts of remorsedinned horribly in his ears. He had killed Bess's father! Then a rushing wind filled his ears, like the moan of wind in the cliffs, a knell, indeed-Oldring's Knell.
He dropped to his knees and hid his face against Bess and grasped her with the hands of a drowning man.
"My God! My God! Oh! Bess! Forgive me! I'll give you my life. I'll live for you. I'll love you. Oh! I do love you, as no man ever loved a woman. I want you to know... to remember that I fought a fight for you... however blind I was. I thought... I thought... never mind what I thought... but I loved you... I asked you to marry me. Let that... let me have that to hug to my heart. Oh, Bess, I was driven, and I might have known! I could not rest nor sleep, till I had this mystery solved. God... how things work out."
"Bern, you're weak... trembling. You talk wildly!" cried Bess. "You've overdone your strength. There's nothing to forgive. There's no mystery except your love for Inc. You have come back to me!"
And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms and pressed it closely to her throbbing breast.
Little Fay climbed Lassiter's knee. "Does oo love me?" she asked.
Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men, or searching for a supreme test to prove the cavalier.
"Do oo love my new muvver?" she asked with bewildering demureness.
Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.
It was a still drowsy summer afternoon and the three were sitting in the shade on the wooded knoll that faced the sage slope. Little Fay's brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother-the childish, mystic gloom-had passed, and now where Fay was, there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Withersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possession infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Jane divined, little Fay had become a religion.
"Do oo love my new muwer?" repeated Fay.
Lassiter's answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmation.
"Why don't oo marry my new muvver an' be my favver?"
Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter this was the first he had ever been unable to answer.
"Fay... Fay, don't ask questions like that," replied Jane.
«Why~?„
"Because," replied Jane, and she found it strangely embarrassing to meet the child's gaze. It seemed to her that Fay's violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom.
"Oo love him, don't oo?"
"Dear child... run and play," said Jane, "but don't go far. Don't go from this little hill."
Fay pranced off wildly joyous over freedom that had not been granted her for weeks.
"Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?" asked Lassiter.
"Are they?"
"I reckon so. Little Fay there... she sees things as they appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog, an' an Indian an' a dog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right."
"Well, what does Fay see?" asked Jane.
"I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay's mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child an', wantin' to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! You are false in a way, though you're the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say is this. Fay has taken your pretendin' to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. An' her little, formin' mind asks questions. An' the answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So she'll grow up, gradually takin' on that falseness, an' be like the rest of women, an' men, too. An' the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin' to love me when you don't. Things aren't what they seem."
"Lassiter, you're right. A child should be told the absolute truth. But... is that possible? I haven't been able to do it, and all my life I've loved the truth, and I've prided myself upon being beautiful. Maybe that was only egotism. I'm learning much, my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And... and as to caring for you... I think I care a great deal. How much... how little, I couldn't say. My heart is almost broken, Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attempt serious thought, I'm dazed. I don't think. I don't care anymore. I don't pray. Think of that, my friend. But in spite of my numb feeling I believe I'll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God. I'm on the rack now. I'm senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. I'm awaiting the hour."
"It'll soon come, Jane," replied Lassiter soberly. "Then I'm afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an' for years you've been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe as you... that you'll come out of it all a finer woman. I'm waitin', too. An' I'm wonderin'. I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?"
"Lassiter, my dear friend. It's impossible for us to marry."
"Why... as Fay says?" inquired Lassiter with gentle persistence.
"Why? I never thought why. But it's not possible. I am Jane, daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of his grave. I'm of Mormon birth. I'm being broken. But I'm still a Mormon woman. And you... you are Lassiter."
"Mebbe I'm not so much Lassiter as I used to be."
"What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself! You can't change the one habit... the purpose of your life. For you still pack those black guns. You still nurse that terrible blood-spilling passion in your heart."
A smile, like a shadow, flickered acro
ss his face. "No."
"Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you... don't you lie to me. I've great respect for you. I believe you're softened toward most... perhaps all my people except.... But when I speak of your purpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. I don't believe you've changed."
For answer, he unbuckled the heavy cartridge belt, and laid it with the heavy, swinging gun sheaths in her lap.
"Lassiter," Jane whispered as she gazed from him to the black, cold guns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength, defenseless, a smaller man. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, conscious of only one motive-refusal to see this man called craven by his enemies-she rose and, with blundering fingers, buckled the belt around his waist where it belonged. "Lassiter, I am the coward."
"Come with me out of Utah... where I can put away my guns an' be a man," he said. "I reckon I'll prove it to you, then. Come. You've got Black Star back, an' Night, an' Bells. Let's take the racers, an' little Fay, an' ride out of Utah. The bosses and the child are all you have left. Come."
"No, no, Lassiter. I'll never leave Utah. What would I do in the world with my broken fortunes and my broken heart? I'll never leave these purple slopes I love so well."
"I reckon I ought to've known that. Presently you'll be livin' down here in a hovel, an' presently Jane Withersteen will be a memory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you how a man... any man... can be better'n he was. If we left Utah, I could prove... I reckon I could prove this thing you call love. It's strange, an' hell an' heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. 'Pears to me that you've thrown away your big heart on love... love of religion, an' duty an' churchmen, an' riders an' poor families, an' poor children! Yet you can't see what love is... how it changes a person. Listen, an' in tellin' you Milly Erne's story, I'll show you how love changed her.
"Ally an' me was children when our family moved from Missouri to Texas, an' we grew up in Texas ways, same as if we'd been born there. We had been poor, an' there we prospered. In time the little village where we went became a town, an' strangers an' new families kept movin' in. Milly was the belle them days. I can see her now, a little girl no bigger'n a bird, an' as pretty. She had the finest eyes, dark blue... black when she was excited, an' beautiful all the time... you remember Milly's eyes?... an' she had light-brown hair with streaks of gold, an' a mouth that every feller wanted to kiss.
"An' about the time Milly was the prettiest and the sweetest, along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race with the other fellers for Milly. An' he won. Milly always had been strong on religion, an', when she met Frank Erne, she went in heart and soul for the salvation of souls. Fact was Milly, through study of the Bible, an' attendin' church an' revivals, went a little out of her head. It didn't worry the old folks none, an' the only worry to me was Milly's everlastin' prayin' an' workin' to save my soul. She never converted me, but we were the best of comrades, an' I reckon no brother an' sister ever loved each other better. Well, Frank Erne an' me hit up a great friendship. He was a strappin' feller, good to look at, an' had the most pleasin' ways. His religion never bothered me, for he could hunt an' fish an' ride, an' be a good feller. After buffalo once, he come pretty near to savin' my life. We got to be thick as brothers, an' he was the only man I ever seen who I thought was good enough for Milly. An' the day they were married, I got drunk for the only time in my life.
"Soon after that I left home... it seems Milly was the only one who could keep me home... an' I went to the bad, as to prosperin'. I saw some pretty hard life in the Panhandle, an' then I went north. In them days Kansas an' Nebraska was as bad, come to think of it, as these days right here on the border of Utah. I got to be pretty handy with guns. An' there wasn't many riders as could beat me ridin', an' I can say all modest-like that I never seen the white man who could track a hoss or a steer or a man with me. Afore I knew it, two years slipped by, an' all at once I got homesick an' pulled a bridle south.
"Things at home had changed. I never got over that homecomin'. Mother was dead an' in her grave. Father was a silent, broken man, killed already on his feet. Frank Erne was a ghost of his old self, through with workin', through with preachin', almost through with livin'. An' Milly was gone! It was a long time before I got the story. Father had no mind left, an' Frank Erne was afraid to talk. So I had to pick up what'd happened from different people.
"It 'pears that soon after I left home another preacher come to the little town. An' he an' Frank become rivals. This feller was different from Frank. He preached some other kind of religion, an' he was quick an' passionate where Frank was slow an' mild. He went after people, women 'specially. In looks he couldn't compare to Frank Erne, but he had power over women. He had a voice, an' he talked an' talked an' preached an' preached. Milly fell under his influence. She became mightily interested in his religion. Frank had patience with her, as was his way, an' let her be as interested as she liked. All religions were devoted to one God, he said, an' it wouldn't hurt Milly none to study a different point of view. So the new preacher often called on Milly, an' sometimes in Frank's absence. Frank was a cattleman between Sundays.
"Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn't get much light on. A stranger come to town, an' was seen with the preacher. This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice, an' a beard of gold. He had money, an' he 'peared a man of mystery, an' the town went to buzzin', when he disappeared about the same time as a young woman known to be mightily interested in the new preacher's religion. Then, presently, along comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, an' he up an' spots this preacher as a famous Mormon prostelyter. That riled Frank Erne as nothin' ever before, an' from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. An' it ended in Frank goin' to the meetin' house where Milly was listenin', an' before her an' everybody else he called that preacher... called him, well, almost as hard as Venters called Tull here some time back. An' Frank followed up that call with hoss-whippin', an' he drove the proselyter out of town.
"People noticed, so 'twas said, that Milly's sweet disposition changed. Some said she was pinin' after the new religion, an' there was others who said right out that she was pinin' after the Mormon. Anyway, one mornin' Frank rode in from one of his trips to find Milly gone. He had no real near neighbors... livin' a little out of town.... but those who was nearest said a wagon had gone by in the night an' they thought it stopped at her door. Well, tracks always tell, an' there was the wagon tracks an' hoss tracks an' man tracks. The news spread like wildfire that Milly had run off from her husband. Everybody but Frank believed it, an' wasn't slow in tellin' why she run off. Mother had always hated that strange streak of Milly's, takin' up with the new religion as she had, an' she believed Milly ran off with the Mormon. That hastened Mother's death, an' she died unforgivin'. Father wasn't the kind to bow down under disgrace or misfortune, but he had surpassin' love for Milly, an' the loss of her broke him.
"From the minute I heard of Milly's disappearance, I never believed she went off of her own free will. I knew Milly, and I knew she couldn't have done that. I stayed at home a while, tryin' to make Frank Erne talk. But if he heard anythin', then he wouldn't tell it. So I set out to find Milly. An' I tried to get on the trail of that proselyter. I knew, if I ever struck a town he'd visited, that I'd get a trail. I knew, too, that nothin' short of hell would stop his proselytin'. An' I rode from town to town. I had a blind faith that somethin' was guidin' me. As the weeks an' months went by, I grew into a strange sort of a man, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of me. Two years after that, 'way over in a corner of Texas, I struck a town where my man had been. He'd jest left. People said he came to that town without a woman, an', when he left, he went with a woman. I back-trailed my man through Arkansas and Mississippi, an' the old trail got hot again in Texas. I found the town where he first went after leavin' my hometown. An' here I got track of Milly. I found a cabin where she had given birth to a baby. There was no way to tell whether she'd been kept a prisoner there, or not. The feller who owned the place was a mean,
silent sort of a skunk, an', as I was leavin', I jest took a chance an' left my mark on him. Then I went home again.
"It was to find I hadn't any home no more. Father had been dead a year. Frank Erne still lived in the house where Milly had left him. I stayed with him a while, an' I grew old watchin' him. His farm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled, his house weathered till it wouldn't keep out rain or wind. An' Frank set on the porch an' whittled sticks, an' day by day wasted away. There was times when he ranted about like a crazy man, but mostly he was always sittin' an' starin' with eyes that made a man curse. I figured Frank had a secret fear that I needed to know. An' when I told him I'd trailed Milly for near three years, an' had got trace of her, an' saw where she'd had a baby, I thought he'd drop dead at my feet. An' when he'd come 'round more natural-like, he begged me to give up the trail. But he wouldn't explain. So I let him alone, an' watched him day an' night.
'An' I found there was one thing still precious to him, an' it was a little drawer where he kept his papers. This was in the room where he slept. An' it 'peared he seldom slept. But after bein' patient, I got the contents of that drawer an' found his letters from Milly. One was a long letter written a few months after her disappearance. She had been bound an' gagged an' dragged away from her home by three men, an' she named them, Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers to her. She was taken to the little town where I found trace of her two years after. But she didn't send the letter from that town. Outside that town, she was penned in a cave, an' she was black an' blue from beatin', an' she was tied even while her baby was bein' born. 'Feared that the proselyter, who had, of course, come on the scene was not runnin' any risks of losin' her. She went on to say that for a time she was out of her head, an', when she got right again, all that kept her alive was the baby. It was a beautiful baby, she said, an' all she thought an' dreamed of was somehow to get the baby back home and be with Frank, to forget forever the man with the gold beard who was the father, an' the letter ended abrupt, in the middle of a sentence, an' it wasn't signed.
