by Zane Grey
CHAPTER VII. THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN
"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him.
"I reckon so," he had replied.
Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they implied. Shewanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges, and savethem if that were possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloudall she meant, she was perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the priceto be paid, she must keep Lassiter close to her; she must shield fromhim the man who had led Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she socontrolled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to herown soul, she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing sheregarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of ahelper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she couldrule this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep himfrom shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and his presenceagainst the game of oppression her churchmen were waging against her?Never would she forget the effect on Tull and his men when Ventersshouted Lassiter's name. If she could not wholly control Lassiter, thenwhat she could do might put off the fatal day.
One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells becauseof the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When Jerd led outthis slender, beautifully built horse Lassiter suddenly became all eyes.A rider's love of a thoroughbred shone in them. Round and round Bells hewalked, plainly weakening all the time in his determination not to takeone of Jane's favorite racers.
"Lassiter, you're half horse, and Bells sees it already," said Jane,laughing. "Look at his eyes. He likes you. He'll love you, too. Howcan you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run! It's nip and tuckbetween him and Wrangle, and only Black Star can beat him. He's toospirited a horse for a woman. Take him. He's yours."
"I jest am weak where a hoss's concerned," said Lassiter. "I'll takehim, an' I'll take your orders, ma'am."
"Well, I'm glad, but never mind the ma'am. Let it still be Jane."
From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, ridingearly and late, and coincident with his part in Jane's affairs the daysassumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligence told her this was onlythe lull before the storm, but her faith would not have it so.
She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these sheencountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any trouble camebetween them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick to forget, methim halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regretted the loss of hercattle; he assured her that the vigilantes which had been organizedwould soon rout the rustlers; when that had been accomplished her riderswould likely return to her.
"You've done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter," Tull wenton, severely. "He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent."
"I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my rider may turn outbest in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods."
"You mean to stay his hand?"
"I do--if I can."
"A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well, andwould atone in some measure for the errors you have made."
He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflicting thoughts.She resented Elder Tull's cold, impassive manner that looked down uponher as one who had incurred his just displeasure. Otherwise he wouldhave been the same calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had knownfor ten years. In fact, except when he had revealed his passion in thematter of the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could beother than the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a strange,secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he had pickedup the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. Was Tull whathe appeared to be? The question flung itself in-voluntarily over JaneWithersteen's inhibitive habit of faith without question. And sherefused to answer it. Tull could not fight in the open. Venters had said,Lassiter had said, that her Elder shirked fight and worked in the dark.Just now in this meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued,exhorted, demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of Venters.His manner was that of the minister who had been outraged, butwho overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemedunutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to bearupon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret power overriders, with night journeys, with rustlers and stampedes of cattle. Andthat convinced her again of unjust suspicions. But it was convincementthrough an obstinate faith. She shuddered as she accepted it, and thatshudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt.
Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main street andentered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling clover, alfalfa,flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy confusion. And like thesefresh green things were the dozens of babies, tots, toddlers, noisyurchins, laughing girls, a whole multitude of children of one family.For Collier Brandt, the father of all this numerous progeny, was aMormon with four wives.
The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque the lowerpart built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with vines growingup the outside stone chimneys. There were many wooden-shuttered windows,and one pretentious window of glass proudly curtained in white. As thishouse had four mistresses, it likewise had four separate sections, notone of which communicated with another, and all had to be entered fromthe outside.
In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found Brandt's wivesentertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly women, of comparativelysimilar ages, and plain-featured, and just at this moment anything butgrave. The Bishop was rather tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hairand beard, and eyes of light blue. They were merry now; but Jane hadseen them when they were not, and then she feared him as she had fearedher father.
The women flocked around her in welcome.
"Daughter of Withersteen," said the Bishop, gaily, as he took her hand,"you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late. A Sabbathwithout you at service! I shall reprove Elder Tull."
"Bishop, the guilt is mine. I'll come to you and confess," Jane replied,lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words.
"Mormon love-making!" exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his hands. "Tullkeeps you all to himself."
"No. He is not courting me."
"What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I'll go a-courting myselfup to Withersteen House."
There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and then mildtalk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, and Jane wasleft with her friend, Mary Brandt.
"Jane, you're not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of thecattle? But you have so many, you are so rich."
Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back her doubts offear.
"Oh, why don't you marry Tull and be one of us?
"But, Mary, I don't love Tull," said Jane, stubbornly.
"I don't blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you've got to choosebetween the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormon women have todo that. It's not easy. The kind of happiness you want I wanted once. Inever got it, nor will you, unless you throw away your soul. We've allwatched your affair with Venters in fear and trembling. Some dreadfulthing will come of it. You don't want him hanged or shot--or treatedworse, as that Gentile boy was treated in Glaze for fooling round aMormon woman. Marry Tull. It's your duty as a Mormon. You'll feel norapture as his wife--but think of Heaven! Mormon women don't marry forwhat they expect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane. Remember your fatherfound Amber Spring, built these old houses, brought Mormons here, andfathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!"
Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. They receivedher with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished upon her thepent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her go with her ears ringingof Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty to God and glory in Heaven.
"Verily," murmured Jane, "I don't know myself when, through all this, Iremain unchanged--nay, more fixed of purpose."
She returned
to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps toward thecenter of the village. A string of wagons drawn by oxen was lumberingalong. These "sage-freighters," as they were called, hauled grain andflour and merchandise from Sterling, and Jane laughed suddenly in themidst of her humility at the thought that they were her property, as wasone of the three stores for which they freighted goods. The water thatflowed along the path at her feet, and turned into each cottage-yard tonourish garden and orchard, also was hers, no less her private propertybecause she chose to give it free. Yet in this village of Cottonwoods,which her father had founded and which she maintained she was not herown mistress; she was not able to abide by her own choice of a husband.She was the daughter of Withersteen. Suppose she proved it, imperiously!But she quelled that proud temptation at its birth.
Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village people hadfor her; no power could have made her happy as the pleasure her presencegave. As she went on down the street past the stores with their rudeplatform entrances, and the saloons where tired horses stood withbridles dragging, she was again assured of what was the bread and wineof life to her--that she was loved. Dirty boys playing in the ditch,clerks, teamsters, riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on dustyhorses, little girls running errands, and women hurrying to the storesall looked up at her coming with glad eyes.
Jane's various calls and wandering steps at length led her to theGentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern end,and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts and shacks andlog-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The fortunes of theseinhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in their abodes. Water they hadin abundance, and therefore grass and fruit-trees and patches of alfalfaand vegetable gardens. Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle,others obtained such intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantlytendered them. But none of the families was prosperous, many were verypoor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen's beneficence.
As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened her tocome in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not because she wasunwelcome; here she was gratefully received by the women, passionatelyby the children. But poverty and idleness, with their attendantwretchedness and sorrow, always hurt her. That she could alleviate thisdistress more now than ever before proved the adage that it was an illwind that blew nobody good. While her Mormon riders were in her employshe had found few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was ableto find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock was it tohave man after man tell her that he dare not accept her kind offer.
"It won't do," said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seen betterdays. "We've had our warning. Plain and to the point! Now there'sJudkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can the daredevilboys he's hired. But they've little responsibility. Can we risk havingour homes burned in our absence?"
Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as theblood left it.
"Carson, you and the others rent these houses?" she asked.
"You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours."
"I know?... Carson, I never in my life took a day's labor for rent or ayearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold."
"Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that."
"Look here, Carson," went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheekswere burning. "You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move yourfamilies up to my cabins in the grove. They're far more comfortable thanthese. Then go to work for me. And if aught happens to you there I'llgive you money--gold enough to leave Utah!"
The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes,he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could everhave equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what he felt for JaneWithersteen. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter!
"No, it won't do," he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself."Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don't know, and there's nota soul among us who can tell you."
"I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you let meaid you--say till better times?"
"Yes, I will," he replied, with his face lighting up. "I see what itmeans to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And if bettertimes ever come, I'll be only too happy to work for you."
"Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day,Carson."
The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, and the lasthabitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the meanest.Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. The broad leaves of awide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards.Like an Indian hut, it had one floor. Round about it were a few scantyrows of vegetables, such as the hand of a weak woman had time andstrength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside thevillage limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her waterfrom the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered theunfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearingtoward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of fourcalled Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, acreature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly.
"Muvver sended for oo," cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, "an' oo nevertome."
"I didn't know, Fay; but I've come now."
Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and shewas dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. Theone thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slimbody. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips; her eyes were violetblue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling goldenhair. All the children of Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen's friends,she loved them all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates,for among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and theMormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild,lonely child.
"Muvver's sick," said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the hut.
Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it wasclean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.
"Mrs. Larkin, how are you?" asked Jane, anxiously.
"I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now."
"You haven't been here all alone--with no one to wait on you?"
"Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in."
"Did you send for me?"
"Yes, several times."
"But I had no word--no messages ever got to me."
"I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill andwould you please come."
A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as shefought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving herconscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spiritrebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of dark underhanddomination, running its secret lines this time into her own household.Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand had begun to runthese dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plaitand weave a web. Jane Withersteen knew it now, and in the realizationfurther coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage ofher ancestors.
"Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad," said Jane. "But may Inot do something for you--a turn at nursing, or send you things, or takecare of Fay?"
"You're so good. Since my husband's been gone what would have become ofFay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak to you.This time I thought surely I'd die, and I was worried about Fay. Well,I'll be around all right shortly, but my strength's gone and I won'tlive long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you've been askingme to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?"
"Indeed yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hope theday--"
"Never mind that. The day'll come--sooner or later. I refused youroffer, and now I'll tell you why."
"I know why," interposed Jane. "It's because you do
n't want her broughtup as a Mormon."
"No, it wasn't altogether that." Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand andlaid it appealingly on Jane's. "I don't like to tell you. But--it'sthis: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care foryou, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women will talk, youknow. It got to the ears of Mormons--gossip of your love for Fay andyour wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy, perhaps,that you wouldn't take Fay as much for love of her as because of yourreligious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to marry."
"That's a damnable lie!" cried Jane Withersteen.
"It was what made me hesitate," went on Mrs. Larkin, "but I neverbelieved it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you--"
"Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, butnever a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me. I lovelittle Fay. If I had her near me I'd grow to worship her. When I askedfor her I thought only of that love.... Let me prove this. You and Faycome to live with me. I've such a big house, and I'm so lonely. I'llhelp nurse you, take care of you. When you're better you can work forme. I'll keep little Fay and bring her up--without Mormon teaching.When she's grown, if she should want to leave me, I'll send her, and notempty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you."
"I knew it was a lie," replied the mother, and she sank back uponher pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. "JaneWithersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful to you. Butbecause you're a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don't knowmuch about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the same."
