by Zane Grey
CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE HAND
Jane received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his own handwriting,which stated that the abrupt termination of their interview had lefthim in some doubt as to her future conduct. A slight injury hadincapacitated him from seeking another meeting at present, the letterwent on to say, and ended with a request which was virtually a command,that she call upon him at once.
The reading of the letter acquainted Jane Withersteen with the fact thatsomething within her had all but changed. She sent no reply to BishopDyer nor did she go to see him. On Sunday she remained absent from theservice--for the second time in years--and though she did not actuallysuffer there was a dead-lock of feelings deep within her, and thewaiting for a balance to fall on either side was almost as bad assuffering. She had a gloomy expectancy of untoward circumstances,and with it a keen-edged curiosity to watch developments. She hada half-formed conviction that her future conduct--as related to herchurchmen--was beyond her control and would be governed by theirattitude toward her. Something was changing in her, forming, waiting fordecision to make it a real and fixed thing. She had told Lassiter thatshe felt helpless and lost in the fateful tangle of their lives; and nowshe feared that she was approaching the same chaotic condition of mindin regard to her religion. It appalled her to find that she questionedphases of that religion. Absolute faith had been her serenity. Thoughleaving her faith unshaken, her serenity had been disturbed, and nowit was broken by open war between her and her ministers. That somethingwithin her--a whisper--which she had tried in vain to hush had becomea ringing voice, and it called to her to wait. She had transgressedno laws of God. Her churchmen, however invested with the power and theglory of a wonderful creed, however they sat in inexorable judgment ofher, must now practice toward her the simple, common, Christian virtuethey professed to preach, "Do unto others as you would have others dounto you!"
Jane Withersteen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained faithful still.But it was darkness that must soon be pierced by light. If her faithwere justified, if her churchmen were trying only to intimidate her, thefact would soon be manifest, as would their failure, and then she wouldredouble her zeal toward them and toward what had been the best workof her life--work for the welfare and happiness of those among whom shelived, Mormon and Gentile alike. If that secret, intangible power closedits coils round her again, if that great invisible hand moved here andthere and everywhere, slowly paralyzing her with its mystery and itsinconceivable sway over her affairs, then she would know beyond doubtthat it was not chance, nor jealousy, nor intimidation, nor ministerialwrath at her revolt, but a cold and calculating policy thought out longbefore she was born, a dark, immutable will of whose empire she and allthat was hers was but an atom.
Then might come her ruin. Then might come her fall into black storm.Yet she would rise again, and to the light. God would be merciful to adriven woman who had lost her way.
A week passed. Little Fay played and prattled and pulled at Lassiter'sbig black guns. The rider came to Withersteen House oftener than ever.Jane saw a change in him, though it did not relate to his kindness andgentleness. He was quieter and more thoughtful. While playing with Fayor conversing with Jane he seemed to be possessed of another self thatwatched with cool, roving eyes, that listened, listened always as if themurmuring amber stream brought messages, and the moving leaves whisperedsomething. Lassiter never rode Bells into the court any more, nor didhe come by the lane or the paths. When he appeared it was suddenly andnoiselessly out of the dark shadow of the grove.
"I left Bells out in the sage," he said, one day at the end of thatweek. "I must carry water to him."
"Why not let him drink at the trough or here?" asked Jane, quickly.
"I reckon it'll be safer for me to slip through the grove. I've beenwatched when I rode in from the sage."
"Watched? By whom?"
"By a man who thought he was well hid. But my eyes are pretty sharp.An', Jane," he went on, almost in a whisper, "I reckon it'd be a goodidea for us to talk low. You're spied on here by your women."
"Lassiter!" she whispered in turn. "That's hard to believe. My womenlove me."
"What of that?" he asked. "Of course they love you. But they're Mormonwomen."
Jane's old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt.
"I won't believe it," she replied, stubbornly.
"Well then, just act natural an' talk natural, an' pretty soon--givethem time to hear us--pretend to go over there to the table, en' thenquick-like make a move for the door en' open it."
"I will," said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was right; he nevermade mistakes; he would not have told her unless he positively knew. YetJane was so tenacious of faith that she had to see with her own eyes,and so constituted that to employ even such small deceit toward herwomen made her ashamed, and angry for her shame as well as theirs. Thena singular thought confronted her that made her hold up this simpleruse--which hurt her, though it was well justified--against the deceitshe had wittingly and eagerly used toward Lassiter. The difference wasstaggering in its suggestion of that blindness of which he had accusedher. Fairness and justice and mercy, that she had imagined wereanchor-cables to hold fast her soul to righteousness had not been hersin the strange, biased duty that had so exalted and confounded her.
Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and play withFay, to talk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then she made deliberatemention of a book in which she kept records of all pertaining to herstock, and she walked slowly toward the table, and when near the doorshe suddenly whirled and thrust it open. Her sharp action nearly knockeddown a woman who had undoubtedly been listening.
"Hester," said Jane, sternly, "you may go home, and you need not comeback."
Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily, sheput her hand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone, and howthis stab of disloyalty pained her.
"Spies! My own women!... Oh, miserable!" she cried, with flashing,tearful eyes.
"I hate to tell you," he replied. By that she knew he had long sparedher. "It's begun again--that work in the dark."
"Nay, Lassiter--it never stopped!"
So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fled WithersteenHouse and fled forever. The women who owed much to Jane Withersteenchanged not in love for her, nor in devotion to their household work,but they poisoned both by a thousand acts of stealth and cunning andduplicity. Jane broke out once and caught them in strange, stone-faced,unhesitating falsehood. Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgavethem because they were driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, howshe pitied them! What terrible thing bound them and locked theirlips, when they showed neither consciousness of guilt toward theirbenefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart of long-establishedand dear ties?
"The blindness again!" cried Jane Withersteen. "In my sisters as inme!... O God!"
There came a time when no words passed between Jane and her women.Silently they went about their household duties, and secretly they wentabout the underhand work to which they had been bidden. The gloom ofthe house and the gloom of its mistress, which darkened even the brightspirit of little Fay, did not pervade these women. Happiness was notamong them, but they were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened;they received and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane's booksand records, and finally the papers that were deeds of her possessions.Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind of trance. Then one byone, without leave or explanation or farewell, they left WithersteenHouse, and never returned.
Coincident with this disappearance Jane's gardeners and workers in thealfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even asking for their wages.Of all her Mormon employees about the great ranch only Jerd remained. Hewent on with his duty, but talked no more of the change than if it hadnever occurred.
"Jerd," said Jane, "what stock you can't take care of turn out in thesage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night. Keep them inperfect condition. Run
them every day and watch them always."
Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved herpossessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, and thefarms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and the beautiful,ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriad of horses andcolts and burros and fowls down to the smallest rabbit that nipped hervegetables; but she loved best her noble Arabian steeds. In common withall riders of the upland sage Jane cherished two material things--thecold, sweet, brown water that made life possible in the wilderness andthe horses which were a part of that life. When Lassiter asked her whatLassiter would be without his guns he was assuming that his horse waspart of himself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it was hernature to love all beautiful creatures--perhaps all living things; andthen she loved them because she herself was of the sage and in herhad been born and bred the rider's instinct to rely on his four-footedbrother. And when Jane gave Jerd the order to keep her favorites traineddown to the day it was a half-conscious admission that presaged a timewhen she would need her fleet horses.
Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils that wereclosing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the August days began;she required constant care; there was little Fay to look after; and suchhousehold work as was imperative. Lassiter put Bells in the stable withthe other racers, and directed his efforts to a closer attendance uponJane. She welcomed the change. He was always at hand to help, and it washer fortune to learn that his boast of being awkward around women hadits root in humility and was not true.
His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways which awoman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and was of especial helpto her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The woman suffered most at night, andthis often broke Jane's rest. So it came about that Lassiter would stayby Mrs. Larkin during the day, when she needed care, and Jane would makeup the sleep she lost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindlyto the gentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he was,praised him to Jane. "He's a good man and loves children," she said. Howsad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Jane thought lost beyond allredemption! Yet ever and ever Lassiter towered above her, and behindor through his black, sinister figure shone something luminous thatstrangely affected Jane. Good and evil began to seem incomprehensiblyblended in her judgment. It was her belief that evil could not comeforth from good; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentleness,patience, and love any man she had ever known.
She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when early onemorning Judkins presented himself before her in the courtyard.
Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him, withhis leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots worn through onthe stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. He wore two guns andcarried a Winchester.
Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread anddrink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The men exchangedglances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry and Judkins's boldreply, both unspoken, was not lost upon Jane.
"Where's your hoss?" asked Lassiter, aloud.
"Left him down the slope," answered Judkins. "I footed it in a ways, an'slept last night in the sage. I went to the place you told me you 'mossalways slept, but didn't strike you."
"I moved up some, near the spring, an' now I go there nights."
"Judkins--the white herd?" queried Jane, hurriedly.
"Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I've not lost a steer. Fer a goodwhile after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble. Why, eventhe sage dogs left us. But it's begun agin--thet flashin' of lightsover ridge tips, an' queer puffin' of smoke, en' then at night strangewhistles en' noises. But the herd's acted magnificent. An' my boys, say,Miss Withersteen, they're only kids, but I ask no better riders. I gotthe laugh in the village fer takin' them out. They're a wild lot, an'you know boys hev more nerve than grown men, because they don't knowwhat danger is. I'm not denyin' there's danger. But they glory in it,an' mebbe I like it myself--anyway, we'll stick. We're goin' to drivethe herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass. There'sa great round valley over there, an' no ridges or piles of rocks to aidthese stampeders. The rains are due. We'll hev plenty of water fer awhile. An' we can hold thet herd from anybody except Oldrin'. I comein fer supplies. I'll pack a couple of burros an' drive out after darkto-night."
"Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter will helpyou. I--I can't thank you enough... but--wait."
Jane went to the room that had once been her father's, and from a secretchamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag of gold, and, carrying itback to the court, she gave it to the rider.
"There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little for yourloyalty. Give what is fair to your boys, and keep the rest. Hide it.Perhaps that would be wisest."
"Oh... Miss Withersteen!" ejaculated the rider. "I couldn't earn so muchin--in ten years. It's not right--I oughtn't take it."
"Judkins, you know I'm a rich woman. I tell you I've few faithfulfriends. I've fallen upon evil days. God only knows what will become ofme and mine! So take the gold."
She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and left himwith Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first, then inlouder accents emphasized by the thumping of his rifle on the stones."As infernal a job as even you, Lassiter, ever heerd of."
"Why, son," was Lassiter's reply, "this breakin' of Miss Withersteen mayseem bad to you, but it ain't bad--yet. Some of these wall-eyed fellerswho look jest as if they was walkin' in the shadow of Christ himself,right down the sunny road, now they can think of things en' do thingsthat are really hell-bent."
Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there like cagedlioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little Fay reversed herdark thoughts.
The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhile Jane wasresting in the court, a horseman clattered through the grove and up tothe hitching-rack. He leaped off and approached Jane with the mannerof a man determined to execute difficult mission, yet fearful of itsreception. In the gaunt, wiry figure and the lean, brown face Janerecognized one of her Mormon riders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkinshad long since spoken. Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owedher the most, and as he stepped before her, removing his hat and makingmanly efforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered.
"Miss Withersteen, mother's dead," he said.
"Oh--Blake!" exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.
"She died free from pain in the end, and she's buried--resting at last,thank God!... I've come to ride for you again, if you'll have me. Don'tthink I mentioned mother to get your sympathy. When she was livingand your riders quit, I had to also. I was afraid of what might bedone--said to her.... Miss Withersteen, we can't talk of--of what's goingon now--"
"Blake, do you know?"
"I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. But withoutexplanation or excuse I offer my services. I'm a Mormon--I hope a goodone. But--there are some things!... It's no use, Miss Withersteen, Ican't say any more--what I'd like to. But will you take me back?"
"Blake!... You know what it means?"
"I don't care. I'm sick of--of--I'll show you a Mormon who'll be true toyou!"
"But, Blake--how terribly you might suffer for that!"
"Maybe. Aren't you suffering now?"
"God knows indeed I am!"
"Miss Withersteen, it's a liberty on my part to speak so, but I know youpretty well--know you'll never give in. I wouldn't if I were you. AndI--I must--Something makes me tell you the worst is yet to come. That'sall. I absolutely can't say more. Will you take me back--let me ride foryou--show everybody what I mean?"
"Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when theyquit!" Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash down upon herhands. "I thought so much of them--tried so hard to be good to them. Andnot one was true. You've made it
easy to forgive. Perhaps many ofthem really feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, Ihesitate to take you back. Yet I want you so much."
"Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson to Mormonwomen, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is right. I believein you, and here's my life to prove it."
"You hint it may mean your life!" said Jane, breathless and low.
"We won't speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do what everyrider aches in his secret heart to do for you.... Miss Withersteen, Ihoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that my mother on her deathbedtold me to have courage. She knew how the thing galled me--she told meto come back.... Will you take me?"
"God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And will you--will youaccept gold from me?"
"Miss Withersteen!"
"I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If you willnot take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a fewmonths--weeks--days till the storm breaks. Then you'd have nothing, andbe in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm you against poverty, andme against endless regret. I'll give you gold which you can hide--tillsome future time."
"Well, if it pleases you," replied Blake. "But you know I never thoughtof pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see this manLassiter. Is he here?"
"Yes, but, Blake--what--Need you see him? Why?" asked Jane, instantlyworried. "I can speak to him--tell him about you."
"That won't do. I want to--I've got to tell him myself. Where is he?"
"Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I'll call him," answeredJane, and going to the door she softly called for the rider. A faint,musical jingle preceded his step--then his tall form crossed thethreshold.
"Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back to meand he wishes to speak to you."
Blake's brown face turned exceedingly pale.
"Yes, I had to speak to you," he said, swiftly. "My name's Blake. I'm aMormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I've come to beg herto take me back. Now I don't know you; but I know--what you are. SoI've this to say to your face. It would never occur to this woman toimagine--let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn't think itmight just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. JaneWithersteen hasn't that kind of a mind.... Well, I've not come for that.I want to help her--to pull a bridle along with Judkins and--and you.The thing is--do you believe me?"
"I reckon I do," replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speech contrastedwith Blake's hot, impulsive words! "You might have saved some of yourbreath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has met somesquare Mormons! An' mebbe--"
"Blake," interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquythat she perceived was an ordeal for him. "Go at once and fetch me areport of my horses."
"Miss Withersteen!... You mean the big drove--down in the sage-clearedfields?"
"Of course," replied Jane. "My horses are all there, except the bloodedstock I keep here."
"Haven't you heard--then?"
"Heard? No! What's happened to them?"
"They're gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me,and I rode down to see for myself."
"Lassiter--did you know?" asked Jane, whirling to him.
"I reckon so.... But what was the use to tell you?"
It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flagsat his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed.She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such ablow.
"My horses! My horses! What's become of them?"
"Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring.... And I trailedthe horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass."
"My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next. I canstand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like partingwith my own flesh and blood. Lassiter--Blake--am I in danger of losingmy racers?"
"A rustler--or--or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most of allwant the blacks," said Lassiter. His evasive reply was affirmativeenough. The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence.
"Oh! Oh!" Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.
"Let me take charge of the blacks?" asked Blake. "One more rider won'tbe any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star and Night, ifyou put such store on their value."
"Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reason why Imustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every day whenhe runs the horses, and don't let them out of your sight. If you wouldplease me--win my gratitude, guard my black racers."
When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regardedJane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.
"'Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses. NowI ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I everseen. But Bells can beat Night, an' run neck en' neck with Black Star."
"Lassiter, don't tease me now. I'm miserable--sick. Bells is fast, buthe can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only Wrangle can dothat."
"I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels to yourblack racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wranglecould kill your favorites."
"No, no," replied Jane, impatiently. "Lassiter, why do you say thatso often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believe it's onlykindness. You're always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you meanmore by this repeated mention of my racers?"
"I reckon so." Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in herpresence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting thesilver pieces on the band. "Well, Jane, I've sort of read a littlethat's passin' in your mind."
"You think I might fly from my home--from Cottonwoods--from the Utahborder?"
"I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks I wouldn'tlike to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. Iknow Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn't got himnow.... Besides--things are happenin', an' somethin' of the same queernature might have happened to Venters."
"God knows you're right!... Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In my troubleI've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fear for him. I'veheard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf.... As to your reading mythoughts--well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what wasonly one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wildborderland, Lassiter. I've strange dreams. I'm not always practicaland thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance--if Idared--if I dared I'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away withme--and hide me."
"Jane!"
The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seenLassiter's cool calm broken--when he had met little Fay, when he hadlearned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when hehad stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But one and all they could not beconsidered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiterturn white--not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose hiscoolness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into hisarms and crushed her to his breast.
"Lassiter!" cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she tooksole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her. "Forgiveme!" went on Jane. "I'm always forgetting your--your feelings. I thoughtof you as my faithful friend. I'm always making you out more thanhuman... only, let me say--I meant that--about riding away. I'm wretched,sick of this--this--Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!"
"Jane, the hell--of it," he replied, with deep intake of breath, "is youcan't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for my grabbin' you--thatway, as much as the crazy boy's rapture your words gave me. I don'tunderstand myself.... But the hell of this game is--you can't ride away."
"Lassiter!... What on earth do you mean? I'm an absolutely free woman."
"You ain't absolutely anythin' of the kind.... I reckon I've got to tellyou!"
"Tell me all. It's uncer
tainty that makes me a coward. It's faith andhope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every day Iawake believing--still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts,fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into myheart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all, and for myself--Isleep--and I awake free once more, trustful, faithful, to believe--tohope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a thousand years till nightagain!... But if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can't rideaway--tell me what more I'm to lose--tell me the worst."
"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, except whenyou're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. The cottonwoodgrove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indians in the grass. Whenyou rode, which wasn't often lately, the sage was full of sneakin' men.At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an' I reckon intothe house. Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This heregrove's a hummin' bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't somuch that these soles keep out of my way as me keepin' out of theirs.They're goin' to try to kill me. That's plain. But mebbe I'm as hard toshoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit to watchonly. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. You can't getaway--not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, you might. But that'ssure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattle that's left--your homean' ranch--an' Amber Spring. You can't even hide a sack of gold! For itcouldn't be slipped out of the house, day or night, an' hid or buried,let alone be rid off with. You may lose all. I'm tellin' you, Jane,hopin' to prepare you, if the worst does come. I told you once beforeabout that strange power I've got to feel things."
"Lassiter, what can I do?"
"Nothin', I reckon, except know what's comin' an' wait an' be game. Ifyou'd let me make a call on Tull, an' a long-deferred call on--"
"Hush!... Hush!" she whispered.
"Well, even that wouldn't help you any in the end."
"What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean? I am my father's daughter--aMormon, yet I can't see! I've not failed in religion--in duty. For yearsI've given with a free and full heart. When my father died I was rich.If I'm still rich it's because I couldn't find enough ways to becomepoor. What am I, what are my possessions to set in motion such intensityof secret oppression?"
"Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder."
"But, Lassiter, I would give freely--all I own to avert this--thiswretched thing. If I gave--that would leave me with faith still. Surelymy--my churchmen think of my soul? If I lose my trust in them--"
"Child, be still!" said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had in itsomething of pity. "You are a woman, fine en' big an' strong, an' yourheart matches your size. But in mind you're a child. I'll say a littlemore--then I'm done. I'll never mention this again. Among many thousandsof women you're one who has bucked against your churchmen. They triedyou out, an' failed of persuasion, an' finally of threats. You meet nowthe cold steel of a will as far from Christlike as the universe is wide.You're to be broken. Your body's to be held, given to some man, made,if possible, to bring children into the world. But your soul?... What dothey care for your soul?"
