The Project Gutenberg eBook of Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey

Published：2026-07-31 00:24:27 Source: best fantasy figures for 11 year olds under 30 dollars Author: Quiz Games

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

By Zane Grey

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I.
LASSITER

A sharp clip-clop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died away, and clouds ofyellow dust drifted from under the cottonwoods out over the sage.

Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with dreamy and troubledeyes. A rider had just left her and it was his message that held her thoughtfuland almost sad, awaiting the churchmen who were coming to resent and attack herright to befriend a Gentile.

She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to the littlevillage of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And then she sighed, rememberingthat her father had founded this remotest border settlement of southern Utahand that he had left it to her. She owned all the ground and many of thecottages. Withersteen House was hers, and the great ranch, with its thousandsof cattle, and the swiftest horses of the sage. To her belonged Amber Spring,the water which gave verdure and beauty to the village and made living possibleon that wild purple upland waste. She could not escape being involved bywhatever befell Cottonwoods.

That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually coming in thelives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border. Glaze—StoneBridge—Sterling, villages to the north, had risen against the invasion ofGentile settlers and the forays of rustlers. There had been opposition to theone and fighting with the other. And now Cottonwoods had begun to wake andbestir itself and grown hard.

Jane prayed that the tranquillity and sweetness of her life would not bepermanently disrupted. She meant to do so much more for her people than she haddone. She wanted the sleepy quiet pastoral days to last always. Trouble betweenthe Mormons and the Gentiles of the community would make her unhappy. She wasMormon-born, and she was a friend to poor and unfortunate Gentiles. She wishedonly to go on doing good and being happy. And she thought of what that greatranch meant to her. She loved it all—the grove of cottonwoods, the oldstone house, the amber-tinted water, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses andmustangs, the sleek, clean-limbed, blooded racers, and the browsing herds ofcattle and the lean, sun-browned riders of the sage.

While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward change. The bray ofa lazy burro broke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortingly suggestive ofthe drowsy farmyard, and the open corrals, and the green alfalfa fields. Herclear sight intensified the purple sage-slope as it rolled before her. Lowswells of prairie-like ground sloped up to the west. Dark, lonely cedar-trees,few and far between, stood out strikingly, and at long distances ruins of redrocks. Farther on, up the gradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument,looming dark purple and stretching its solitary, mystic way, a wavering linethat faded in the north. Here to the westward was the light and color andbeauty. Northward the slope descended to a dim line of cañons from which rosean up-flinging of the earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purpleuplands, with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs, and grayescarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoon shadows.

The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question at hand. Agroup of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threw their bridles. Theywere seven in number, and Tull, the leader, a tall, dark man, was an elder ofJane’s church.

“Did you get my message?” he asked, curtly.

“Yes,” replied Jane.

“I sent word I’d give that rider Venters half an hour to come downto the village. He didn’t come.”

“He knows nothing of it;” said Jane. “I didn’t tellhim. I’ve been waiting here for you.”

“Where is Venters?”

“I left him in the courtyard.”

“Here, Jerry,” called Tull, turning to his men, “take thegang and fetch Venters out here if you have to rope him.”

The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily into the grove ofcottonwoods and disappeared in the shade.

“Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?” demanded Jane. “Ifyou must arrest Venters you might have the courtesy to wait till he leaves myhome. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It’sabsurd to accuse Venters of being mixed up in that shooting fray in the villagelast night. He was with me at the time. Besides, he let me take charge of hisguns. You’re only using this as a pretext. What do you mean to do toVenters?”

“I’ll tell you presently,” replied Tull. “But firsttell me why you defend this worthless rider?”

“Worthless!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly. “He’s nothingof the kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There’s not a reason why Ishouldn’t champion him and every reason why I should. It’s nolittle shame to me, Elder Tull, that through my friendship he has roused theenmity of my people and become an outcast. Besides I owe him eternal gratitudefor saving the life of little Fay.”

“I’ve heard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend toadopt her. But—Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!”

“Yes. But, Elder, I don’t love the Mormon children any less becauseI love a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother will give her tome.”

“I’m not so much against that. You can give the child Mormonteaching,” said Tull. “But I’m sick of seeing this fellowVenters hang around you. I’m going to put a stop to it. You’ve somuch love to throw away on these beggars of Gentiles that I’ve an ideayou might love Venters.”

Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not be brooked andwith the passion of a man in whom jealousy had kindled a consuming fire.

“Maybe I do love him,” said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stirher heart. “I’d never thought of that. Poor fellow! he certainlyneeds some one to love him.”

“This’ll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that,”returned Tull, grimly.

Tull’s men appeared under the cottonwoods and led a young man out intothe lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood tall andstraight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the muscles of his bound armsrippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent on Tull.

For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters’s real spirit. Shewondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooled to thesobering sense of the issue at stake.

“Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?” askedTull, tensely.

“Why?” rejoined the rider.

“Because I order it.”

Venters laughed in cool disdain.

The red leaped to Tull’s dark cheek.

“If you don’t go it means your ruin,” he said, sharply.

“Ruin!” exclaimed Venters, passionately. “Haven’t youalready ruined me? What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I hadhorses and cattle of my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when Icome into the village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me.You trail me as if I were a rustler. I’ve no more to lose—except mylife.”

“Will you leave Utah?”

“Oh! I know,” went on Venters, tauntingly, “it galls you, theidea of beautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You wanther all yourself. You’re a wiving Mormon. You have use for her—andWithersteen House and Amber Spring and seven thousand head of cattle!”

Tull’s hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of hisneck.

“Once more. Will you go?”

“No!”

“Then I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life,”replied Tull, harshly. “I’ll turn you out in the sage. And if youever come back you’ll get worse.”

Venters’s agitated face grew coldly set and the bronze changed to gray.

Jane impulsively stepped forward. “Oh! Elder Tull!” she cried.“You won’t do that!”

Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her.

“That’ll do from you. Understand, you’ll not be allowed tohold this boy to a friendship that’s offensive to your Bishop. JaneWithersteen, your father left you wealth and power. It has turned your head.You haven’t yet come to see the place of Mormon women. We’vereasoned with you, borne with you. We’ve patiently waited. We’velet you have your fling, which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormonwoman. But you haven’t come to your senses. Now, once for all, youcan’t have any further friendship with Venters. He’s going to bewhipped, and he’s got to leave Utah!”

“Oh! Don’t whip him! It would be dastardly!” implored Jane,with slow certainty of her failing courage.

Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she had feigned aboldness which she did not possess. He loomed up now in different guise, not asa jealous suitor, but embodying the mysterious despotism she had known fromchildhood—the power of her creed.

“Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go out inthe sage?” asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was more thaninhuman, yet seemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam of righteousness.

“I’ll take it here—if I must,” said Venters. “Butby God!—Tull you’d better kill me outright. That’ll be a dearwhipping for you and your praying Mormons. You’ll make me anotherLassiter!”

The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull’s face,might have been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty. Butthere was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personal andsinister, a deep of himself, an engulfing abyss. As his religious mood wasfanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless.

“Elder, I—I repent my words,” Jane faltered. The religion inher, the long habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spokein her voice. “Spare the boy!” she whispered.

“You can’t save him now,” replied Tull stridently.

Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth, whensuddenly there came, in inward constriction, a hardening of gentle forceswithin her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all that had been softand weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something new and unintelligible.Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes. Jane Withersteen loved thatwild and purple wilderness. In times of sorrow it had been her strength, inhappiness its beauty was her continual delight. In her extremity she foundherself murmuring, “Whence cometh my help!” It was a prayer, as ifforth from those lonely purple reaches and walls of red and clefts of bluemight ride a fearless man, neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold upa restraining hand in the faces of her ruthless people.

The restless movements of Tull’s men suddenly quieted down. Then followeda low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation.

“Look!” said one, pointing to the west.

“A rider!”

Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against the westernsky, coming riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from the left, in thegolden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till close at hand. An answerto her prayer!

“Do you know him? Does any one know him?” questioned Tull,hurriedly.

His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads.

“He’s come from far,” said one.

“Thet’s a fine hoss,” said another.

“A strange rider.”

“Huh! he wears black leather,” added a fourth.

With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Tull stepped forward in such a waythat he concealed Venters.

The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slipping actionappeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement inits quickness and inasmuch that while performing it the rider did not swerve inthe slightest from a square front to the group before him.

“Look!” hoarsely whispered one of Tull’s companions.“He packs two black-butted guns—low down—they’re hardto see—black akin them black chaps.”

“A gun-man!” whispered another. “Fellers, careful now aboutmovin’ your hands.”

The stranger’s slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner ofgait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking; yet, as well, itcould have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances with men.

“Hello, stranger!” called Tull. No welcome was in this greetingonly a gruff curiosity.

The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero cast adark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tull and hiscomrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax.

“Evenin’, ma’am,” he said to Jane, and removed hissombrero with quaint grace.

Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctively andwhich riveted her attention. It had all the characteristics of the rangerider’s—the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the setchangelessness that came from years of silence and solitude. But it was notthese which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, apiercing wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the man was forever looking forthat which he never found. Jane’s subtle woman’s intuition, even inthat brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, a secret.

“Jane Withersteen, ma’am?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she replied.

“The water here is yours?”

“Yes.”

“May I water my horse?”

“Certainly. There’s the trough.”

“But mebbe if you knew who I was—” He hesitated, with hisglance on the listening men. “Mebbe you wouldn’t let me waterhim—though I ain’t askin’ none for myself.”

“Stranger, it doesn’t matter who you are. Water your horse. And ifyou are thirsty and hungry come into my house.”

“Thanks, ma’am. I can’t accept for myself—but for mytired horse—”

Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements on the partof Tull’s men broke up the little circle, exposing the prisoner Venters.

“Mebbe I’ve kind of hindered somethin’—for a fewmoments, perhaps?” inquired the rider.

“Yes,” replied Jane Withersteen, with a throb in her voice.

She felt the drawing power of his eyes; and then she saw him look at the boundVenters, and at the men who held him, and their leader.

“In this here country all the rustlers an’ thieves an’cut-throats an’ gun-throwers an’ all-round no-good men jest happento be Gentiles. Ma’am, which of the no-good class does that young fellerbelong to?”

“He belongs to none of them. He’s an honest boy.”

“You knowthat, ma’am?”

“Yes—yes.”

“Then what has he done to get tied up that way?”

His clear and distinct question, meant for Tull as well as for JaneWithersteen, stilled the restlessness and brought a momentary silence.

“Ask him,” replied Jane, her voice rising high.

The rider stepped away from her, moving out with the same slow, measured stridein which he had approached, and the fact that his action placed her wholly toone side, and him no nearer to Tull and his men, had a penetratingsignificance.

“Young feller, speak up,” he said to Venters.

“Here stranger, this’s none of your mix,” began Tull.“Don’t try any interference. You’ve been asked to drink andeat. That’s more than you’d have got in any other village of theUtah border. Water your horse and be on your way.”

“Easy—easy—I ain’t interferin’ yet,”replied the rider. The tone of his voice had undergone a change. A differentman had spoken. Where, in addressing Jane, he had been mild and gentle, now,with his first speech to Tull, he was dry, cool, biting. “I’ve leststumbled onto a queer deal. Seven Mormons all packin’ guns, an’ aGentile tied with a rope, an’ a woman who swears by his honesty! Queer,ain’t that?”

“Queer or not, it’s none of your business,” retorted Tull.

“Where I was raised a woman’s word was law. I ain’t quiteoutgrowed that yet.”

Tull fumed between amaze and anger.

“Meddler, we have a law here something different from woman’swhim—Mormon law!... Take care you don’t transgress it.”

“To hell with your Mormon law!”

The deliberate speech marked the rider’s further change, this time fromkindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a transformation in Tulland his companions. The leader gasped and staggered backward at a blasphemousaffront to an institution he held most sacred. The man Jerry, holding thehorses, dropped the bridles and froze in his tracks. Like posts the other menstood watchful-eyed, arms hanging rigid, all waiting.

“Speak up now, young man. What have you done to be roped that way?”

“It’s a damned outrage!” burst out Venters. “I’vedone no wrong. I’ve offended this Mormon Elder by being a friend to thatwoman.”

“Ma’am, is it true—what he says?” asked the rider ofJane, but his quiveringly alert eyes never left the little knot of quiet men.

“True? Yes, perfectly true,” she answered.

“Well, young man, it seems to me that bein’ a friend to such awoman would be what you wouldn’t want to help an’ couldn’thelp.... What’s to be done to you for it?”

“They intend to whip me. You know what that means—in Utah!”

“I reckon,” replied the rider, slowly.

With his gray glance cold on the Mormons, with the restive bit-champing of thehorses, with Jane failing to repress her mounting agitations, with Ventersstanding pale and still, the tension of the moment tightened. Tull broke thespell with a laugh, a laugh without mirth, a laugh that was only a soundbetraying fear.

“Come on, men!” he called.

Jane Withersteen turned again to the rider.

“Stranger, can you do nothing to save Venters?”

“Ma’am, you ask me to save him—from your own people?”

“Ask you? I beg of you!”

“But you don’t dream who you’re askin’.”

“Oh, sir, I pray you—save him!”

“These are Mormons, an’ I...”

“At—at any cost—save him. For I—I care for him!”

Tull snarled. “You love-sick fool! Tell your secrets. There’ll be away to teach you what you’ve never learned.... Come men out ofhere!”

“Mormon, the young man stays,” said the rider.

Like a shot his voice halted Tull.

“What!”

“Who’ll keep him? He’s my prisoner!” cried Tull, hotly.“Stranger, again I tell you—don’t mix here. You’vemeddled enough. Go your way now or—”

“Listen!... He stays.”

Absolute certainty, beyond any shadow of doubt, breathed in the rider’slow voice.

“Who are you? We are seven here.”

The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular in that itleft him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the big black gun-sheathsswung round to the fore.

“Lassiter!”

It was Venters’s wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the fatefulconnection between the rider’s singular position and the dreaded name.

Tull put out a groping hand. The life of his eyes dulled to the gloom withwhich men of his fear saw the approach of death. But death, while it hoveredover him, did not descend, for the rider waited for the twitching fingers, thedownward flash of hand that did not come. Tull, gathering himself together,turned to the horses, attended by his pale comrades.

CHAPTER II.
COTTONWOODS

Venters appeared too deeply moved to speak the gratitude his face expressed.And Jane turned upon the rescuer and gripped his hands. Her smiles and tearsseemingly dazed him. Presently as something like calmness returned, she went toLassiter’s weary horse.

“I will water him myself,” she said, and she led the horse to atrough under a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers she loosened the bridleand removed the bit. The horse snorted and bent his head. The trough was ofsolid stone, hollowed out, moss-covered and green and wet and cool, and theclear brown water that fed it spouted and splashed from a wooden pipe.

“He has brought you far to-day?”

“He has brought you far to-day?”

“Yes, ma’am, a matter of over sixty miles, mebbe seventy.”

“A long ride—a ride that—Ah, he is blind!”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Lassiter.

“What blinded him?”

“Some men once roped an’ tied him, an’ then held white-ironclose to his eyes.”

“Oh! Men? You mean devils.... Were they yourenemies—Mormons?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“To take revenge on a horse! Lassiter, the men of my creed areunnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess it. They have beendriven, hated, scourged till their hearts have hardened. But we women hope andpray for the time when our men will soften.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am—that time will nevercome.”

“Oh, it will!... Lassiter, do you think Mormon women wicked? Has yourhand been against them, too?”

“No. I believe Mormon women are the best and noblest, the mostlong-sufferin’, and the blindest, unhappiest women on earth.”

“Ah!” She gave him a grave, thoughtful look. “Then you willbreak bread with me?”

Lassiter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his weight from one legto another, and turned his sombrero round and round in his hands.“Ma’am,” he began, presently, “I reckon your kindnessof heart makes you overlook things. Perhaps I ain’t well knownhereabouts, but back up North there’s Mormons who’d rest uneasy intheir graves at the idea of me sittin’ to table with you.”

“I dare say. But—will you do it, anyway?” she asked.

“Mebbe you have a brother or relative who might drop in an’ beoffended, an’ I wouldn’t want to—”

“I’ve not a relative in Utah that I know of. There’s no onewith a right to question my actions.” She turned smilingly to Venters.“You will come in, Bern, and Lassiter will come in. We’ll eat andbe merry while we may.”

“I’m only wonderin’ if Tull an’ his men’ll raisea storm down in the village,” said Lassiter, in his last weakening stand.

“Yes, he’ll raise the storm—after he has prayed,”replied Jane. “Come.”

She led the way, with the bridle of Lassiter’s horse over her arm. Theyentered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by great low-branchingcottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun sent golden bars through theleaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrast to sage-tired eyes.Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a tree-top somewhere a robinsang its evening song, and on the still air floated the freshness and murmur offlowing water.

The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cottonwoods, and was a flat,long, red-stone structure with a covered court in the center through whichflowed a lively stream of amber-colored water. In the massive blocks of stoneand heavy timbers and solid doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who hadbuilded against pillage and time; and in the flowers and mosses lining thestone-bedded stream, in the bright colors of rugs and blankets on the courtfloor, and the cozy corner with hammock and books and the clean-linened table,showed the grace of a daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand.

Jane turned Lassiter’s horse loose in the thick grass. “You willwant him to be near you,” she said, “or I’d have him taken tothe alfalfa fields.” At her call appeared women who began at once tobustle about, hurrying to and fro, setting the table. Then Jane, excusingherself, went within.

She passed through a huge low ceiled chamber, like the inside of a fort, andinto a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed in an old open fireplace,and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort as was manifested inthe home-like outer court; moreover, it was warm and rich in soft hues.

Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking into her mirror. Sheknew she loved the reflection of that beauty which since early childhood shehad never been allowed to forget. Her relatives and friends, and later a hordeof Mormon and Gentile suitors, had fanned the flame of natural vanity in her.So that at twenty-eight she scarcely thought at all of her wonderful influencefor good in the little community where her father had left her practically itsbeneficent landlord, but cared most for the dream and the assurance and theallurement of her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into her glass withmore than the usual happy motive, without the usual slight conscious smile. Forshe was thinking of more than the desire to be fair in her own eyes, in thoseof her friend; she wondered if she were to seem fair in the eyes of thisLassiter, this man whose name had crossed the long, wild brakes of stone andplains of sage, this gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a killerof Mormons. It was not now her usual half-conscious vain obsession thatactuated her as she hurriedly changed her riding-dress to one of white, andthen looked long at the stately form with its gracious contours, at the fairface with its strong chin and full firm lips, at the dark-blue, proud, andpassionate eyes.

“If by some means I can keep him here a few days, a week—he willnever kill another Mormon,” she mused. “Lassiter!... I shudder whenI think of that name, of him. But when I look at the man I forget who heis—I almost like him. I remember only that he saved Bern. He hassuffered. I wonder what it was—did he love a Mormon woman once? Howsplendidly he championed us poor misunderstood souls! Somehow heknows—much.”

Jane Withersteen joined her guests and bade them to her board. Dismissing herwoman, she waited upon them with her own hands. It was a bountiful supper and astrange company. On her right sat the ragged and half-starved Venters; andthough blind eyes could have seen what he counted for in the sum of herhappiness, yet he looked the gloomy outcast his allegiance had made him, andabout him there was the shadow of the ruin presaged by Tull. On her left satblack-leather-garbed Lassiter looking like a man in a dream. Hunger was notwith him, nor composure, nor speech, and when he twisted in frequent unquietmovements the heavy guns that he had not removed knocked against thetable-legs. If it had been otherwise possible to forget the presence ofLassiter those telling little jars would have rendered it unlikely. And JaneWithersteen talked and smiled and laughed with all the dazzling play of lipsand eyes that a beautiful, daring woman could summon to her purpose.

When the meal ended, and the men pushed back their chairs, she leaned closer toLassiter and looked square into his eyes.

“Why did you come to Cottonwoods?”

Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as if he had justremembered himself and had tarried longer than his wont.

“Ma’am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevadafor—somethin’. An’ through your name I learned where to findit—here in Cottonwoods.”

“My name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first.Well, tell me where you heard it and from whom?”

“At the little village—Glaze, I think it’s called—somefifty miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a Gentile, a riderwho said you’d know where to tell me to find—”

“What?” she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off.

“Milly Erne’s grave,” he answered low, and the words camewith a wrench.

Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Jane slowlyraised herself in white, still wonder.

“Milly Erne’s grave?” she echoed, in a whisper. “Whatdo you know of Milly Erne, my best-beloved friend—who died in my arms?What were you to her?”

“Did I claim to be anythin’?” he inquired. “I knowpeople—relatives—who have long wanted to know where she’sburied, that’s all.”

“Relatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother who was shotin Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne’s grave is in a secret burying-ground onmy property.”

“Will you take me there?... You’ll be offendin’ Mormons worsethan by breakin’ bread with me.”

“Indeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. To-morrow,perhaps.”

“Thank you, Jane Withersteen,” replied the rider, and he bowed toher and stepped backward out of the court.

“Will you not stay—sleep under my roof?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, an’ thanks again. I never sleep indoors.An’ even if I did there’s that gatherin’ storm in the villagebelow. No, no. I’ll go to the sage. I hope you won’t suffer nonefor your kindness to me.”

“Lassiter,” said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, “my bedtoo, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there.”

“Mebbe so. But the sage is wide an’ I won’t be near. Goodnight.”

At Lassiter’s low whistle the black horse whinnied, and carefully pickedhis blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walked besidehim, leading him by touch of hand and together they passed slowly into theshade of the cottonwoods.

“Jane, I must be off soon,” said Venters. “Give me my guns.If I’d had my guns—”

“Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead,”she interposed.

“Tull would be—surely.”

“Oh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach youforebearance, mercy? Bern, it’s divine to forgive your enemies.‘Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath.’”

“Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion—after to-day. To-daythis strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I’ll die aman!... Give me my guns.”

Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy cartridge-belt andgun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed to him, and as he buckledon the belt she stood before him in silent eloquence.

“Jane,” he said, in gentler voice, “don’t look so.I’m not going out to murder your churchman. I’ll try to avoid himand all his men. But can’t you see I’ve reached the end of my rope?Jane, you’re a wonderful woman. Never was there a woman so unselfish andgood. Only you’re blind in one way.... Listen!”

From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses in a rapid trot.

“Some of your riders,” he continued. “It’s getting timefor the night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talkthere.”

It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading cottonwoods shadowswere obscuring the lanes. Venters drew Jane off from one of these into ashrub-lined trail, just wide enough for the two to walk abreast, and in aroundabout way led her far from the house to a knoll on the edge of the grove.Here in a secluded nook was a bench from which, through an opening in thetree-tops, could be seen the sage-slope and the wall of rock and the dim linesof cañons. Jane had not spoken since Venters had shocked her with his firstharsh speech; but all the way she had clung to his arm, and now, as he stoppedand laid his rifle against the bench, she still clung to him.

“Jane, I’m afraid I must leave you.”

“Bern!” she cried.

“Yes, it looks that way. My position is not a happy one—Ican’t feel right—I’ve lost all—”

“I’ll give you anything you—”

“Listen, please. When I say loss I don’t mean what you think. Imean loss of good-will, good name—that which would have enabled me tostand up in this village without bitterness. Well, it’s too late.... Now,as to the future, I think you’d do best to give me up. Tull isimplacable. You ought to see from his intention to-day that—But youcan’t see. Your blindness—your damned religion!... Jane, forgiveme—I’m sore within and something rankles. Well, I fear thatinvisible hand will turn its hidden work to your ruin.”

“Invisible hand? Bern!”

“I mean your Bishop.” Venters said it deliberately and would notrelease her as she started back. “He’s the law. The edict wentforth to ruin me. Well, look at me! It’ll now go forth to compel you tothe will of the Church.”

“You wrong Bishop Dyer. Tull is hard, I know. But then he has been inlove with me for years.”

“Oh, your faith and your excuses! You can’t see what Iknow—and if you did see it you’d not admit it to save your life.That’s the Mormon of you. These elders and bishops will do absolutely anydeed to go on building up the power and wealth of their church, their empire.Think of what they’ve done to the Gentiles here, to me—think ofMilly Erne’s fate!”

“What do you know of her story?”

“I know enough—all, perhaps, except the name of the Mormon whobrought her here. But I must stop this kind of talk.”

She pressed his hand in response. He helped her to a seat beside him on thebench. And he respected a silence that he divined was full of woman’sdeep emotion beyond his understanding.

It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset brightened momentarilybefore yielding to twilight. And for Venters the outlook before him was in somesense similar to a feeling of his future, and with searching eyes he studiedthe beautiful purple, barren waste of sage. Here was the unknown and theperilous. The whole scene impressed Venters as a wild, austere, and mightymanifestation of nature. And as it somehow reminded him of his prospect inlife, so it suddenly resembled the woman near him, only in her there weregreater beauty and peril, a mystery more unsolvable, and something namelessthat numbed his heart and dimmed his eye.

“Look! A rider!” exclaimed Jane, breaking the silence. “Canthat be Lassiter?”

Venters moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman showed dark on thesky-line, then merged into the color of the sage.

“It might be. But I think not—that fellow was coming in. One ofyour riders, more likely. Yes, I see him clearly now. And there’sanother.”

“I see them, too.”

“Jane, your riders seem as many as the bunches of sage. I ran into fiveyesterday ’way down near the trail to Deception Pass. They were with thewhite herd.”

“You still go to that cañon? Bern, I wish you wouldn’t. Oldringand his rustlers live somewhere down there.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Tull has already hinted to your frequent trips into DeceptionPass.”

“I know.” Venters uttered a short laugh. “He’ll make arustler of me next. But, Jane, there’s no water for fifty miles after Ileave here, and the nearest is in the cañon. I must drink and water my horse.There! I see more riders. They are going out.”

“The red herd is on the slope, toward the Pass.”

Twilight was fast falling. A group of horsemen crossed the dark line of lowground to become more distinct as they climbed the slope. The silence broke toa clear call from an incoming rider, and, almost like the peal of ahunting-horn, floated back the answer. The outgoing riders moved swiftly, camesharply into sight as they topped a ridge to show wild and black above thehorizon, and then passed down, dimming into the purple of the sage.

“I hope they don’t meet Lassiter,” said Jane.

“So do I,” replied Venters. “By this time the riders of thenight shift know what happened to-day. But Lassiter will likely keep out oftheir way.”

“Bern, who is Lassiter? He’s only a name to me—a terriblename.”

“Who is he? I don’t know, Jane. Nobody I ever met knows him. Hetalks a little like a Texan, like Milly Erne. Did you note that?”

“Yes. How strange of him to know of her! And she lived here ten years andhas been dead two. Bern, what do you know of Lassiter? Tell me what he hasdone—why you spoke of him to Tull—threatening to become anotherLassiter yourself?”

“Jane, I only heard things, rumors, stories, most of which I disbelieved.At Glaze his name was known, but none of the riders or ranchers I knew thereever met him. At Stone Bridge I never heard him mentioned. But at Sterling andvillages north of there he was spoken of often. I’ve never been in avillage which he had been known to visit. There were many conflicting storiesabout him and his doings. Some said he had shot up this and that Mormonvillage, and others denied it. I’m inclined to believe he has, and youknow how Mormons hide the truth. But there was one feature about Lassiter uponwhich all agree—that he was what riders in this country call a gun-man.He’s a man with a marvelous quickness and accuracy in the use of a Colt.And now that I’ve seen him I know more. Lassiter was born without fear. Iwatched him with eyes which saw him my friend. I’ll never forget themoment I recognized him from what had been told me of his crouch before thedraw. It was then I yelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull’slife. At any rate, I know this, between Tull and death then there was not thebreadth of the littlest hair. If he or any of his men had moved a fingerdownward—”

Venters left his meaning unspoken, but at the suggestion Jane shuddered.

The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging of twilight intonight. The sage now spread out black and gloomy. One dim star glimmered in thesouthwest sky. The sound of trotting horses had ceased, and there was silencebroken only by a faint, dry pattering of cottonwood leaves in the soft nightwind.

Into this peace and calm suddenly broke the high-keyed yelp of a coyote, andfrom far off in the darkness came the faint answering note of a trailing mate.

“Hello! the sage-dogs are barking,” said Venters.

“I don’t like to hear them,” replied Jane. “At night,sometimes when I lie awake, listening to the long mourn or breaking bark orwild howl, I think of you asleep somewhere in the sage, and my heartaches.”

“Jane, you couldn’t listen to sweeter music, nor could I have abetter bed.”

“Just think! Men like Lassiter and you have no home, no comfort, no rest,no place to lay your weary heads. Well!... Let us be patient. Tull’sanger may cool, and time may help us. You might do some service to thevillage—who can tell? Suppose you discovered the long-unknownhiding-place of Oldring and his band, and told it to my riders? That woulddisarm Tull’s ugly hints and put you in favor. For years my riders havetrailed the tracks of stolen cattle. You know as well as I how dearlywe’ve paid for our ranges in this wild country. Oldring drives our cattledown into the network of deceiving cañons, and somewhere far to the north oreast he drives them up and out to Utah markets. If you will spend time inDeception Pass try to find the trails.”

“Jane, I’ve thought of that. I’ll try.”

“I must go now. And it hurts, for now I’ll never be sure of seeingyou again. But to-morrow, Bern?”

“To-morrow surely. I’ll watch for Lassiter and ride in withhim.”

“Good night.”

Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape that soon vanished inthe shadows.

Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she had reached thehouse, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly slipped through thebushes, down the knoll, and on under the dark trees to the edge of the grove.The sky was now turning from gray to blue; stars had begun to lighten theearlier blackness; and from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind,fragrant with the breath of sage. Keeping close to the edge of the cottonwoods,he went swiftly and silently westward. The grove was long, and he had notreached the end when he heard something that brought him to a halt. Low paddedthuds told him horses were coming this way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting,listening. Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to his amazement hedescried horsemen near at hand. They were riding along the border of the sage,and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses were muffled. Then the palestarlight afforded him indistinct sight of the riders. But his eyes were keenand used to the dark, and by peering closely he recognized the huge bulk andblack-bearded visage of Oldring and the lithe, supple form of therustler’s lieutenant, a masked rider. They passed on; the darknessswallowed them. Then, farther out on the sage, a dark, compact body of horsemenwent by, almost without sound, almost like specters, and they, too, melted intothe night.

CHAPTER III.
AMBER SPRING

No unusual circumstance was it for Oldring and some of his men to visitCottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to prowl about in the darkwith the hoofs of his horses muffled meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover,to Venters the presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especiallyominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode through thevillage, and when he did ride through it was swiftly; riders seldom met by dayon the sage, but wherever he rode there always followed deeds as dark andmysterious as the mask he wore. Oldring’s band did not confine themselvesto the rustling of cattle.

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this chance meeting,and not for many moments did he consider it safe to move on. Then, with suddenimpulse, he turned the other way and went back along the grove. When he reachedthe path leading to Jane’s home he decided to go down to the village. Sohe hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove he entered theone and only street. It was wide, lined with tall poplars, and under each rowof trees, inside the foot-path, were ditches where ran the water from JaneWithersteen’s spring.

Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far down flaredbright windows of the village stores. When Venters got closer to these he sawknots of men standing together in earnest conversation. The usual lounging onthe corners and benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadowVenters went closer and closer until he could hear voices. But he could notdistinguish what was said. He recognized many Mormons, and looked hard for Tulland his men, but looked in vain. Venters concluded that the rustlers had notpassed along the village street. No doubt these earnest men were discussingLassiter’s coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull’s intentiontoward himself that day had not been and would not be revealed.

So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracing hissteps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer’s home next to it was also dark,and likewise Tull’s cottage. Upon almost any night at this hour therewould be lights here, and Venters marked the unusual omission.

As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he once moreslunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently he descried two mountedmen riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Again the starlight,brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull’s stalwart figure, andbeside him the short, froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, andthey rode on to disappear.

Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of the day,trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughts overwhelmed him. Upin that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been his friend. And he skulked abouther home, gripping a gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or peopleor purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret power. Noqueen could have given more royally out of a bounteous store than JaneWithersteen gave her people, and likewise to those unfortunates whom her peoplehated. She asked only the divine right of all women—freedom; to love andto live as her heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.

“For years I’ve seen a storm clouding over her and the village ofCottonwoods,” muttered Venters, as he strode on. “Soon it’llburst. I don’t like the prospects.” That night the villagerswhispered in the street—and night-riding rustlers muffledhorses—and Tull was at work in secret—and out there in the sage hida man who meant something terrible—Lassiter!

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage, climbed thegradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a western star. From time totime he stopped to listen and heard only the usual familiar bark of coyote andsweep of wind and rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed updarkly somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly. Out ofthe rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him. He climbed over rough,broken rock, picking his way carefully, and then went down. Here it was darker,and sheltered from the wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, andthis one was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal awokeand thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle for a pillow,rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the stars. The white dogsnuggled close to him. The other whined and pattered a few yards to the rise ofground and there crouched on guard. And in that wild covert Venters shut hiseyes under the great white stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparingtheir loneliness to his own, and fell asleep.

When he awoke, day had dawned and all about him was bright steel-gray. The airhad a cold tang. Arising, he greeted the fawning dogs and stretched his crampedbody, and then, gathering together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted afire. Strips of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served him and thedogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing else in his outfit; he hadgrown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the fire, palms outspread, andwaited. Waiting had been his chief occupation for months, and he scarcely knewwhat he waited for unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensedaction in the immediate present; the day promised another meeting with Lassiterand Jane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he meant to take thetrail to Deception Pass.

And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring and Whitie; theywere sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound, superb in build, perfectlytrained. It seemed that in his fallen fortunes these dogs understood the natureof their value to him, and governed their affection and faithfulnessaccordingly. Whitie watched him with somber eyes of love, and Ring, crouched onthe little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun rose, thewhite dog took the place of the other, and Ring went to sleep at hismaster’s feet.

By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his meager packtogether, then climbed out to look for his horse. He saw him, presently, alittle way off in the sage, and went to fetch him. In that country, where everyrider boasted of a fine mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbredsdotted the wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof ofhis misfortunes.

Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and, stick in handand idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight filled the valley with purplefire. Before him, to left, to right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like lowswells of a purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods, agreen patch on the purple, gleamed the dull red of Jane Withersteen’s oldstone house. And from there extended the wide green of the village gardens andorchards marked by the graceful poplars; and farther down shone the deep, darkrichness of the alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dotsspeckled the sage, and these were cattle and horses.

So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At length he saw ahorse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be Lassiter’s black. Climbingto the highest rock, so that he would show against the sky-line, he stood andwaved his hat. The almost instant turning of Lassiter’s horse attested tothe quickness of that rider’s eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled hishorse, tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was about to ride out tomeet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for him there, on higher ground, wherethe outlook was commanding.

It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting from a man.Lassiter’s warmed in him something that had grown cold from neglect. Andwhen he had returned it, with a strong grip of the iron hand that held his, andmet the gray eyes, he knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends.

“Venters, let’s talk awhile before we go down there,” saidLassiter, slipping his bridle. “I ain’t in no hurry. Them’ssure fine dogs you’ve got.” With a rider’s eye he took in thepoints of Venter’s horse, but did not speak his thought. “Well, didanythin’ come off after I left you last night?”

Venters told him about the rustlers.

“I was snug hid in the sage,” replied Lassiter, “an’didn’t see or hear no one. Oldrin’s got a high hand here, I reckon.It’s no news up in Utah how he holes in cañons an’ leaves notrack.” Lassiter was silent a moment. “Me an’ Oldrin’wasn’t exactly strangers some years back when he drove cattle intoBostil’s Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got harassed therean’ now he drives some place else.”

“Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?”

“I can’t say. I’ve knowed Mormons who pretended to beGentiles.”

“No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler,” declaredVenters.

“Mebbe so.”

“It’s a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. Did youever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon community?”

“I never did.”

“Well, I want to get out of Utah. I’ve a mother living in Illinois.I want to go home. It’s eight years now.”

The older man’s sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had leftQuincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had never gotten anyfarther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and there as helper, teamster,shepherd, and drifted southward over the divide and across the barrens and upthe rugged plateau through the passes to the last border settlements. Here hebecame a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time prospered,until chance threw him in the employ of Jane Withersteen.

“Lassiter, I needn’t tell you the rest.”

“Well, it’d be no news to me. I know Mormons. I’ve seen theirwomen’s strange love en’ patience en’ sacrifice an’silence en’ whet I call madness for their idea of God. An’ overagainst that I’ve seen the tricks of men. They work hand in hand, alltogether, an’ in the dark. No man can hold out against them, unless hetakes to packin’ guns. For Mormons are slow to kill. That’s theonly good I ever seen in their religion. Venters, take this from me, theseMormons ain’t just right in their minds. Else could a Mormon marry onewoman when he already has a wife, an’ call it duty?”

“Lassiter, you think as I think,” returned Venters.

“How’d it come then that you never throwed a gun on Tull or some ofthem?” inquired the rider, curiously.

“Jane pleaded with me, begged me to be patient, to overlook. She eventook my guns from me. I lost all before I knew it,” replied Venters, withthe red color in his face. “But, Lassiter, listen. Out of the wreck Isaved a Winchester, two Colts, and plenty of shells. I packed these down intoDeception Pass. There, almost every day for six months, I have practiced withmy rifle till the barrel burnt my hands. Practised the draw—the firing ofa Colt, hour after hour!”

“Now that’s interestin’ to me,” said Lassiter, with aquick uplift of his head and a concentration of his gray gaze on Venters.“Could you throw a gun before you began that practisin’?”

“Yes. And now...” Venters made a lightning-swift movement.

Lassiter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till his eyes seemedmere gray slits. “You’ll kill Tull!” He did not question; heaffirmed.

“I promised Jane Withersteen I’d try to avoid Tull. I’ll keepmy word. But sooner or later Tull and I will meet. As I feel now, if he evenlooks at me I’ll draw!”

“I reckon so. There’ll be hell down there, presently.” Hepaused a moment and flicked a sage-brush with his quirt. “Venters,seein’ as you’re considerable worked up, tell me Milly Erne’sstory.”

Venters’s agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eagerness inLassiter’s query.

“Milly Erne’s story? Well, Lassiter, I’ll tell you what Iknow. Milly Erne had been in Cottonwoods years when I first arrived there, andmost of what I tell you happened before my arrival. I got to know her prettywell. She was a slip of a woman, and crazy on religion. I conceived an ideathat I never mentioned—I thought she was at heart more Gentile thanMormon. But she passed as a Mormon, and certainly she had the Mormonwoman’s locked lips. You know, in every Mormon village there are womenwho seem mysterious to us, but about Milly there was more than the ordinarymystery. When she came to Cottonwoods she had a beautiful little girl whom sheloved passionately. Milly was not known openly in Cottonwoods as a Mormon wife.That she really was a Mormon wife I have no doubt. Perhaps the Mormon’sother wife or wives would not acknowledge Milly. Such things happen in thesevillages. Mormon wives wear yokes, but they get jealous. Well, whatever hadbrought Milly to this country—love or madness of religion—sherepented of it. She gave up teaching the village school. She quit the church.And she began to fight Mormon upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormonsput on the screws—slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared.‘Lost’ was the report. The child was stolen, I know that. So doyou. That wrecked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She became a slave. Sheworked her heart and soul and life out to get back her child. She never heardof it again. Then she sank.... I can see her now, a frail thing, so transparentyou could almost look through her—white like ashes—and her eyes!...Her eyes have always haunted me. She had one real friend—JaneWithersteen. But Jane couldn’t mend a broken heart, and Millydied.”

For moments Lassiter did not speak, or turn his head.

“The man!” he exclaimed, presently, in husky accents.

“I haven’t the slightest idea who the Mormon was,” repliedVenters; “nor has any Gentile in Cottonwoods.”

“Does Jane Withersteen know?”

“Yes. But a red-hot running-iron couldn’t burn that name out ofher!”

Without further speech Lassiter started off, walking his horse and Ventersfollowed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope they entered a luxuriantgrowth of willows, and soon came into an open space carpeted with grass likedeep green velvet. The rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears.Venters led his comrade to a shady bower and showed him Amber Spring. It was amagnificent outburst of clear, amber water pouring from a dark, stone-linedhole. Lassiter knelt and drank, lingered there to drink again. He made nocomment, but Venters did not need words. Next to his horse a rider of the sageloved a spring. And this spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known tothe upland riders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made old Withersteena feudal lord and now enabled his daughter to return the toll which her fatherhad exacted from the toilers of the sage.

The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down joyously to makeits swift way along a willow-skirted channel. Moss and ferns and liliesoverhung its green banks. Except for the rough-hewn stones that held anddirected the water, this willow thicket and glade had been left as nature hadmade it.

Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the other in banks ofraised earth, and round about them rose the lofty green-foliaged shafts ofpoplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy surface of the lakes; a blue heron stoodmotionless on a water-gate; kingfishers darted with shrieking flight along theshady banks; a white hawk sailed above; and from the trees and shrubs came thesong of robins and cat-birds. It was all in strange contrast to the endlessslopes of lonely sage and the wild rock environs beyond. Venters thought of thewoman who loved the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of thewater.

Next on the slope, just below the third and largest lake, were corrals and awide stone barn and open sheds and coops and pens. Here were clouds of dust,and cracking sounds of hoofs, and romping colts and heehawing burros. Neighinghorses trampled to the corral fences. And on the little windows of the barnprojected bobbing heads of bays and blacks and sorrels. When the two menentered the immense barnyard, from all around the din increased. This welcome,however, was not seconded by the several men and boys who vanished on sight.

Venters and Lassiter were turning toward the house when Jane appeared in thelane leading a horse. In riding-skirt and blouse she seemed to have lost someof her statuesque proportions, and looked more like a girl rider than themistress of Withersteen. She was brightly smiling, and her greeting was warmlycordial.

“Good news,” she announced. “I’ve been to the village.All is quiet. I expected—I don’t know what. But there’s noexcitement. And Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze.”

“Tull gone?” inquired Venters, with surprise. He was wondering whatcould have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another meeting with Lassiter thathe went? Could it have any connection with the probable nearness of Oldring andhis gang?

“Gone, yes, thank goodness,” replied Jane. “Now I’llhave peace for a while. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You are a rider,and you must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of mine have Arabian blood. Myfather got his best strain in Nevada from Indians who claimed their horses werebred down from the original stock left by the Spaniards.”

“Well, ma’am, the one you’ve been ridin’ takes myeye,” said Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, andfine-pointed roan.

“Where are the boys?” she asked, looking about. “Jerd, Paul,where are you? Here, bring out the horses.”

The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the horses tojerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp. Then they came poundingout of the door, a file of thoroughbreds, to plunge about the barnyard, headsand tails up, manes flying. They halted afar off, squared away to look, cameslowly forward with whinnies for their mistress, and doubtful snorts for thestrangers and their horses.

“Come—come—come,” called Jane, holding out her hands.“Why, Bells—Wrangle, where are your manners? Come, BlackStar—come, Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!”

Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black Star. Venters neverlooked at them without delight. The first was soft dead black, the otherglittering black, and they were perfectly matched in size, both being high andlong-bodied, wide through the shoulders, with lithe, powerful legs. That theywere a woman’s pets showed in the gloss of skin, the fineness of mane. Itshowed, too, in the light of big eyes and the gentle reach of eagerness.

“I never seen their like,” was Lassiter’s encomium,“an’ in my day I’ve seen a sight of horses. Now, ma’am,if you was wantin’ to make a long an’ fast ride across thesage—say to elope—”

Lassiter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was meaning. Jane blushedand made arch eyes at him.

“Take care, Lassiter, I might think that a proposal,” she replied,gaily. “It’s dangerous to propose elopement to a Mormon woman.Well, I was expecting you. Now will be a good hour to show you MillyErne’s grave. The day-riders have gone, and the night-ridershaven’t come in. Bern, what do you make of that? Need I worry? You know Ihave to be made to worry.”

“Well, it’s not usual for the night shift to ride in solate,” replied Venters, slowly, and his glance sought Lassiter’s.“Cattle are usually quiet after dark. Still, I’ve known even acoyote to stampede your white herd.”

“I refuse to borrow trouble. Come,” said Jane.

They mounted, and, with Jane in the lead, rode down the lane, and, turning offinto a cattle trail, proceeded westward. Venters’s dogs trotted behindthem. On this side of the ranch the outlook was different from that on theother; the immediate foreground was rough and the sage more rugged and lesscolorful; there were no dark-blue lines of cañons to hold the eye, nor anyuprearing rock walls. It was a long roll and slope into gray obscurity. SoonJane left the trail and rode into the sage, and presently she dismounted andthrew her bridle. The men did likewise. Then, on foot, they followed her,coming out at length on the rim of a low escarpment. She passed by severallittle ridges of earth to halt before a faintly defined mound. It lay in theshade of a sweeping sage-brush close to the edge of the promontory; and a ridercould have jumped his horse over it without recognizing a grave.

“Here!”

She looked sad as she spoke, but she offered no explanation for the neglect ofan unmarked, uncared-for grave. There was a little bunch of pale, sweetlavender daisies, doubtless planted there by Jane.

“I only come here to remember and to pray,” she said. “But Ileave no trail!”

A grave in the sage! How lonely this resting-place of Milly Erne! Thecottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was there any rock orridge or cedar to lend contrast to the monotony. Gray slopes, tinging thepurple, barren and wild, with the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dimhorizon.

Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that moment he seemeda figure of bronze.

Jane touched Venters’s arm and led him back to the horses.

“Bern!” cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. “SupposeLassiter were Milly’s husband—the father of that little girl lostso long ago!”

“It might be, Jane. Let us ride on. If he wants to see us againhe’ll come.”

So they mounted and rode out to the cattle trail and began to climb. From theheight of the ridge, where they had started down, Venters looked back. He didnot see Lassiter, but his glance, drawn irresistibly farther out on the gradualslope, caught sight of a moving cloud of dust.

“Hello, a rider!”

“Yes, I see,” said Jane.

“That fellow’s riding hard. Jane, there’s somethingwrong.”

“Oh yes, there must be.... How he rides!”

The horse disappeared in the sage, and then puffs of dust marked his course.

“He’s short-cut on us—he’s making straight for thecorrals.”

Venters and Jane galloped their steeds and reined in at the turning of thelane. This lane led down to the right of the grove. Suddenly into its lowerentrance flashed a bay horse. Then Venters caught the fast rhythmic beat ofpounding hoofs. Soon his keen eye recognized the swing of the rider in hissaddle.

“It’s Judkins, your Gentile rider!” he cried. “Jane,when Judkins rides like that it means hell!”

CHAPTER IV.
DECEPTION PASS

The rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flecked horse in the suddenstop. He was a giant form, and with fearless eyes.

“Judkins, you’re all bloody!” cried Jane, in affright.“Oh, you’ve been shot!”

“Nothin’ much Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the shoulder.I’m some wet an’ the hoss’s been throwin’ lather, soall this ain’t blood.”

“What’s up?” queried Venters, sharply.

“Rustlers sloped off with the red herd.”

“Where are my riders?” demanded Jane.

“Miss Withersteen, I was alone all night with the herd. At daylight thismornin’ the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot at me on sight. Theychased me hard an’ far, burnin’ powder all the time, but I gotaway.”

“Jud, they meant to kill you,” declared Venters.

“Now I wonder,” returned Judkins. “They wanted me bad.An’ it ain’t regular for rustlers to waste time chasin’ onerider.”

“Thank heaven you got away,” said Jane. “But myriders—where are they?”

“I don’t know. The night-riders weren’t there last night whenI rode down, en’ this mornin’ I met no day-riders.”

“Judkins! Bern, they’ve been set upon—killed byOldring’s men!”

“I don’t think so,” replied Venters, decidedly. “Jane,your riders haven’t gone out in the sage.”

“Bern, what do you mean?” Jane Withersteen turned deathly pale.

“You remember what I said about the unseen hand?”

“Oh!... Impossible!”

“I hope so. But I fear—” Venters finished, with a shake ofhis head.

“Bern, you’re bitter; but that’s only natural. We’llwait to see what’s happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house withme. Your wound must be attended to.”

“Jane, I’ll find out where Oldring drives the herd,” vowedVenters.

“No, no! Bern, don’t risk it now—when the rustlers are insuch shooting mood.”

“I’m going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?”

“Twenty-five hundred head.”

“Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? Why, a hundredhead is a big steal. I’ve got to find out.”

“Don’t go,” implored Jane.

“Bern, you want a hoss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, if it’s nottoo bold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don’t let himgo.”

“Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can’t be caught.Which one—Black Star—Night?”

“Jane, I won’t take either,” said Venters, emphatically.“I wouldn’t risk losing one of your favorites.”

“Wrangle, then?”

“Thet’s the hoss,” replied Judkins. “Wrangle can outrunBlack Star an’ Night. You’d never believe it, Miss Withersteen, butI know. Wrangle’s the biggest en’ fastest hoss on the sage.”

“Oh no, Wrangle can’t beat Black Star. But, Bern, take Wrangle ifyou will go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful, careful.... Godspeed you.”

She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with the rider.

Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The boy camerunning. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits, to be packed insaddlebags. His own horse he turned loose into the nearest corral. Then he wentfor Wrangle. The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite ofamiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard he broke fromVenters, and plunged about with ears laid back. Venters had to rope him, andthen he kicked down a section of fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed downand fought the rope. Jerd returned to lend a hand.

“Wrangle don’t git enough work,” said Jerd, as the big saddlewent on. “He’s unruly when he’s corralled, an’ wants torun. Wait till he smells the sage!”

“Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him but once.Run? Say, he’s swift as wind!”

When Venters’s boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, giving him therider’s flying mount. The swing of this fiery horse recalled to Ventersdays that were not really long past, when he rode into the sage as the leaderof Jane Withersteen’s riders. Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rein. Hegalloped out of the lane, down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up atthe watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit. Venters got off andfilled his canteen while the horse drank. The dogs, Ring and Whitie, cametrotting up for their drink. Then Venters remounted and turned Wrangle towardthe sage.

A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping glance toldVenters that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within the limit of hisvision, unless they were lying down in the sage. Ring loped in the lead andWhitie loped in the rear. Wrangle settled gradually into an easy swingingcanter, and Venters’s thoughts, now that the rush and flurry of the startwere past, and the long miles stretched before him, reverted to a calmreckoning of late singular coincidences.

There was the night ride of Tull’s, which, viewed in the light ofsubsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; Oldring and hisMasked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses; the report that Tull hadridden out that morning with his man Jerry on the trail to Glaze, the strangedisappearance of Jane Withersteen’s riders, the unusually determinedattempt to kill the one Gentile still in her employ, an intention frustrated,no doubt, only by Judkin’s magnificent riding of her racer, and lastlythe driving of the red herd. These events, to Venters’s color of mind,had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane’s accusation of bitterness, hetried hard to put aside his rancor in judging Tull. But it was bitter knowledgethat made him see the truth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand; he hadwatched till he saw its dim outline, and then he had traced it to a man’shate, to the rivalry of a Mormon Elder, to the power of a Bishop, to the long,far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. That unseen hand had made its first moveagainst Jane Withersteen. Her riders had been called in, leaving her withouthelp to drive seven thousand head of cattle. But to Venters it seemedextraordinary that the power which had called in these riders had left so manycattle to be driven by rustlers and harried by wolves. For hand in glove withthat power was an insatiate greed; they were one and the same.

“What can Oldring do with twenty-five hundred head of cattle?”muttered Venters. “Is he a Mormon? Did he meet Tull last night? It lookslike a black plot to me. But Tull and his churchmen wouldn’t ruin JaneWithersteen unless the Church was to profit by that ruin. Where does Oldringcome in? I’m going to find out about these things.”

Wrangle did the twenty-five miles in three hours and walked little of the way.When he had gotten warmed up he had been allowed to choose his own gait. Theafternoon had well advanced when Venters struck the trail of the red herd andfound where it had grazed the night before. Then Venters rested the horse andused his eyes. Near at hand were a cow and a calf and several yearlings, andfarther out in the sage some straggling steers. He caught a glimpse of coyotesskulking near the cattle. The slow sweeping gaze of the rider failed to findother living things within the field of sight. The sage about him wasbreast-high to his horse, oversweet with its warm, fragrant breath, gray whereit waved to the light, darker where the wind left it still, and beyond thewonderful haze-purple lent by distance. Far across that wide waste began theslow lift of uplands through which Deception Pass cut its tortuousmany-cañoned way.

Venters raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad cattle trail. Thecrushed sage resembled the path of a monster snake. In a few miles of travel hepassed several cows and calves that had escaped the drive. Then he stood on thelast high bench of the slope with the floor of the valley beneath. The openingof the cañon showed in a break of the sage, and the cattle trail paralleled itas far as he could see. That trail led to an undiscovered point where Oldringdrove cattle into the pass, and many a rider who had followed it had neverreturned. Venters satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated fromtheir usual course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle trail andmade for the head of the pass.

The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, where it changedfrom white to gold and rested like a huge ball about to roll on its goldenshadows down the slope. Venters watched the lengthening of the rays and bars,and marveled at his own league-long shadow. The sun sank. There was instantshading of brightness about him, and he saw a kind of cold purple bloom creepahead of him to cross the cañon, to mount the opposite slope and chase anddarken and bury the last golden flare of sunlight.

Venters rode into a trail that he always took to get down into the cañon. Hedismounted and found no tracks but his own made days previous. Nevertheless hesent the dog Ring ahead and waited. In a little while Ring returned. WhereuponVenters led his horse on to the break in the ground.

The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable natural phenomena ina country remarkable for vast slopes of sage, uplands insulated by gigantic redwalls, and deep cañons of mysterious source and outlet. Here the valley floorwas level, and here opened a narrow chasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls ofstone. The trail down the five hundred feet of sheer depth always testedVenters’s nerve. It was bad going for even a burro. But Wrangle, asVenters led him, snorted defiance or disgust rather than fear, and, like ahobbled horse on the jump, lifted his ponderous iron-shod fore hoofs andcrashed down over the first rough step. Venters warmed to greater admiration ofthe sorrel; and, giving him a loose bridle, he stepped down foot by foot.Oftentimes the stones and shale started by Wrangle buried Venters to his knees;again he was hard put to it to dodge a rolling boulder, there were times whenhe could not see Wrangle for dust, and once he and the horse rode a slidingshelf of yellow, weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be nostops, and, therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not take longin the descent.

Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a sudden assurance in thesuccess of his enterprise. For at first it had been a reckless determination toachieve something at any cost, and now it resolved itself into an adventureworthy of all his reason and cunning, and keenness of eye and ear.

Piñon pines clustered in little clumps along the level floor of the pass.Twilight had gathered under the walls. Venters rode into the trail and up thecañon. Gradually the trees and caves and objects low down turned black, andthis blackness moved up the walls till night enfolded the pass, while day stilllingered above. The sky darkened; and stars began to show, at first pale andthen bright. Sharp notches of the rim-wall, biting like teeth into the blue,were landmarks by which Venters knew where his camping site lay. He had to feelhis way through a thicket of slender oaks to a spring where he watered Wrangleand drank himself. Here he unsaddled and turned Wrangle loose, having no fearthat the horse would leave the thick, cool grass adjacent to the spring. Nexthe satisfied his own hunger, fed Ring and Whitie and, with them curled besidehim, composed himself to await sleep.

There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these Utah uplands hadbeen satisfying to Venters. But that was before the oppression of enemies hadmade the change in his mind. As a rider guarding the herd he had never thoughtof the night’s wildness and loneliness; as an outcast, now when the fullsilence set in, and the deep darkness, and trains of radiant stars shone coldand calm, he lay with an ache in his heart. For a year he had lived as a blackfox, driven from his kind. He longed for the sound of a voice, the touch of ahand. In the daytime there was riding from place to place, and the gun practiceto which something drove him, and other tasks that at least necessitatedaction, at night, before he won sleep, there was strife in his soul. He yearnedto leave the endless sage slopes, the wilderness of cañons, and it was in thelonely night that this yearning grew unbearable. It was then that he reachedforth to feel Ring or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love andcompanionship of two dogs.

On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old habit of sadthought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it evolved a conviction thathis useless life had undergone a subtle change. He had sensed it first whenWrangle swung him up to the high saddle, he knew it now when he lay in thegateway of Deception Pass. He had no thrill of adventure, rather a gloomyperception of great hazard, perhaps death. He meant to find Oldring’sretreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but none that could catch Wrangle.Venters knew no rustler could creep upon him at night when Ring and Whitieguarded his hiding-place. For the rest, he had eyes and ears, and a long rifleand an unerring aim, which he meant to use. Strangely his foreshadowing ofchange did not hold a thought of the killing of Tull. It related only to whatwas to happen to him in Deception Pass; and he could no more lift the veil ofthat mystery than tell where the trails led to in that unexplored cañon.Moreover, he did not care. And at length, tired out by stress of thought, hefell asleep.

When his eyes unclosed, day had come again, and he saw the rim of the oppositewall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments sufficed for themorning’s simple camp duties. Near at hand he found Wrangle, and to hissurprise the horse came to him. Wrangle was one of the horses that left hisviciousness in the home corral. What he wanted was to be free of mules andburros and steers, to roll in dust-patches, and then to run down the wide,open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse and sleep in the cool wet grass ofa springhole. Jerd knew the sorrel when he said of him, “Wait till hesmells the sage!”

Venters saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and, leaping astride, rodeup the cañon, with Ring and Whitie trotting behind. An old grass-grown trailfollowed the course of a shallow wash where flowed a thin stream of water. Thecañon was a hundred rods wide, its yellow walls were perpendicular; it hadabundant sage and a scant growth of oak and piñon. For five miles it held to acomparatively straight bearing, and then began a heightening of rugged wallsand a deepening of the floor. Beyond this point of sudden change in thecharacter of the cañon Venters had never explored, and here was the real doorto the intricacies of Deception Pass.

He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and then proceededcautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The cañon assumed proportions thatdwarfed those of its first ten miles. Venters rode on and on, not losing in theinterest of his wide surroundings any of his caution or keen search for tracksor sight of living thing. If there ever had been a trail here, he could notfind it. He rode through sage and clumps of piñon-trees and grassy plots wherelong-petaled purple lilies bloomed. He rode through a dark constriction of thepass no wider than the lane in the grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into agreat amphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a confluence ofintersecting cañons.

Venters sat his horse, and, with a rider’s eye, studied this wildcross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided by the course ofrunning water. If it had not been for the main stream of water flowing north hewould never have been able to tell which of those many openings was acontinuation of the pass. In crossing this amphitheater he went by the mouthsof five cañons, fording little streams that flowed into the larger one.Gaining the outlet which he took to be the pass, he rode on again under overhanging walls. One side was dark in shade, the other light in sun. This narrowpassageway turned and twisted and opened into a valley that amazed Venters.

Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the higher levels. Thevalley was miles long, several wide, and inclosed by unscalable walls. But itwas the background of this valley that so forcibly struck him. Across thesage-flat rose a strange up-flinging of yellow rocks. He could not tell whichwere close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of stone, like mountainwaves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and towers.

In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when he hadproceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing white tails of a herd ofrunning antelope. He rode along the edge of the stream which wound toward thewestern end of the slowly looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated outof sight behind the nearer protection. To Venters the valley appeared to havebeen filled in by a mountain of melted stone that had hardened in strangeshapes of rounded outline. He followed the stream till he lost it in a deepcut. Therefore Venters quit the dark slit which baffled further search in thatdirection, and rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage.It was not long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle readily climbedup.

All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed rock. Not a tuft ofgrass or a bunch of sage colored the dull rust-yellow. He saw where, to theright, this uneven flow of stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward, from thehollow that lay at his feet, mounted a gradual slow-swelling slope to a greatheight topped by leaning, cracked, and ruined crags. Not for some time did hegrasp the wonder of that acclivity. It was no less than a mountain-side,glistening in the sun like polished granite, with cedar-trees springing as ifby magic out of the denuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weatheredshale, and rains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope itsbeautiful lines broke to meet the vertical rim-wall, to lose its grace in adifferent order and color of rock, a stained yellow cliff of cracks and cavesand seamed crags. And straight before Venters was a scene less striking butmore significant to his keen survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hummockyrock began the valley of sage, and the mouths of cañons, one of which surelywas another gateway into the pass.

He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, he commenced asearch for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not successful and concludedthe water dropped into an underground passage. Then he returned to where he hadleft Wrangle, and led him down off the stone to the sage. It was a short rideto the opening cañons. There was no reason for a choice of which one to enter.The one he rode into was a clear, sharp shaft in yellow stone a thousand feetdeep, with wonderful wind-worn caves low down and high above buttressed andturreted ramparts. Farther on Venters came into a region where deepindentations marked the line of cañon walls. These were huge, cove-like blindpockets extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth of underbrush andtrees.

Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had hoped, he foundabundant grass. He had to bend the oak saplings to get his horse through.Deciding to make this a hiding-place if he could find water, he worked back tothe limit of the shelving walls. In a little cluster of silver spruces he founda spring. This inclosed nook seemed an ideal place to leave his horse and tocamp at night, and from which to make stealthy trips on foot. The thick grasshid his trail; the dense growth of oaks in the opening would serve as a barrierto keep Wrangle in, if, indeed, the luxuriant browse would not suffice forthat. So Venters, leaving Whitie with the horse, called Ring to his side, and,rifle in hand, worked his way out to the open. A careful photographing in mindof the formation of the bold outlines of rimrock assured him he would be ableto return to his retreat even in the dark.

Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the cañon, and among theseVenters threaded his way with the step of an Indian. At intervals he put hishand on the dog and stopped to listen. There was a drowsy hum of insects, butno other sound disturbed the warm midday stillness. Venters saw ahead a turn,more abrupt than any yet. Warily he rounded this corner, once again to haltbewildered.

The cañon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and gray growths. Itwas the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, at regular distances, like spokes,ran the outgoing cañons. Here a dull red color predominated over the fadingyellow. The corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled, to taper intotowers and serrated peaks and pinnacled domes.

Venters pushed on more heedfully than ever. Toward the center of this circlethe sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart. He was about to sheer off to theright, where thickets and jumbles of fallen rock would afford him cover, whenhe ran right upon a broad cattle trail. Like a road it was, more than a trail,and the cattle tracks were fresh. What surprised him more, they were wet! Hepondered over this feature. It had not rained. The only solution to this puzzlewas that the cattle had been driven through water, and water deep enough to wettheir legs.

Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and looked over the sage. Aband of straggling horsemen were riding across the oval. He sank down, startledand trembling. “Rustlers!” he muttered. Hurriedly he glanced aboutfor a place to hide. Near at hand there was nothing but sage-brush. He darednot risk crossing the open patches to reach the rocks. Again he peeped over thesage. The rustlers—four—five—seven—eight in all, wereapproaching, but not directly in line with him. That was relief for a colddeadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his veins. He crouched downwith bated breath and held the bristling dog.

He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse laughter of men, andthen voices gradually dying away. Long moments passed. Then he rose. Therustlers were riding into a cañon. Their horses were tired, and they hadseveral pack animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters doubted thatthey were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Olding’s band hadsplit. Venters watched these horsemen disappear under a bold cañon wall.

The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval. Venters kept asteady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there were more, to see from whatcañon they rode. A quarter of an hour went by. Reward for his vigilance camewhen he descried three more mounted men, far over to the north. But out of whatcañon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the three rideacross the oval and round the jutting red corner where the others had gone.

“Up that cañon!” exclaimed Venters. “Oldring’s den!I’ve found it!”

A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks all pointedwest. The broad trail came from the direction of the cañon into which therustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the cattle had been driven out of itacross the oval. There were no tracks pointing the other way. It had been inhis mind that Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous, and notfrom it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and where did itlead? Venters knew he wasted time in pondering the question, but it held afascination not easily dispelled. For many years Oldring’s mysteriousentrance and exit to Deception Pass had been all-absorbing topics tosage-riders.

All at once the dog put an end to Venters’s pondering. Ring sniffed theair, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and then growled. Venterswheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred yards, coming straight at him. One,lagging behind the other, was Oldring’s Masked Rider.

Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage-brush. But, guarded ashis action was, the first horse detected it. He stopped short, snorted, andshot up his ears. The rustler bent forward, as if keenly peering ahead. Then,with a swift sweep, he jerked a gun from its sheath and fired.

The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of wood struck Venters,and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in one leap. Like a flash theblue barrel of his rifle gleamed level and he shot once—twice.

Like a flash the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level andhe shot once—twice.

The foremost rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from his saddle, to fallwith his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse snorted wildly and plunged away,dragging the rustler through the sage.

The Masked Rider huddled over his pommel slowly swaying to one side, and then,with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the saddle.

CHAPTER V.
THE MASKED RIDER

Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the cañon where the othershad disappeared. He calculated on the time needed for running horses to returnto the open, if their riders heard shots. He waited breathlessly. But theestimated time dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently tobelieve that the rifle reports had not penetrated into the recesses of thecañon, and felt safe for the immediate present.

He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged by his horse.The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes protruding—a sight thatsickened Venters. The first man at whom he had ever aimed a weapon he had shotthrough the heart. With the clammy sweat oozing from every pore Venters draggedthe rustler in among some boulders and covered him with slabs of rock. Then hesmoothed out the crushed trail in grass and sage. The rustler’s horse hadstopped a quarter of a mile off and was grazing.

When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even the cold nauseathat gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For he had shot Oldring’sinfamous lieutenant, whose face had never been seen. Venters experienced a grimpride in the feat. What would Tull say to this achievement of the outcast whorode too often to Deception Pass?

Venters’s curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him for theshock he received when he stood over a slight, dark figure. The rustler worethe black mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons. Ventersglanced at the drooping horse, there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle.

“A rustler who didn’t pack guns!” muttered Venters. “Hewears no belt. He couldn’t pack guns in that rig.... Strange!”

A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told Venters therider still lived.

“He’s alive!... I’ve got to stand here and watch him die. AndI shot an unarmed man.”

Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider’s wide sombrero and the black clothmask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to curl, and awhite, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw was a cleardemarcation, where the brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hiddenfrom the sun.

“Oh, he’s only a boy!... What! Can he be Oldring’s MaskedRider?”

“Oh, he’s only a boy!... What! Can he beOldring’s Masked Rider?”

The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lips moved; asmall brown hand clenched in his blouse.

Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had entered therider’s right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands that shook,Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet blouse.

First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, from whichwelled a slender red stream. Then the graceful, beautiful swell of awoman’s breast!

“A woman!” he cried. “A girl!... I’ve killed agirl!”

She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They were fathomless blue.Consciousness of death was there, a blended terror and pain, but noconsciousness of sight. She did not see Venters. She stared into the unknown.

Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of reviving strength,and in her convulsions she almost tore from Ventner’s grasp. Slowly sherelaxed and sank partly back. The ungloved hand sought the wound, and pressedso hard that her wrist half buried itself in her bosom. Blood trickled betweenher spread fingers. And she looked at Venters with eyes that saw him.

He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so proud. He hadseen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope which he was about to finishwith his knife. But in her it had infinitely more—a revelation of mortalspirit. The instinctive bringing to life was there, and the divininghelplessness and the terrible accusation of the stricken.

“Forgive me! I didn’t know!” burst out Venters.

“You shot me—you’ve killed me!” she whispered, inpanting gasps. Upon her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By thatVenters knew the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. “Oh, Iknew—it would—come—some day!... Oh, the burn!... Holdme—I’m sinking—it’s all dark.... Ah, God!...Mercy—”

Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp, still, white assnow, with closed eyes.

Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation of her breastassured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed only a matter of moments, forthe bullet had gone clear through her. Nevertheless, he tore sageleaves from abush, and, pressing them tightly over her wounds, he bound the black scarfround her shoulder, tying it securely under her arm. Then he closed the blouse,hiding from his sight that blood-stained, accusing breast.

“What—now?” he questioned, with flying mind. “I mustget out of here. She’s dying—but I can’t leave her.”

He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no animate object. Thenhe picked up the girl’s sombrero and the mask. This time the mask gavehim as great a shock as when he first removed it from her face. For in thewoman he had forgotten the rustler, and this black strip of felt-clothestablished the identity of Oldring’s Masked Rider. Venters had solvedthe mystery. He slipped his rifle under her, and, lifting her carefully uponit, he began to retrace his steps. The dog trailed in his shadow. And thehorse, that had stood drooping by, followed without a call. Venters chose thedeepest tufts of grass and clumps of sage on his return. From time to time heglanced over his shoulder. He did not rest. His concern was to avoid jarringthe girl and to hide his trail. Gaining the narrow cañon, he turned and heldclose to the wall till he reached his hiding-place. When he entered the densethicket of oaks he was hard put to it to force a way through. But he held hisburden almost upright, and by slipping side wise and bending the saplings hegot in. Through sage and grass he hurried to the grove of silver spruces.

He laid the girl down, almost fearing to look at her. Though marble pale andcold, she was living. Venters then appreciated the tax that long carry had beento his strength. He sat down to rest. Whitie sniffed at the pale girl andwhined and crept to Venters’s feet. Ring lapped the water in the runwayof the spring.

Presently Venters went out to the opening, caught the horse and, leading himthrough the thicket, unsaddled him and tied him with a long halter. Wrangleleft his browsing long enough to whinny and toss his head. Venters felt that hecould not rest easily till he had secured the other rustler’s horse; so,taking his rifle and calling for Ring, he set out. Swiftly yet watchfully hemade his way through the cañon to the oval and out to the cattle trail. Whatfew tracks might have betrayed him he obliterated, so only an expert trackercould have trailed him. Then, with many a wary backward glance across the sage,he started to round up the rustler’s horse. This was unexpectedly easy.He led the horse to lower ground, out of sight from the opposite side of theoval along the shadowy western wall, and so on into his cañon and secludedcamp.

The girl’s eyes were open; a feverish spot burned in her cheeks shemoaned something unintelligible to Venters, but he took the movement of herlips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting her head, he tipped the canteen toher lips. After that she again lapsed into unconsciousness or a weakness whichwas its counterpart. Venters noted, however, that the burning flush had fadedinto the former pallor.

The sun set behind the high cañon rim, and a cool shade darkened the walls.Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on the dead rustlers horse. He allowedWrangle to browse free. This done, he cut spruce boughs and made a lean-to forthe girl. Then, gently lifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides overher. The other blanket he wrapped about his shoulders and found a comfortableseat against a spruce-tree that upheld the little shack. Ring and Whitie laynear at hand, one asleep, the other watchful.

Venters dreaded the night’s vigil. At night his mind was active, and thistime he had to watch and think and feel beside a dying girl whom he had all butmurdered. A thousand excuses he invented for himself, yet not one made anydifference in his act or his self-reproach.

It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her white face so muchmore plainly.

“She’ll go, presently,” he said, “and be out ofagony—thank God!”

Every little while certainty of her death came to him with a shock; and then hewould bend over and lay his ear on her breast. Her heart still beat.

The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. The horses were notmoving, and no sound disturbed the deathly silence of the cañon.

“I’ll bury her here,” thought Venters, “and let hergrave be as much a mystery as her life was.”

For the girl’s few words, the look of her eyes, the prayer, had strangelytouched Venters.

“She was only a girl,” he soliloquized. “What was she toOldring? Rustlers don’t have wives nor sisters nor daughters. She wasbad—that’s all. But somehow... well, she may not have willinglybecome the companion of rustlers. That prayer of hers to God for mercy!... Lifeis strange and cruel. I wonder if other members of Oldring’s gang arewomen? Likely enough. But what was his game? Oldring’s Masked Rider! Aname to make villagers hide and lock their doors. A name credited with a dozenmurders, a hundred forays, and a thousand stealings of cattle. What part didthe girl have in this? It may have served Oldring to create mystery.”

Hours passed. The white stars moved across the narrow strip of dark-blue skyabove. The silence awoke to the low hum of insects. Venters watched theimmovable white face, and as he watched, hour by hour waiting for death, theinfamy of her passed from his mind. He thought only of the sadness, the truthof the moment. Whoever she was—whatever she had done—she was youngand she was dying.

The after-part of the night wore on interminably. The starlight failed and thegloom blackened to the darkest hour. “She’ll die at the gray ofdawn,” muttered Venters, remembering some old woman’s fancy. Theblackness paled to gray, and the gray lightened and day peeped over the easternrim. Venters listened at the breast of the girl. She still lived. Did he onlyimagine that her heart beat stronger, ever so slightly, but stronger? Hepressed his ear closer to her breast. And he rose with his own pulsequickening.

“If she doesn’t die soon—she’s got a chance—thebarest chance to live,” he said.

He wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased. There was no more film ofblood upon her lips. But no corpse could have been whiter. Opening her blouse,he untied the scarf, and carefully picked away the sage leaves from the woundin her shoulder. It had closed. Lifting her lightly, he ascertained that thesame was true of the hole where the bullet had come out. He reflected on thefact that clean wounds closed quickly in the healing upland air. He recalledinstances of riders who had been cut and shot apparently to fatal issues; yetthe blood had clotted, the wounds closed, and they had recovered. He had no wayto tell if internal hemorrhage still went on, but he believed that it hadstopped. Otherwise she would surely not have lived so long. He marked theentrance of the bullet, and concluded that it had just touched the upper lobeof her lung. Perhaps the wound in the lung had also closed. As he began to washthe blood stains from her breast and carefully rebandage the wound, he wasvaguely conscious of a strange, grave happiness in the thought that she mightlive.

Broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff-rim to the west broughthim to consideration of what he had better do. And while busy with his few camptasks he revolved the thing in his mind. It would not be wise for him to remainlong in his present hiding-place. And if he intended to follow the cattle trailand try to find the rustlers he had better make a move at once. For he knewthat rustlers, being riders, would not make much of a day’s ornight’s absence from camp for one or two of their number; but when themissing ones failed to show up in reasonable time there would be a search. AndVenters was afraid of that.

“A good tracker could trail me,” he muttered. “And I’dbe cornered here. Let’s see. Rustlers are a lazy set when they’renot on the ride. I’ll risk it. Then I’ll change myhiding-place.”

He carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns. When he rose to go he bent a longglance down upon the unconscious girl. Then ordering Whitie and Ring to keepguard, he left the camp.

The safest cover lay close under the wall of the cañon, and here through thedense thickets Venters made his slow, listening advance toward the oval. Upongaining the wide opening he decided to cross it and follow the left wall tillhe came to the cattle trail. He scanned the oval as keenly as if hunting forantelope. Then, stooping, he stole from one cover to another, taking advantageof rocks and bunches of sage, until he had reached the thickets under theopposite wall. Once there, he exercised extreme caution in his surveys of theground ahead, but increased his speed when moving. Dodging from bush to bush,he passed the mouths of two cañons, and in the entrance of a third cañon hecrossed a wash of swift clear water, to come abruptly upon the cattle trail.

It followed the low bank of the wash, and, keeping it in sight, Venters huggedthe line of sage and thicket. Like the curves of a serpent the cañon wound fora mile or more and then opened into a valley. Patches of red showed clearagainst the purple of sage, and farther out on the level dotted strings of redled away to the wall of rock.

“Ha, the red herd!” exclaimed Venters.

Then dots of white and black told him there were cattle of other colors in thisinclosed valley. Oldring, the rustler, was also a rancher. Venters’scalculating eye took count of stock that outnumbered the red herd.

“What a range!” went on Venters. “Water and grass enough forfifty thousand head, and no riders needed!”

After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters lost no timethere, but slunk again into the sage on his back trail. With the discovery ofOldring’s hidden cattle-range had come enlightenment on several problems.Here the rustler kept his stock, here was Jane Withersteen’s red herd;here were the few cattle that had disappeared from the Cottonwoods slopesduring the last two years. Until Oldring had driven the red herd his thefts ofcattle for that time had not been more than enough to supply meat for his men.Of late no drives had been reported from Sterling or the villages north. AndVenters knew that the riders had wondered at Oldring’s inactivity in thatparticular field. He and his band had been active enough in their visits toGlaze and Cottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late the amount gambledaway and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to muchconjecture. Oldring’s more frequent visits had resulted in new saloons,and where there had formerly been one raid or shooting fray in the littlehamlets there were now many. Perhaps Oldring had another range farther on upthe pass, and from there drove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he waslittle known. But Venters came finally to doubt this. And, from what he hadlearned in the last few days, a belief began to form in Venters’s mindthat Oldring’s intimidations of the villages and the mystery of theMasked Rider, with his alleged evil deeds, and the fierce resistance offeredany trailing riders, and the rustling of cattle—these things were onlythe craft of the rustler-chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work inDeception Pass.

And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage of the oval valley,crossed trail after trail on the north side, and at last entered the cañon outof which headed the cattle trail, and into which he had watched the rustlersdisappear.

If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to force himself tocreeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He crawled along so hidden thathe could not use his eyes except to aid himself in the toilsome progressthrough the brakes and ruins of cliff-wall. Yet from time to time, as herested, he saw the massive red walls growing higher and wilder, more loomingand broken. He made note of the fact that he was turning and climbing. The sageand thickets of oak and brakes of alder gave place to piñon pine growing outof rocky soil. Suddenly a low, dull murmur assailed his ears. At first hethought it was thunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But itwas incessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from a murmurchanged into a soft roar.

“Falling water,” he said. “There’s volume to that. Iwonder if it’s the stream I lost.”

The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise, however, norustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this and sure that nothing but a birdcould see him, he arose from his hands and knees to hurry on. An opening in thepiñons warned him that he was nearing the height of slope.

He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment. Before himstretched a short cañon with rounded stone floor bare of grass or sage ortree, and with curved, shelving walls. A broad rippling stream flowed towardhim, and at the back of the cañon waterfall burst from a wide rent in thecliff, and, bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet.

If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had entered the rightcañon his astonishment would not have been so great. There had been no breaksin the walls, no side cañons entering this one where the rustlers’tracks and the cattle trail had guided him, and, therefore, he could not bewrong. But here the cañon ended, and presumably the trails also.

“That cattle trail headed out of here,” Venters kept saying tohimself. “It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earth didcattle ever get in here?”

If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny he had giventhat cattle track, every hoofmark of which headed straight west. He was nowlooking east at an immense round boxed corner of cañon down which tumbled athin, white veil of water, scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, hiscalculations had gone wrong. For the first time in years he found himselfdoubting his rider’s skill in finding tracks, and his memory of what hehad actually seen. In his anxiety to keep under cover he must have lost himselfin this offshoot of Deception Pass, and thereby in some unaccountable manner,missed the cañon with the trails. There was nothing else for him to think.Rustlers could not fly, nor cattle jump down thousand-foot precipices. He wasonly proving what the sage-riders had long said of this labyrinthine system ofdeceitful cañons and valleys—trails led down into Deception Pass, but norider had ever followed them.

On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an unusual sound thathe could not define. He dropped flat behind a stone and listened. From thedirection he had come swelled something that resembled a strange muffledpounding and splashing and ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat began todampen his forehead. What might not be possible in this stonewalled maze ofmystery? The unnatural sound passed beyond him as he lay gripping his rifle andfighting for coolness. Then from the open came the sound, now distinct anddifferent. Venters recognized a hobble-bell of a horse, and the cracking ofiron on submerged stones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water.

Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, and curiosityprompted him to peep from behind the rock.

In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burros driven bythree superbly mounted men. Had Venters met these dark-clothed, dark-visaged,heavily armed men anywhere in Utah, let alone in this robbers’ retreat,he would have recognized them as rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider sawthe signs of a long, arduous trip. These men were packing in supplies from oneof the northern villages. They were tired, and their horses were almost playedout, and the burros plodded on, after the manner of their kind when exhausted,faithful and patient, but as if every weary, splashing, slipping step would betheir last.

All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched with a thrillingeagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers drove the burros, andstraight through the middle, where the water spread into a fleecy, thin filmlike dissolving smoke. Following closely, the rustlers rode into this whitemist, showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then they vanished.

Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden utterance.

“Good Heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler!... There’s a cavernunder that waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a cañon beyond. Oldringhides in there. He needs only to guard a trail leading down from the sage-flatabove. Little danger of this outlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled onit by luck, after I had given up. And now I know the truth of what puzzled memost—why that cattle trail was wet!”

He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of the sage-brush.Returning, he had no time to spare, only now and then, between dashes, a momentwhen he stopped to cast sharp eyes ahead. The abundant grass left no trace ofhis trail. Short work he made of the distance to the circle of cañons. Hedoubted that he would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted to; yet helooked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a rider picturinglandmarks never to be forgotten.

Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of the sage-oval and thegaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred except the gentle wave of the tips ofthe brush. Then he pressed on past the mouths of several cañons and overground new to him, now close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved tobe easy traveling, well screened from possible observation from the north andwest, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepening shade of his owncañon. Then the huge, notched bulge of red rim loomed over him, a mark bywhich he knew again the deep cove where his camp lay hidden. As he penetratedthe thicket, safe again for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl hehad left there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he find her? He raninto camp, frightening the dogs.

The girl lay with wide-open, dark eyes, and they dilated when he knelt besideher. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. He lifted her and held water toher dry lips, and felt an inexplicable sense of lightness as he saw her swallowin a slow, choking gulp. Gently he laid her back.

“Who—are—you?” she whispered, haltingly.

“I’m the man who shot you,” he replied.

“You’ll—not—kill me—now?”

“No, no.”

“What—will—you—do—with me?”

“When you get better—strong enough—I’ll take you backto the cañon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall.”

As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the marble whiteness ofher face seemed to change.

“Don’t—take—me—back—there!”

CHAPTER VI.
THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS

Meantime, at the ranch, when Judkins’s news had sent Venters on the trailof the rustlers, Jane Withersteen led the injured man to her house and withskilled fingers dressed the gunshot wound in his arm.

“Judkins, what do you think happened to my riders?”

“I—I d rather not say,” he replied.

“Tell me. Whatever you’ll tell me I’ll keep to myself.I’m beginning to worry about more than the loss of a herd of cattle.Venters hinted of—but tell me, Judkins.”

“Well, Miss Withersteen, I think as Venters thinks—your riders havebeen called in.”

“Judkins!... By whom?”

“You know who handles the reins of your Mormon riders.”

“Do you dare insinuate that my churchmen have ordered in myriders?”

“I ain’t insinuatin’ nothin’, Miss Withersteen,”answered Judkins, with spirit. “I know what I’m talking about. Ididn’t want to tell you.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that! I’ll not believe it! Would Tullleave my herds at the mercy of rustlers and wolves justbecause—because—? No, no! It’s unbelievable.”

“Yes, thet particular thing’s onheard of around Cottonwoods. But,beggin’ pardon, Miss Withersteen, there never was any other rich Mormonwoman here on the border, let alone one thet’s taken the bit between herteeth.”

That was a bold thing for the reserved Judkins to say, but it did not angerher. This rider’s crude hint of her spirit gave her a glimpse of whatothers might think. Humility and obedience had been hers always. But had shetaken the bit between her teeth? Still she wavered. And then, with quick spurtof warm blood along her veins, she thought of Black Star when he got the bitfast between his iron jaws and ran wild in the sage. If she ever started torun! Jane smothered the glow and burn within her, ashamed of a passion forfreedom that opposed her duty.

“Judkins, go to the village,” she said, “and when you havelearned anything definite about my riders please come to me at once.”

When he had gone Jane resolutely applied her mind to a number of tasks that oflate had been neglected. Her father had trained her in the management of ahundred employees and the working of gardens and fields; and to keep record ofthe movements of cattle and riders. And beside the many duties she had added tothis work was one of extreme delicacy, such as required all her tact andingenuity. It was an unobtrusive, almost secret aid which she rendered to theGentile families of the village. Though Jane Withersteen never admitted so toherself, it amounted to no less than a system of charity. But for her inventionof numberless kinds of employment, for which there was no actual need, thesefamilies of Gentiles, who had failed in a Mormon community, would have starved.

In aiding these poor people Jane thought she deceived her keen churchmen, butit was a kind of deceit for which she did not pray to be forgiven. Equally asdifficult was the task of deceiving the Gentiles, for they were as proud asthey were poor. It had been a great grief to her to discover how these peoplehated her people; and it had been a source of great joy that through her theyhad come to soften in hatred. At any time this work called for a clearness ofmind that precluded anxiety and worry; but under the present circumstances itrequired all her vigor and obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon hertask.

Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor a patient calmness and power towait that had not been hers earlier in the day. She expected Judkins, but hedid not appear. Her house was always quiet; to-night, however, it seemedunusually so. At supper her women served her with a silent assiduity; it spokewhat their sealed lips could not utter—the sympathy of Mormon women. Jerdcame to her with the key of the great door of the stone stable, and to make hisdaily report about the horses. One of his daily duties was to give Black Starand Night and the other racers a ten-mile run. This day it had been omitted,and the boy grew confused in explanations that she had not asked for. She didinquire if he would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in mingled surprise andrelief, assured her he would always work for her. Jane missed the rattle andtrot, canter and gallop of the incoming riders on the hard trails. Dusk shadedthe grove where she walked; the birds ceased singing; the wind sighed throughthe leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running water murmured down itsstone-bedded channel. The glimmering of the first star was like the peace andbeauty of the night. Her faith welled up in her heart and said that all wouldsoon be right in her little world. She pictured Venters about his lonelycamp-fire sitting between his faithful dogs. She prayed for his safety, for thesuccess of his undertaking.

Early the next morning one of Jane’s women brought in word that Judkinswished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in her surprise to see him armedwith rifle and revolver, she forgot her intention to inquire about his wound.

“Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns.”

“It’s high time, Miss Withersteen,” he replied. “Willyou come into the grove? It ain’t jest exactly safe for me to be seenhere.”

She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods.

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother’s house last night. Whilethere, some one knocked, an’ a man asked for me. I went to the door. Hewore a mask. He said I’d better not ride any more for Jane Withersteen.His voice was hoarse an’ strange, disguised I reckon, like his face. Hesaid no more, an’ ran off in the dark.”

“Did you know who he was?” asked Jane, in a low voice.

“Yes.”

Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she feared to know. All hercalmness fled at a single thought.

“Thet’s why I’m packin’ guns,” went on Judkins.“For I’ll never quit ridin’ for you, Miss Withersteen, tillyou let me go.”

“Judkins, do you want to leave me?”

“Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss—a fast hoss, an’ send meout on the sage.”

“Oh, thank you, Judkins! You’re more faithful than my own people. Iought not accept your loyalty—you might suffer more through it. But whatin the world can I do? My head whirls. The wrong to Venters—the stolenherd—these masks, threats, this coil in the dark! I can’tunderstand! But I feel something dark and terrible closing in around me.”

“Miss Withersteen, it’s all simple enough,” said Judkins,earnestly. “Now please listen—an’ beggin’ yourpardon—jest turn thet deaf Mormon ear aside, an’ let me talk clearan’ plain in the other. I went around to the saloons an’ the storesan’ the loafin’ places yesterday. All your riders are in.There’s talk of a vigilance band organized to hunt down rustlers. Theycall themselves ‘The Riders.’ Thet’s thereport—thet’s the reason given for your riders leavin’ you.Strange thet only a few riders of other ranchers joined the band! An’Tull’s man, Jerry Card—he’s the leader. I seen him en’his hoss. He ain’t been to Glaze. I’m not easy to fool on the looksof a hoss thet’s traveled the sage. Tull an’ Jerry didn’tride to Glaze!... Well, I met Blake en’ Dorn, both good friends of mine,usually, as far as their Mormon lights will let ’em go. But these fellerscouldn’t fool me, an’ they didn’t try very hard. I askedthem, straight out like a man, why they left you like thet. I didn’tforget to mention how you nursed Blake’s poor old mother when she wassick, an’ how good you was to Dorn’s kids. They looked ashamed,Miss Withersteen. An’ they jest froze up—thet dark set look thetmakes them strange an’ different to me. But I could tell the differencebetween thet first natural twinge of conscience an’ the later look ofsome secret thing. An’ the difference I caught was thet theycouldn’t help themselves. They hadn’t no say in the matter. Theylooked as if their bein’ unfaithful to you was bein’ faithful to ahigher duty. An’ there’s the secret. Why it’s as plainas—as sight of my gun here.”

“Plain!... My herds to wander in the sage—to be stolen! JaneWithersteen a poor woman! Her head to be brought low and her spirit broken!...Why, Judkins, it’s plain enough.”

“Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an’ hold thewhite herd. It’s on the slope now, not ten miles out—three thousandhead, an’ all steers. They’re wild, an’ likely to stampede atthe pop of a jack-rabbit’s ears. We’ll camp right with them,en’ try to hold them.”

“Judkins, I’ll reward you some day for your service, unless all istaken from me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you pick of my horses, exceptBlack Star and Night. But—do not shed blood for my cattle nor heedlesslyrisk your lives.”

Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room, and therecould not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath. She went stone-blind inthe fury of a passion that had never before showed its power. Lying upon herbed, sightless, voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossedthere while her fury burned and burned, and finally burned itself out.

Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression that would breakher, but of this new revelation of self. Until the last few days there had beenlittle in her life to rouse passions. Her forefathers had been Vikings, savagechieftains who bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their will. Her fatherhad inherited that temper; and at times, like antelope fleeing before fire onthe slope, his people fled from his red rages. Jane Withersteen realized thatthe spirit of wrath and war had lain dormant in her. She shrank from blackdepths hitherto unsuspected. The one thing in man or woman that she scornedabove all scorn, and which she could not forgive, was hate. Hate headed aflaming pathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her control there hadbeen in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man who had dragged her peaceful andloving spirit to this degradation was a minister of God’s word, an Elderof her church, the counselor of her beloved Bishop.

The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the Old Stone House, nolonger concerned Jane Withersteen, she faced the foremost thought of her life,what she now considered the mightiest problem—the salvation of her soul.

She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had never prayed in allher life—prayed to be forgiven for her sin to be immune from that dark,hot hate; to love Tull as her minister, though she could not love him as a man;to do her duty by her church and people and those dependent upon her bounty; tohold reverence of God and womanhood inviolate.

When Jane Withersteen rose from that storm of wrath and prayer for help she wasserene, calm, sure—a changed woman. She would do her duty as she saw it,live her life as her own truth guided her. She might never be able to marry aman of her choice, but she certainly never would become the wife of Tull. Herchurchmen might take her cattle and horses, ranges and fields, her corrals andstables, the house of Withersteen and the water that nourished the village ofCottonwoods; but they could not force her to marry Tull, they could not changeher decision or break her spirit. Once resigned to further loss, and sure ofherself, Jane Withersteen attained a peace of mind that had not been hers for ayear. She forgave Tull, and felt a melancholy regret over what she knew heconsidered duty, irrespective of his personal feeling for her. First of all,Tull, as he was a man, wanted her for himself; and secondly, he hoped to saveher and her riches for his church. She did not believe that Tull had beenactuated solely by his minister’s zeal to save her soul. She doubted herinterpretation of one of his dark sayings—that if she were lost to himshe might as well be lost to heaven. Jane Withersteen’s common sense tookarms against the binding limits of her religion; and she doubted that herBishop, whom she had been taught had direct communication with God—woulddamn her soul for refusing to marry a Mormon. As for Tull and his churchmen,when they had harassed her, perhaps made her poor, they would find herunchangeable, and then she would get back most of what she had lost. So shereasoned, true at last to her faith in all men, and in their ultimate goodness.

The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her hurriedly from herretirement. There, beside his horse, stood Lassiter, his dark apparel and thegreat black gun-sheaths contrasting singularly with his gentle smile.Jane’s active mind took up her interest in him and her half-determineddesire to use what charm she had to foil his evident design in visitingCottonwoods. If she could mitigate his hatred of Mormons, or at least keep himfrom killing more of them, not only would she be saving her people, but also beleading back this bloodspiller to some semblance of the human.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, black sombrero in hand.

“Lassiter I’m not an old woman, or even a madam,” shereplied, with her bright smile. “If you can’t say MissWithersteen—call me Jane.”

“I reckon Jane would be easier. First names are always handy forme.”

“Well, use mine, then. Lassiter, I’m glad to see you. I’m introuble.”

Then she told him of Judkins’s return, of the driving of the red herd, ofVenters’s departure on Wrangle, and the calling-in of her riders.

“’Pears to me you’re some smilin’ an’ pretty fora woman with so much trouble,” he remarked.

“Lassiter! Are you paying me compliments? But, seriously I’ve madeup my mind not to be miserable. I’ve lost much, and I’ll lose more.Nevertheless, I won’t be sour, and I hope I’ll never beunhappy—again.”

Lassiter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, and took his time inreplying.

“Women are strange to me. I got to back-trailin’ myself from themlong ago. But I’d like a game woman. Might I ask, seein’ as how youtake this trouble, if you’re goin’ to fight?”

“Fight! How? Even if I would, I haven’t a friend except that boywho doesn’t dare stay in the village.”

“I make bold to say, ma’am—Jane—that there’sanother, if you want him.”

“Lassiter!... Thank you. But how can I accept you as a friend? Think!Why, you’d ride down into the village with those terrible guns and killmy enemies—who are also my churchmen.”

“I reckon I might be riled up to jest about that,” he replied,dryly.

She held out both hands to him.

“Lassiter! I’ll accept your friendship—be proud ofit—return it—if I may keep you from killing another Mormon.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, bluntly, as the graylightning formed in his eyes. “You’re too good a woman to besacrificed as you’re goin’ to be.... No, I reckon you an’ mecan’t be friends on such terms.”

In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet fascinated by thesudden transition of his moods. That he would fight for her was at oncehorrible and wonderful.

“You came here to kill a man—the man whom Milly Erne—”

“The man who dragged Milly Erne to hell—put it that way!... JaneWithersteen, yes, that’s why I came here. I’d tell so much to noother livin’ soul.... There’re things such a woman as you’dnever dream of—so don’t mention her again. Not till you tell me thename of the man!”

“Tell you! I? Never!”

“I reckon you will. An’ I’ll never ask you. I’m a manof strange beliefs an’ ways of thinkin’, an’ I seem to seeinto the future an’ feel things hard to explain. The trail I’vebeen followin’ for so many years was twisted en’ tangled, butit’s straightenin’ out now. An’, Jane Withersteen, youcrossed it long ago to ease poor Milly’s agony. That, whether you want ornot, makes Lassiter your friend. But you cross it now strangely to meansomethin’ to me—God knows what!—unless by your nobleblindness to incite me to greater hatred of Mormon men.”

Jane felt swayed by a strength that far exceeded her own. In a clash of willswith this man she would go to the wall. If she were to influence him it must bewholly through womanly allurement. There was that about Lassiter whichcommanded her respect. She had abhorred his name; face to face with him, shefound she feared only his deeds. His mystic suggestion, his foreshadowing ofsomething that she was to mean to him, pierced deep into her mind. She believedfate had thrown in her way the lover or husband of Milly Erne. She believedthat through her an evil man might be reclaimed. His allusion to what he calledher blindness terrified her. Such a mistaken idea of his might unleash thebitter, fatal mood she sensed in him. At any cost she must placate this man;she knew the die was cast, and that if Lassiter did not soften to awoman’s grace and beauty and wiles, then it would be because she couldnot make him.

“I reckon you’ll hear no more such talk from me,” Lassiterwent on, presently. “Now, Miss Jane, I rode in to tell you that your herdof white steers is down on the slope behind them big ridges. An’ I seensomethin’ goin’ on that’d be mighty interestin’ to you,if you could see it. Have you a field-glass?”

“Yes, I have two glasses. I’ll get them and ride out with you.Wait, Lassiter, please,” she said, and hurried within. Sending word toJerd to saddle Black Star and fetch him to the court, she then went to her roomand changed to the riding-clothes she always donned when going into the sage.In this male attire her mirror showed her a jaunty, handsome rider. If sheexpected some little need of admiration from Lassiter, she had no cause fordisappointment. The gentle smile that she liked, which made of him anotherperson, slowly overspread his face.

“If I didn’t take you for a boy!” he exclaimed.“It’s powerful queer what difference clothes make. Now I’vebeen some scared of your dignity, like when the other night you was all inwhite but in this rig—”

Black Star came pounding into the court, dragging Jerd half off his feet, andhe whistled at Lassiter’s black. But at sight of Jane all his defiantlines seemed to soften, and with tosses of his beautiful head he whipped hisbridle.

“Down, Black Star, down,” said Jane.

He dropped his head, and, slowly lengthening, he bent one foreleg, then theother, and sank to his knees. Jane slipped her left foot in the stirrup, swunglightly into the saddle, and Black Star rose with a ringing stamp. It was noteasy for Jane to hold him to a canter through the grove, and like the wind hebroke when he saw the sage. Jane let him have a couple of miles of free runningon the open trail, and then she coaxed him in and waited for her companion.Lassiter was not long in catching up, and presently they were riding side byside. It reminded her how she used to ride with Venters. Where was he now? Shegazed far down the slope to the curved purple lines of Deception Pass andinvoluntarily shut her eyes with a trembling stir of nameless fear.

“We’ll turn off here,” Lassiter said, “en’ taketo the sage a mile or so. The white herd is behind them big ridges.”

“What are you going to show me?” asked Jane. “I’mprepared—don’t be afraid.”

He smiled as if he meant that bad news came swiftly enough without beingpresaged by speech.

When they reached the lee of a rolling ridge Lassiter dismounted, motioning toher to do likewise. They left the horses standing, bridles down. Then Lassiter,carrying the field-glasses began to lead the way up the slow rise of ground.Upon nearing the summit he halted her with a gesture.

“I reckon we’d see more if we didn’t show ourselves againstthe sky,” he said. “I was here less than an hour ago. Then the herdwas seven or eight miles south, an’ if they ain’t boltedyet—”

“Lassiter!... Bolted?”

“That’s what I said. Now let’s see.”

Jane climbed a few more paces behind him and then peeped over the ridge. Justbeyond began a shallow swale that deepened and widened into a valley and thenswung to the left. Following the undulating sweep of sage, Jane saw thestraggling lines and then the great body of the white herd. She knew enoughabout steers, even at a distance of four or five miles, to realize thatsomething was in the wind. Bringing her field-glass into use, she moved itslowly from left to right, which action swept the whole herd into range. Thestragglers were restless; the more compactly massed steers were browsing. Janebrought the glass back to the big sentinels of the herd, and she saw them trotwith quick steps, stop short and toss wide horns, look everywhere, and thentrot in another direction.

“Judkins hasn’t been able to get his boys together yet,” saidJane. “But he’ll be there soon. I hope not too late. Lassiter,what’s frightening those big leaders?”

“Nothin’ jest on the minute,” replied Lassiter. “Themsteers are quietin’ down. They’ve been scared, but not bad yet. Ireckon the whole herd has moved a few miles this way since I was here.”

“They didn’t browse that distance—not in less than an hour.Cattle aren’t sheep.”

“No, they jest run it, en’ that looks bad.”

“Lassiter, what frightened them?” repeated Jane, impatiently.

“Put down your glass. You’ll see at first better with a naked eye.Now look along them ridges on the other side of the herd, the ridges where thesun shines bright on the sage.... That’s right. Now look en’ lookhard en’ wait.”

Long-drawn moments of straining sight rewarded Jane with nothing save the low,purple rim of ridge and the shimmering sage.

“It’s begun again!” whispered Lassiter, and he gripped herarm. “Watch.... There, did you see that?”

“No, no. Tell me what to look for?”

“A white flash—a kind of pin-point of quick light—a gleam asfrom sun shinin’ on somethin’ white.”

Suddenly Jane’s concentrated gaze caught a fleeting glint. Quickly shebrought her glass to bear on the spot. Again the purple sage, magnified incolor and size and wave, for long moments irritated her with its monotony. Thenfrom out of the sage on the ridge flew up a broad, white object, flashed in thesunlight and vanished. Like magic it was, and bewildered Jane.

“What on earth is that?”

“What on earth is that?”

“I reckon there’s some one behind that ridge throwin’ up asheet or a white blanket to reflect the sunshine.”

“Why?” queried Jane, more bewildered than ever.

“To stampede the herd,” replied Lassiter, and his teeth clicked.

“Ah!” She made a fierce, passionate movement, clutched the glasstightly, shook as with the passing of a spasm, and then dropped her head.Presently she raised it to greet Lassiter with something like a smile.“My righteous brethren are at work again,” she said, in scorn. Shehad stifled the leap of her wrath, but for perhaps the first time in her life abitter derision curled her lips. Lassiter’s cool gray eyes seemed topierce her. “I said I was prepared for anything; but that was hardlytrue. But why would they—anybody stampede my cattle?”

“That’s a Mormon’s godly way of bringin’ a woman to herknees.”

“Lassiter, I’ll die before I ever bend my knees. I might be led: Iwon’t be driven. Do you expect the herd to bolt?”

“I don’t like the looks of them big steers. But you can never tell.Cattle sometimes stampede as easily as buffalo. Any little flash or move willstart them. A rider gettin’ down an’ walkin’ toward themsometimes will make them jump an’ fly. Then again nothin’ seems toscare them. But I reckon that white flare will do the biz. It’s a new oneon me, an’ I’ve seen some ridin’ an’ rustlin’. Itjest takes one of them God-fearin’ Mormons to think of devilishtricks.”

“Lassiter, might not this trick be done by Oldring’s men?”asked Jane, ever grasping at straws.

“It might be, but it ain’t,” replied Lassiter.“Oldring’s an honest thief. He don’t skulk behind ridges toscatter your cattle to the four winds. He rides down on you, an’ if youdon’t like it you can throw a gun.”

Jane bit her tongue to refrain from championing men who at the very moment wereproving to her that they were little and mean compared even with rustlers.

“Look!... Jane, them leadin’ steers have bolted. They’redrawin’ the stragglers, an’ that’ll pull the wholeherd.”

Jane was not quick enough to catch the details called out by Lassiter, but shesaw the line of cattle lengthening. Then, like a stream of white bees pouringfrom a huge swarm, the steers stretched out from the main body. In a fewmoments, with astonishing rapidity, the whole herd got into motion. A faintroar of trampling hoofs came to Jane’s ears, and gradually swelled; low,rolling clouds of dust began to rise above the sage.

“It’s a stampede, an’ a hummer,” said Lassiter.

“Oh, Lassiter! The herd’s running with the valley! It leads intothe cañon! There’s a straight jump-off!”

“I reckon they’ll run into it, too. But that’s a good manymiles yet. An’, Jane, this valley swings round almost north before itgoes east. That stampede will pass within a mile of us.”

The long, white, bobbing line of steers streaked swiftly through the sage, anda funnel-shaped dust-cloud arose at a low angle. A dull rumbling filledJane’s ears.

“I’m thinkin’ of millin’ that herd,” saidLassiter. His gray glance swept up the slope to the west. “There’ssome specks an’ dust way off toward the village. Mebbe that’sJudkins an’ his boys. It ain’t likely he’ll get here in timeto help. You’d better hold Black Star here on this high ridge.”

He ran to his horse and, throwing off saddle-bags and tightening the cinches,he leaped astride and galloped straight down across the valley.

Jane went for Black Star and, leading him to the summit of the ridge, shemounted and faced the valley with excitement and expectancy. She had heard ofmilling stampeded cattle, and knew it was a feat accomplished by only the mostdaring riders.

The white herd was now strung out in a line two miles long. The dull rumble ofthousands of hoofs deepened into continuous low thunder, and as the steersswept swiftly closer the thunder became a heavy roll. Lassiter crossed in a fewmoments the level of the valley to the eastern rise of ground and there waitedthe coming of the herd. Presently, as the head of the white line reached apoint opposite to where Jane stood, Lassiter spurred his black into a run.

Jane saw him take a position on the off side of the leaders of the stampede,and there he rode. It was like a race. They swept on down the valley, and whenthe end of the white line neared Lassiter’s first stand the head hadbegun to swing round to the west. It swung slowly and stubbornly, yet surely,and gradually assumed a long, beautiful curve of moving white. To Jane’samaze she saw the leaders swinging, turning till they headed back toward herand up the valley. Out to the right of these wild plunging steers ranLassiter’s black, and Jane’s keen eye appreciated the fleet strideand sure-footedness of the blind horse. Then it seemed that the herd moved in agreat curve, a huge half-moon with the points of head and tail almost opposite,and a mile apart. But Lassiter relentlessly crowded the leaders, sheering themto the left, turning them little by little. And the dust-blinded wild followersplunged on madly in the tracks of their leaders. This ever-moving,ever-changing curve of steers rolled toward Jane and when below her, scarcehalf a mile, it began to narrow and close into a circle. Lassiter had riddenparallel with her position, turned toward her, then aside, and now he wasriding directly away from her, all the time pushing the head of that bobbingline inward.

It was then that Jane, suddenly understanding Lassiter’s feat stared andgasped at the riding of this intrepid man. His horse was fleet and tireless,but blind. He had pushed the leaders around and around till they were about toturn in on the inner side of the end of that line of steers. The leaders werealready running in a circle; the end of the herd was still running almoststraight. But soon they would be wheeling. Then, when Lassiter had the circleformed, how would he escape? With Jane Withersteen prayer was as ready aspraise; and she prayed for this man’s safety. A circle of dust began tocollect. Dimly, as through a yellow veil, Jane saw Lassiter press the leadersinward to close the gap in the sage. She lost sight of him in the dust, againshe thought she saw the black, riderless now, rear and drag himself and fall.Lassiter had been thrown—lost! Then he reappeared running out of the dustinto the sage. He had escaped, and she breathed again.

Spellbound, Jane Withersteen watched this stupendous millwheel of steers. Herewas the milling of the herd. The white running circle closed in upon the openspace of sage. And the dust circles closed above into a pall. The ground quakedand the incessant thunder of pounding hoofs rolled on. Jane felt deafened, yetshe thrilled to a new sound. As the circle of sage lessened the steers began tobawl, and when it closed entirely there came a great upheaval in the center,and a terrible thumping of heads and clicking of horns. Bawling, climbing,goring, the great mass of steers on the inside wrestled in a crashing din,heaved and groaned under the pressure. Then came a deadlock. The inner strifeceased, and the hideous roar and crash. Movement went on in the outer circle,and that, too, gradually stilled. The white herd had come to a stop, and thepall of yellow dust began to drift away on the wind.

Jane Withersteen waited on the ridge with full and grateful heart. Lassiterappeared, making his weary way toward her through the sage. And up on the slopeJudkins rode into sight with his troop of boys. For the present, at least, thewhite herd would be looked after.

When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on Black Star’s mane, Janecould not find speech.

“Killed—my—hoss,” he panted.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” cried Jane. “Lassiter! I know youcan’t replace him, but I’ll give you any one of myracers—Bells, or Night, even Black Star.”

“I’ll take a fast hoss, Jane, but not one of your favorites,”he replied. “Only—will you let me have Black Star now an’ride him over there an’ head off them fellers who stampeded theherd?”

He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of dust in the purplesage.

“I can head them off with this hoss, an’ then—”

“Then, Lassiter?”

“They’ll never stampede no more cattle.”

“Oh! No! No!... Lassiter, I won’t let you go!”

But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling hands shook BlackStar’s bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter’s.

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. She wantedhim to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges, and save them if thatwere possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloud all she meant, shewas perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the price to be paid, she must keepLassiter close to her; she must shield from him the man who had led Milly Erneto Cottonwoods. In her fear she so controlled her mind that she did not whisperthis Mormon’s name to her own soul, she did not even think it. Besides,beyond this thing she regarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was theneed of a helper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If shecould rule this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep himfrom shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and his presence againstthe game of oppression her churchmen were waging against her? Never would sheforget the effect on Tull and his men when Venters shouted Lassiter’sname. If she could not wholly control Lassiter, then what she could do mightput off the fatal day.

One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells because of theway he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When Jerd led out this slender,beautifully built horse Lassiter suddenly became all eyes. A rider’s loveof a thoroughbred shone in them. Round and round Bells he walked, plainlyweakening all the time in his determination not to take one of Jane’sfavorite racers.

“Lassiter, you’re half horse, and Bells sees it already,”said Jane, laughing. “Look at his eyes. He likes you. He’ll loveyou, too. How can you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run! It’snip and tuck between him and Wrangle, and only Black Star can beat him.He’s too spirited a horse for a woman. Take him. He’s yours.”

“I jest am weak where a hoss’s concerned,” said Lassiter.“I’ll take him, an’ I’ll take your orders,ma’am.”

“Well, I’m glad, but never mind the ma’am. Let it still beJane.”

From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, riding early andlate, and coincident with his part in Jane’s affairs the days assumedtheir old tranquillity. Her intelligence told her this was only the lull beforethe storm, but her faith would not have it so.

She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these she encounteredTull. He greeted her as he had before any trouble came between them, and she,responsive to peace if not quick to forget, met him halfway with manner almostcheerful. He regretted the loss of her cattle; he assured her that thevigilantes which had been organized would soon rout the rustlers; when that hadbeen accomplished her riders would likely return to her.

“You’ve done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter,”Tull went on, 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. Sheresented Elder Tull’s cold, impassive manner that looked down upon her asone who had incurred his just displeasure. Otherwise he would have been thesame calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years. In fact,except when he had revealed his passion in the matter of the seizing ofVenters, she had never dreamed he could be other than the grave, reprovingpreacher. He stood out now a strange, secretive man. She would have thoughtbetter of him if he had picked up the threads of their quarrel where they hadparted. Was Tull what he appeared to be? The question flung itselfin-voluntarily over Jane Withersteen’s inhibitive habit of faith withoutquestion. And she refused to answer it. Tull could not fight in the open.Venters had said, Lassiter had said, that her Elder shirked fight and worked inthe 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. Hismanner was that of the minister who had been outraged, but who overlooked thefrailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemed unutterably aloof from allknowledge of pressure being brought to bear upon her, absolutely guiltless ofany connection with secret power over riders, with night journeys, withrustlers and stampedes of cattle. And that convinced her again of unjustsuspicions. But it was convincement through an obstinate faith. She shudderedas she accepted it, and that shudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt.

Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main street and entereda huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling clover, alfalfa, flowers, andvegetables, all growing in happy confusion. And like these fresh green thingswere the dozens of babies, tots, toddlers, noisy urchins, laughing girls, awhole multitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, the father ofall this numerous progeny, was a Mormon with four wives.

The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque, the lower partbuilt of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with vines growing up the outsidestone chimneys. There were many wooden-shuttered windows, and one pretentiouswindow of glass proudly curtained in white. As this house had four mistresses,it likewise had four separate sections, not one of which communicated withanother, and all had to be entered from the outside.

In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found Brandt’s wivesentertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly women, of comparatively similarages, and plain-featured, and just at this moment anything but grave. TheBishop was rather tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hair and beard, and eyesof light blue. They were merry now; but Jane had seen them when they were not,and then she feared him as she had feared her father.

The women flocked around her in welcome.

“Daughter of Withersteen,” said the Bishop, gaily, as he took herhand, “you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late. ASabbath without 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.“Tull keeps you all to himself.”

“No. He is not courting me.”

“What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I’ll go a-courtingmyself up to Withersteen House.”

There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and then mild talk ofvillage affairs, after which he took his leave, and Jane was left with herfriend, 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 of fear.

“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’vegot to choose between the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormon womenhave to do that. It’s not easy. The kind of happiness you want I wantedonce. I never got it, nor will you, unless you throw away your soul.We’ve all watched your affair with Venters in fear and trembling. Somedreadful thing will come of it. You don’t want him hanged orshot—or treated worse, as that Gentile boy was treated in Glaze forfooling round a Mormon woman. Marry Tull. It’s your duty as a Mormon.You’ll feel no rapture as his wife—but think of Heaven! Mormonwomen don’t marry for what they expect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane.Remember your father found Amber Spring, built these old houses, broughtMormons here, and fathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!”

Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. They received herwith the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished upon her the pent-up affectionof Mormon women, and let her go with her ears ringing of Tull, Venters,Lassiter, of duty to God and glory in Heaven.

“Verily,” murmured Jane, “I don’t know myself when,through all this, I remain unchanged—nay, more fixed of purpose.”

She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps toward the centerof the village. A string of wagons drawn by oxen was lumbering along. These“sage-freighters,” as they were called, hauled grain and flour andmerchandise from Sterling, and Jane laughed suddenly in the midst of herhumility at the thought that they were her property, as was one of the threestores for which they freighted goods. The water that flowed along the path ather feet, and turned into each cottage-yard to nourish garden and orchard, alsowas hers, no less her private property because she chose to give it free. Yetin this village of Cottonwoods, which her father had founded and which shemaintained she was not her own mistress; she was not able to abide by her ownchoice of a husband. She was the daughter of Withersteen. Suppose she provedit, imperiously! But she quelled that proud temptation at its birth.

Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village people had for her;no power could have made her happy as the pleasure her presence gave. As shewent on down the street past the stores with their rude platform entrances, andthe saloons where tired horses stood with bridles dragging, she was againassured of what was the bread and wine of life to her—that she was loved.Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters, riders, loungers on thecorners, ranchers on dusty horses, little girls running errands, and womenhurrying to the stores all looked up at her coming with glad eyes.

Jane’s various calls and wandering steps at length led her to the Gentilequarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern end, and here somethirty Gentile families lived in huts and shacks and log-cabins and severaldilapidated cottages. The fortunes of these inhabitants of Cottonwoods could beread in their abodes. Water they had in abundance, and therefore grass andfruit-trees and patches of alfalfa and vegetable gardens. Some of the men andboys had a few stray cattle, others obtained such intermittent employment asthe Mormons reluctantly tendered them. But none of the families was prosperous,many were very poor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen’sbeneficence.

As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened her to come incontact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not because she was unwelcome; hereshe was gratefully received by the women, passionately by the children. Butpoverty and idleness, with their attendant wretchedness and sorrow, always hurther. That she could alleviate this distress more now than ever before provedthe adage that it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. While her Mormonriders were in her employ she had found few Gentiles who would stay with her,and now she was able to find employment for all the men and boys. No littleshock was it to have man after man tell her that he dare not accept her kindoffer.

“It won’t do,” said one Carson, an intelligent man who hadseen better days. “We’ve had our warning. Plain and to the point!Now there’s Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can thedaredevil boys he’s hired. But they’ve little responsibility. Canwe risk having our homes burned in our absence?”

Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as the blood leftit.

“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 rentor a yearling 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 foundthe use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could ever have equaled thatcurse in eloquent expression of what he felt for Jane Withersteen. Howstrangely his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter!

“No, it won’t do,” he said, when he had somewhat recoveredhimself. “Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don’t know,and there’s not a 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 seewhat it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And ifbetter times 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 hadbeen a shed; now it was a home. The broad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwoodsheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had onefloor. Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as the hand ofa weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place wasjust outside the village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry herwater from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered theunfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward herwith curls flying. This child was a little girl of four called Fay. Her namesuited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a creature so fairy-like andbeautiful that she seemed unearthly.

“Muvver sended for oo,” cried Fay, as Jane kissed her,“an’ oo never tome.”

“I didn’t know, Fay; but I’ve come now.”

Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and she wasdirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. The one thinlittle bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slim body. Red ascherries were her cheeks and lips; her eyes were violet blue, and the crown ofher childish loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children ofCottonwoods were Jane Withersteen’s friends, she loved them all. But Faywas dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among the Gentile children therewere none near her age, and the Mormon children were forbidden to play withher. So she was a shy, wild, lonely child.

“Muvver’s sick,” said Fay, leading Jane toward the door ofthe hut.

Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it was cleanand 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 onyou?”

“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 she fought tobe above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving her conscious of her utterimpotence. That, too, passed as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caughta glimpse of dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time intoher own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand hadbegun to run these dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plaitand weave a web. Jane Withersteen knew it now, and in the realization furthercoolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her ancestors.

“Mrs. Larkin, you’re better, and I’m so glad,” saidJane. “But may I not do something for you—a turn at nursing, orsend you things, or take care of Fay?”

“You’re so good. Since my husband’s been gone what would havebecome of Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak toyou. 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 andI won’t live long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you’vebeen asking me 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 refusedyour offer, and now I’ll tell you why.”

“I know why,” interposed Jane. “It’s because youdon’t want her brought up as a Mormon.”

“No, it wasn’t altogether that.” Mrs. Larkin raised her thinhand and laid it appealingly on Jane’s. “I don’t like to tellyou. But—it’s this: I told all my friends what you wanted. Theyknow you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women willtalk, you know. It got to the ears of Mormons—gossip of your love for Fayand your 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 Inever believed 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 love littleFay. If I had her near me I’d grow to worship her. When I asked for her Ithought only of that love.... Let me prove this. You and Fay come to live withme. I’ve such a big house, and I’m so lonely. I’ll help nurseyou, take care of you. When you’re better you can work for me. I’llkeep little Fay and bring her up—without Mormon teaching. Whenshe’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’tknow much about religion as religion, but your God and my God are thesame.”

CHAPTER VIII.
SURPRISE VALLEY

Back in that strange cañon, which Venters had found indeed a valley ofsurprises, the wounded girl’s whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not totake her back to the rustlers crowned the events of the last few days with aconfounding climax. That she should not want to return to them staggeredVenters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal confirmed his firstimpression—that she was more unfortunate than bad—and heexperienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before thatOldring’s Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have been formed andhe would have considered her abandoned. But his first knowledge had come whenhe lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony; he had heardGod’s name whispered by blood-stained lips; through her solemn and awfuleyes he had caught a glimpse of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty tohim, “Don’t—take—me—back—there!”

Once for all Venters’s quick mind formed a permanent conception of thispoor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her, butupon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a few pitiful,halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed thetruth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil.

“What’s your name?” he inquired.

“Bess,” she answered.

“Bess what?”

“That’s enough—just Bess.”

The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever. Ventersmarveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at the momentarydrooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler’s girl, but she was stillcapable of shame, she might be dying, but she still clung to some littleremnant of honor.

“Very well, Bess. It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Butthis matters—what shall I do with you?”

“Are—you—a rider?” she whispered.

“Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost myplace—lost all I owned—and now I’m—I’m a sort ofoutcast. My name’s Bern Venters.”

“You won’t—take me—to Cottonwoods—or Glaze?I’d be—hanged.”

“No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it’s not safefor me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he’llbe found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where Ican’t be trailed.”

“Leave me—here.”

“Alone—to die!”

“Yes.”

“I will not.” Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in hisvoice.

“What—do you want—to do—with me?” Her whisperinggrew difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear her.

“Why, let’s see,” he replied, slowly. “I’d liketo take you some place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you’reall right.”

“And—then?”

“Well, it’ll be time to think of that when you’re cured ofyour wound. It’s a bad one. And—Bess, if you don’t want tolive—if you don’t fight for life—you’llnever—”

“Oh! I want—to live! I’m afraid—to die. But I’drather—die—than go back—to—to—”

“To Oldring?” asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.

Her lips moved in an affirmative.

“I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or toGlaze.”

The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterable gratitudeand wonder. And as suddenly Venters found her eyes beautiful as he had neverseen or felt beauty. They were as dark blue as the sky at night. Then theflashing changed to a long, thoughtful look, in which there was a wistful,unconscious searching of his face, a look that trembled on the verge of hopeand trust.

“I’ll try—to live,” she said. The broken whisper justreached his ears. “Do what—you want—with me.”

“Rest then—don’t worry—sleep,” he replied.

Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and with a sharpcommand to the dogs he strode from the camp. Venters was conscious of anindefinite conflict of change within him. It seemed to be a vague passing ofold moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition.He was both cast down and uplifted. He wanted to think and think of themeaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative need at presentwas to find a safe retreat, and this called for action.

So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This trip he turnedto the left and wended his skulking way southward a mile or more to the openingof the valley, where lay the strange scrawled rocks. He did not, however,venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall andwent along that till its perpendicular line broke into the long incline of barestone.

Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange character of thisslope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen far against suchbackground. Before him ascended a gradual swell of smooth stone. It was hard,polished, and full of pockets worn by centuries of eddying rain-water. Ahundred yards up began a line of grotesque cedar-trees, and they extended alongthe slope clear to its most southerly end. Beyond that end Venters wanted toget, and he concluded the cedars, few as they were, would afford some cover.

Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than he had estimated,though he had from long habit made allowance for the deceiving nature ofdistances in that country. When he gained the cover of cedars he paused to restand look, and it was then he saw how the trees sprang from holes in the barerock. Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in depressions,wearing deep round holes. There had been dry seasons, accumulations of dust,wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose wonderfully out of solid rock. But these werenot beautiful cedars. They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as ifgrowth were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs had beena bitter fight, and Venters felt a strange sympathy for them. This country washard on trees—and men.

He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the open valley.As he progressed, the belt of trees widened and he kept to its upper margin. Hepassed shady pockets half full of water, and, as he marked the location forpossible future need, he reflected that there had been no rain since the wintersnows. From one of these shady holes a rabbit hopped out and squatted down,laying its ears flat.

Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself to think of.But it would not do to fire his rifle there. So he broke off a cedar branch andthrew it. He crippled the rabbit, which started to flounder up the slope.Venters did not wish to lose the meat, and he never allowed crippled game toescape, to die lingeringly in some covert. So after a careful glance below, andback toward the cañon, he began to chase the rabbit.

The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him. But it presentlyseemed singular why this rabbit, that might have escaped downward, chose toascend the slope. Venters knew then that it had a burrow higher up. More thanonce he jerked over to seize it, only in vain, for the rabbit by renewed efforteluded his grasp. Thus the chase continued on up the bare slope. The fartherVenters climbed the more determined he grew to catch his quarry. At last,panting and sweating, he captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade.Laying his rifle on the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slungit from his belt.

Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had climbed far up thatwonderful smooth slope, and had almost reached the base of yellow cliff thatrose skyward, a huge scarred and cracked bulk. It frowned down upon him as ifto forbid further ascent. Venters bent over for his rifle, and, as he picked itup from where it leaned against the steeper grade, he saw several little nickscut in the solid stone.

They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. Venters began to countthem—one—two—three—four—on up to sixteen. Thatnumber carried his glance to the top of his first bulging bench of cliff-base.Above, after a more level offset, was still steeper slope, and the line ofnicks kept on, to wind round a projecting corner of wall.

A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if Venters had notknown what they signified he would never have bestowed upon them the secondglance. But he knew they had been cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, herecognized them as steps cut in the rock by the cliff-dwellers. With a pulsebeginning to beat and hammer away his calmness, he eyed that indistinct line ofsteps, up to where the buttress of wall hid further sight of them. He knew thatbehind the corner of stone would be a cave or a crack which could never besuspected from below. Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directedhim to a probable hiding-place. Again he laid aside his rifle, and, removingboots and belt, he began to walk up the steps. Like a mountain goat, he wasagile, sure-footed, and he mounted the first bench without bending to use hishands. The next ascent took grip of fingers as well as toes, but he climbedsteadily, swiftly, to reach the projecting corner, and slipped around it. Herehe faced a notch in the cliff. At the apex he turned abruptly into a raggedvent that split the ponderous wall clear to the top, showing a narrow streak ofblue sky.

At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, musty dust. Itzigzagged so that he could not see ahead more than a few yards at a time. Henoticed tracks of wildcats and rabbits in the dusty floor. At every turn heexpected to come upon a huge cavern full of little square stone houses, eachwith a small aperture like a staring dark eye. The passage lightened andwidened, and opened at the foot of a narrow, steep, ascending chute.

Venters had a moment’s notice of the rock, which was of the samesmoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his gaze went irresistiblyupward to the precipitous walls of this wide ladder of granite. These wereruined walls of yellow sandstone, and so split and splintered, so overhangingwith great sections of balancing rim, so impending with tremendous crumblingcrags, that Venters caught his breath sharply, and, appalled, he instinctivelyrecoiled as if a step upward might jar the ponderous cliffs from theirfoundation. Indeed, it seemed that these ruined cliffs were but awaiting abreath of wind to collapse and come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It wouldbe a foolhardy man who risked his life under the leaning, waiting avalanches ofrock in that gigantic split. Yet how many years had they leaned there withoutfalling! At the bottom of the incline was an immense heap of weatheredsandstone all crumbling to dust, but there were no huge rocks as large ashouses, such as rested so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently andinevitably to crash down. Slowly split from the parent rock by the weatheringprocess, and carved and sculptured by ages of wind and rain, they waited theirmoment. Venters felt how foolish it was for him to fear these broken walls; tofear that, after they had endured for thousands of years, the moment of hispassing should be the one for them to slip. Yet he feared it.

“What a place to hide!” muttered Venters. “I’llclimb—I’ll see where this thing goes. If only I can findwater!”

With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline. And as he climbed he bent hiseyes downward. This, however, after a little grew impossible; he had to look toobey his eager, curious mind. He raised his glance and saw light between row onrow of shafts and pinnacles and crags that stood out from the main wall. Someleaned against the cliff, others against each other; many stood sheer andalone; all were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It was a place of yellow, raggedruin. The passage narrowed as he went up; it became a slant, hard for him tostick on; it was smooth as marble. Finally he surmounted it, surprised to findthe walls still several hundred feet high, and a narrow gorge leading down onthe other side. This was a divide between two inclines, about twenty yardswide. At one side stood an enormous rock. Venters gave it a second glance,because it rested on a pedestal. It attracted closer attention. It was like acolossal pear of stone standing on its stem. Around the bottom were thousandsof little nicks just distinguishable to the eye. They were marks of stonehatchets. The cliff-dwellers had chipped and chipped away at this boulder tillit rested its tremendous bulk upon a mere pin-point of its surface. Venterspondered. Why had the little stone-men hacked away at that big boulder? It boreno semblance to a statue or an idol or a godhead or a sphinx. Instinctively heput his hands on it and pushed; then his shoulder and heaved. The stone seemedto groan, to stir, to grate, and then to move. It tipped a little downward andhung balancing for a long instant, slowly returned, rocked slightly, groaned,and settled back to its former position.

Venters divined its significance. It had been meant for defense. Thecliff-dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this last stand, had cunningly cutthe rock until it balanced perfectly, ready to be dislodged by strong hands.Just below it leaned a tottering crag that would have toppled, starting anavalanche on an acclivity where no sliding mass could stop. Crags andpinnacles, splintered cliffs, and leaning shafts and monuments, would havethundered down to block forever the outlet to Deception Pass.

“That was a narrow shave for me,” said Venters, soberly. “Abalancing rock! The cliff-dwellers never had to roll it. They died, vanished,and here the rock stands, probably little changed.... But it might serveanother lonely dweller of the cliffs. I’ll hide up here somewhere, if Ican only find water.”

He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was gradual, the spacenarrow, the course straight for many rods. A gloom hung between the up-sweepingwalls. In a turn the passage narrowed to scarce a dozen feet, and here wasdarkness of night. But light shone ahead; another abrupt turn brought dayagain, and then wide open space.

Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging the cañon rims, andthrough the enormous round portal gleamed and glistened a beautiful valleyshining under sunset gold reflected by surrounding cliffs. He gave a start ofsurprise. The valley was a cove a mile long, half that wide, and its enclosingwalls were smooth and stained, and curved inward, forming great caves. Hedecided that its floor was far higher than the level of Deception Pass and theintersecting cañons. No purple sage colored this valley floor. Instead therewere the white of aspens, streaks of branch and slender trunk glistening fromthe green of leaves, and the darker green of oaks, and through the middle ofthis forest, from wall to wall, ran a winding line of brilliant green whichmarked the course of cottonwoods and willows.

“There’s water here—and this is the place for me,” saidVenters. “Only birds can peep over those walls, I’ve gone Oldringone better.”

Venters waited no longer, and turned swiftly to retrace his steps. He named thecañon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder that guarded the outlet BalancingRock. Going down he did not find himself attended by such fears as had besethim in the climb; still, he was not easy in mind and could not occupy himselfwith plans of moving the girl and his outfit until he had descended to thenotch. There he rested a moment and looked about him. The pass was darkeningwith the approach of night. At the corner of the wall, where the stone stepsturned, he saw a spur of rock that would serve to hold the noose of a lasso. Heneeded no more aid to scale that place. As he intended to make the move undercover of darkness, he wanted most to be able to tell where to climb up. So,taking several small stones with him, he stepped and slid down to the edge ofthe slope where he had left his rifle and boots. He placed the stones someyards apart. He left the rabbit lying upon the bench where the steps began.Then he addressed a keen-sighted, remembering gaze to the rim-wall above. Itwas serrated, and between two spears of rock, directly in line with hisposition, showed a zigzag crack that at night would let through the gleam ofsky. This settled, he put on his belt and boots and prepared to descend. Someconsideration was necessary to decide whether or not to leave his rifle there.On the return, carrying the girl and a pack, it would be added encumbrance; andafter debating the matter he left the rifle leaning against the bench. As hewent straight down the slope he halted every few rods to look up at his mark onthe rim. It changed, but he fixed each change in his memory. When he reachedthe first cedar-tree, he tied his scarf upon a dead branch, and then hurriedtoward camp, having no more concern about finding his trail upon the returntrip.

Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. It occurred to him, as heglided into the grassy glade near camp and head the whinny of a horse, that hehad forgotten Wrangle. The big sorrel could not be gotten into Surprise Valley.He would have to be left here.

Venters determined at once to lead the other horses out through the thicket andturn them loose. The farther they wandered from this cañon the better it wouldsuit him. He easily descried Wrangle through the gloom, but the others were notin sight. Venters whistled low for the dogs, and when they came trotting to himhe sent them out to search for the horses, and followed. It soon developed thatthey were not in the glade nor the thicket. Venters grew cold and rigid at thethought of rustlers having entered his retreat. But the thought passed, for thedemeanor of Ring and Whitie reassured him. The horses had wandered away.

Under the clump of silver spruces a denser mantle of darkness, yet not so thickthat Venter’s night-practiced eyes could not catch the white oval of astill face. He bent over it with a slight suspension of breath that was bothcaution lest he frighten her and chill uncertainty of feeling lest he find herdead. But she slept, and he arose to renewed activity.

He packed his saddle-bags. The dogs were hungry, they whined about him andnosed his busy hands; but he took no time to feed them nor to satisfy his ownhunger. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulders and made them secure withhis lasso. Then he wrapped the blankets closer about the girl and lifted her inhis arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumped the ground as Venters passed him withthe dogs. The sorrel knew he was being left behind, and was not sure whether heliked it or not. Venters went on and entered the thicket. Here he had to feelhis way in pitch blackness and to wedge his progress between the closesaplings. Time meant little to him now that he had started, and he edged alongwith slow side movement till he got clear of the thicket. Ring and Whitie stoodwaiting for him. Taking to the open aisles and patches of the sage, he walkedguardedly, careful not to stumble or step in dust or strike against spreadingsage-branches.

If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time, when he passed outof the black lines of shade into the wan starlight, he glanced at the whiteface of the girl lying in his arms. She had not awakened from her sleep orstupor. He did not rest until he cleared the black gate of the cañon. Then heleaned against a stone breast-high to him and gently released the girl from hishold. His brow and hair and the palms of his hands were wet, and there was akind of nervous contraction of his muscles. They seemed to ripple and stringtense. He had a desire to hurry and no sense of fatigue. A wind blew the scentof sage in his face. The first early blackness of night passed with thebrightening of the stars. Somewhere back on his trail a coyote yelped,splitting the dead silence. Venters’s faculties seemed singularly acute.

He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley afforded better travelingthan the cañon. It was lighter, freer of sage, and there were no rocks. Soon,out of the pale gloom shone a still paler thing, and that was the low swell ofslope. Venters mounted it and his dogs walked beside him. Once upon the stonehe slowed to snail pace, straining his sight to avoid the pockets and holes.Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars, like great demons and witcheschained to the rock and writhing in silent anguish, loomed up with wide andtwisting naked arms. Venters crossed this belt of cedars, skirted the upperborder, and recognized the tree he had marked, even before he saw his wavingscarf.

Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently, feet first and slowly laid her outfull length. What he feared was to reopen one of her wounds. If he gave her aviolent jar, or slipped and fell! But the supreme confidence so strangely feltthat night admitted no such blunders.

The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity to lose its definiteoutline in a misty, opaque cloud that shaded into the over-shadowing wall. Hescanned the rim where the serrated points speared the sky, and he found thezigzag crack. It was dim, only a shade lighter than the dark ramparts, but hedistinguished it, and that served.

Lifting the girl, he stepped upward, closely attending to the nature of thepath under his feet. After a few steps he stopped to mark his line with thecrack in the rim. The dogs clung closer to him. While chasing the rabbit thisslope had appeared interminable to him; now, burdened as he was, he did notthink of length or height or toil. He remembered only to avoid a misstep and tokeep his direction. He climbed on, with frequent stops to watch the rim, andbefore he dreamed of gaining the bench he bumped his knees into it, and saw, inthe dim gray light, his rifle and the rabbit. He had come straight up withoutmishap or swerving off his course, and his shut teeth unlocked.

As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little ridge with herwhite face upturned, she opened her eyes. Wide, staring black, at once likeboth the night and the stars, they made her face seem still whiter.

“Is—it—you?” she asked, faintly.

“Yes,” replied Venters.

“Oh! Where—are we?”

“I’m taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find you. Imust climb a little here and call the dogs. Don’t be afraid. I’llsoon come for you.”

She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a moment and then closed.Venters pulled off his boots and then felt for the little steps in the rock.The shade of the cliff above obscured the point he wanted to gain, but he couldsee dimly a few feet before him. What he had attempted with care he now went atwith surpassing lightness. Buoyant, rapid, sure, he attained the corner of walland slipped around it. Here he could not see a hand before his face, so hegroped along, found a little flat space, and there removed the saddle-bags. Thelasso he took back with him to the corner and looped the noose over the spur ofrock.

“Ring—Whitie—come,” he called, softly.

Low whines came up from below.

“Here! Come, Whitie—Ring,” he repeated, this time sharply.

Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet; and out of the graygloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to reach his side and pass beyond.

Venters descended, holding to the lasso. He tested its strength by throwing allhis weight upon it. Then he gathered the girl up, and, holding her securely inhis left arm, he began to climb, at every few steps jerking his right handupward along the lasso. It sagged at each forward movement he made, but hebalanced himself lightly during the interval when he lacked the support of ataut rope. He climbed as if he had wings, the strength of a giant, and knew notthe sense of fear. The sharp corner of cliff seemed to cut out of the darkness.He reached it and the protruding shelf, and then, entering the black shade ofthe notch, he moved blindly but surely to the place where he had left thesaddle-bags. He heard the dogs, though he could not see them. Once more hecarefully placed the girl at his feet. Then, on hands and knees, he went overthe little flat space, feeling for stones. He removed a number, and, scrapingthe deep dust into a heap, he unfolded the outer blanket from around the girland laid her upon this bed. Then he went down the slope again for his boots,rifle, and the rabbit, and, bringing also his lasso with him, he made shortwork of that trip.

“Are—you—there?” The girl’s voice came low fromthe blackness.

“Yes,” he replied, and was conscious that his laboring breast madespeech difficult.

“Are we—in a cave?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, listen!... The waterfall!... I hear it! You’ve brought meback!”

Venters heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled to a pitch almost softlyshrill and the next lulled to a low, almost inaudible sigh.

“That’s—wind blowing—in the—cliffs,” hepanted. “You’re far from Oldring’s—cañon.”

The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme lassitudefollowing upon great exertion. It seemed that when he lay down and drew hisblanket over him the action was the last before utter prostration. He stretchedinert, wet, hot, his body one great strife of throbbing, stinging nerves andbursting veins. And there he lay for a long while before he felt that he hadbegun to rest.

Rest came to him that night, but no sleep. Sleep he did not want. The hours ofstrained effort were now as if they had never been, and he wanted to think.Earlier in the day he had dismissed an inexplicable feeling of change; but now,when there was no longer demand on his cunning and strength and he had time tothink, he could not catch the illusive thing that had sadly perplexed as wellas elevated his spirit.

Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the cliff, shone thelustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers for a long, long year.To-night they were different. He studied them. Larger, whiter, more radiantthey seemed; but that was not the difference he meant. Gradually it came to himthat the distinction was not one he saw, but one he felt. In this he divined asmuch of the baffling change as he thought would be revealed to him then. And ashe lay there, with the singing of the cliff-winds in his ears, the white starsabove the dark, bold vent, the difference which he felt was that he was nolonger alone.

CHAPTER IX.
SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS

The rest of that night seemed to Venters only a few moments of starlight, adark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of gray gloom, and then the lighting ofdawn.

When he had bestirred himself, feeding the hungry dogs and breaking his longfast, and had repacked his saddle-bags, it was clear daylight, though the sunhad not tipped the yellow wall in the east. He concluded to make the climb anddescent into Surprise Valley in one trip. To that end he tied his blanket uponRing and gave Whitie the extra lasso and the rabbit to carry. Then, with therifle and saddle-bags slung upon his back, he took up the girl. She did notawaken from heavy slumber.

That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the broken cliffs, in theface of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed to be weary of its age-longwavering, was a tax on strength and nerve that Venters felt equally withsomething sweet and strangely exulting in its accomplishment. He did not pauseuntil he gained the narrow divide and there he rested. Balancing Rock loomedhuge, cold in the gray light of dawn, a thing without life, yet it spokesilently to Venters: “I am waiting to plunge down, to shatter and crash,roar and boom, to bury your trail, and close forever the outlet to DeceptionPass!”

He did not pause until he gained the narrow divide

On the descent of the other side Venters had easy going, but was somewhatconcerned because Whitie appeared to have succumbed to temptation, and whilecarrying the rabbit was also chewing on it. And Ring evidently regarded this asan injury to himself, especially as he had carried the heavier load. Presentlyhe snapped at one end of the rabbit and refused to let go. But his actionprevented Whitie from further misdoing, and then the two dogs pattered down,carrying the rabbit between them.

Venters turned out of the gorge, and suddenly paused stock-still, astounded atthe scene before him. The curve of the great stone bridge had caught thesunrise, and through the magnificent arch burst a glorious stream of gold thatshone with a long slant down into the center of Surprise Valley. Only throughthe arch did any sunlight pass, so that all the rest of the valley lay stillasleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level into walls as mistyand soft as morning clouds.

Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking up at its tremendousheight and sweep. It spanned the opening to Surprise Valley, stretching inalmost perfect curve from rim to rim. Even in his hurry and concern Venterscould not but feel its majesty, and the thought came to him that thecliff-dwellers must have regarded it as an object of worship.

Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling the weight of his burdenas he descended, and still the valley lay below him. As all other cañons andcoves and valleys had deceived him, so had this deep, nestling oval. At lengthhe passed beyond the slope of weathered stone that spread fan-shape from thearch, and encountered a grassy terrace running to the right and about on alevel with the tips of the oaks and cottonwoods below. Scattered here and thereupon this shelf were clumps of aspens, and he walked through them into a gladethat surpassed in beauty and adaptability for a wild home, any place he hadever seen. Silver spruces bordered the base of a precipitous wall that roseloftily. Caves indented its surface, and there were no detached ledges orweathered sections that might dislodge a stone. The level ground, beyond thespruces, dropped down into a little ravine. This was one dense line of slenderaspens from which came the low splashing of water. And the terrace, lying opento the west, afforded unobstructed view of the valley of green treetops.

For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between the silver spruces andthe cliff. Here, in the stone wall, had been wonderfully carved by wind orwashed by water several deep caves above the level of the terrace. They wereclean, dry, roomy.

He cut spruce boughs and made a bed in the largest cave and laid the girlthere. The first intimation that he had of her being aroused from sleep orlethargy was a low call for water.

He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was a shallow, grass-greenplace with aspens growing up everywhere. To his delight he found a tiny brookof swift-running water. Its faint tinge of amber reminded him of the spring atCottonwoods, and the thought gave him a little shock. The water was so cold itmade his fingers tingle as he dipped the canteen. Having returned to the cave,he was glad to see the girl drink thirstily. This time he noted that she couldraise her head slightly without his help.

“You were thirsty,” he said. “It’s good water.I’ve found a fine place. Tell me—how do you feel?”

“There’s pain—here,” she replied, and moved her hand toher left side.

“Why, that’s strange! Your wounds are on your right side. I believeyou’re hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache—a gnawing?”

“It’s like—that.”

“Then it’s hunger.” Venters laughed, and suddenly caughthimself with a quick breath and felt again the little shock. When had helaughed? “It’s hunger,” he went on. “I’ve hadthat gnaw many a time. I’ve got it now. But you mustn’t eat. Youcan have all the water you want, but no food just yet.”

“Won’t I—starve?”

“No, people don’t starve easily. I’ve discovered that. Youmust lie perfectly still and rest and sleep—for days.”

“My hands—are dirty; my face feels—so hot and sticky; myboots hurt.” It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed off in awhisper.

“Well, I’m a fine nurse!”

It annoyed him that he had never thought of these things. But then, awaitingher death and thinking of her comfort were vastly different matters. Heunwrapped the blanket which covered her. What a slender girl she was! No wonderhe had been able to carry her miles and pack her up that slippery ladder ofstone. Her boots were of soft, fine leather, reaching clear to her knees. Herecognized the make as one of a boot-maker in Sterling. Her spurs, that he hadstupidly neglected to remove, consisted of silver frames and gold chains, andthe rowels, large as silver dollars, were fancifully engraved. The bootsslipped off rather hard. She wore heavy woollen rider’s stockings, halflength, and these were pulled up over the ends of her short trousers. Venterstook off the stockings to note her little feet were red and swollen. He bathedthem. Then he removed his scarf and bathed her face and hands.

“I must see your wounds now,” he said, gently.

She made no reply, but watched him steadily as he opened her blouse and untiedthe bandage. His strong fingers trembled a little as he removed it. If thewounds had reopened! A chill struck him as he saw the angry red bullet-mark,and a tiny stream of blood winding from it down her white breast. Verycarefully he lifted her to see that the wound in her back had closed perfectly.Then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed the wound, and left itunbandaged, open to the air.

Her eyes thanked him.

“Listen,” he said, earnestly. “I’ve had some wounds,and I’ve seen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your back hasclosed. If you lie still three days the one in your breast will close andyou’ll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will be over.”

He had spoken with earnest sincerity, almost eagerness.

“Why—do you—want me—to get well?” she asked,wonderingly.

The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds of humanity. But thecircumstances under which he had shot this strange girl, the shock andrealization, the waiting for death, the hope, had resulted in a condition ofmind wherein Venters wanted her to live more than he had ever wanted anything.Yet he could not tell why. He believed the killing of the rustler and thesubsequent excitement had disturbed him. For how else could he explain thethrobbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, the undefined sense of fullhours, charged, vibrant with pulsating mystery where once they had dragged inloneliness?

“I shot you,” he said, slowly, “and I want you to get well soI shall not have killed a woman. But—for your own sake, too—”

A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes, and her lips quivered.

“Hush,” said Venters. “You’ve talked too muchalready.”

In her unutterable bitterness he saw a darkness of mood that could not havebeen caused by her present weak and feverish state. She hated the life she hadled, that she probably had been compelled to lead. She had suffered someunforgivable wrong at the hands of Oldring. With that conviction Venters felt ashame throughout his body, and it marked the rekindling of fierce anger andruthlessness. In the past long year he had nursed resentment. He had hated thewilderness—the loneliness of the uplands. He had waited for something tocome to pass. It had come. Like an Indian stealing horses he had skulked intothe recesses of the cañons. He had found Oldring’s retreat; he hadkilled a rustler; he had shot an unfortunate girl, then had saved her from thisunwitting act, and he meant to save her from the consequent wasting of blood,from fever and weakness. Starvation he had to fight for her and for himself.Where he had been sick at the letting of blood, now he remembered it in grim,cold calm. And as he lost that softness of nature, so he lost his fear of men.He would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he would kill this greatblack-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, who had used her to hisinfamous ends.

Venters surmised this much of the change in him—idleness had passed;keen, fierce vigor flooded his mind and body; all that had happened to him atCottonwoods seemed remote and hard to recall; the difficulties and perils ofthe present absorbed him, held him in a kind of spell.

First, then, he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl’s room forhis own comfort and use. His next work was to build a fireplace of stones andto gather a store of wood. That done, he spilled the contents of hissaddle-bags upon the grass and took stock. His outfit consisted of asmall-handled axe, a hunting-knife, a large number of cartridges for rifle orrevolver, a tin plate, a cup, and a fork and spoon, a quantity of dried beefand dried fruits, and small canvas bags containing tea, sugar, salt, andpepper. For him alone this supply would have been bountiful to begin a sojournin the wilderness, but he was no longer alone. Starvation in the uplands wasnot an unheard-of thing; he did not, however, worry at all on that score, andfeared only his possible inability to supply the needs of a woman in a weakenedand extremely delicate condition.

If there was no game in the valley—a contingency he doubted—itwould not be a great task for him to go by night to Oldring’s herd andpack out a calf. The exigency of the moment was to ascertain if there were gamein Surprise Valley. Whitie still guarded the dilapidated rabbit, and Ring sleptnear by under a spruce. Venters called Ring and went to the edge of theterrace, and there halted to survey the valley.

He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances had made itappear; for more than a casual idea of dimensions and a hasty conception ofoval shape and singular beauty he had not had time. Again the felicity of thename he had given the valley struck him forcibly. Around the red perpendicularwalls, except under the great arc of stone, ran a terrace fringed at thecliff-base by silver spruces; below that first terrace sloped another wider onedensely overgrown with aspens, and the center of the valley was a level circleof oaks and alders, with the glittering green line of willows and cottonwooddividing it in half. Venters saw a number and variety of birds flitting amongthe trees. To his left, facing the stone bridge, an enormous cavern opened inthe wall; and low down, just above the tree-tops, he made out a long shelf ofcliff-dwellings, with little black, staring windows or doors. Like eyes theywere, and seemed to watch him. The few cliff-dwellings he had seen—allruins—had left him with haunting memory of age and solitude and ofsomething past. He had come, in a way, to be a cliff-dweller himself, and thosesilent eyes would look down upon him, as if in surprise that after thousands ofyears a man had invaded the valley. Venters felt sure that he was the onlywhite man who had ever walked under the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge,down into that wonderful valley with its circle of caves and its terraced ringsof silver spruce and aspens.

The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Venters ran down thedeclivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked with sunshine. The oak-treeswere slender, none more than half a foot thick, and they grew close together,intermingling their branches. Ring came running back with a rabbit in hismouth. Venters took the rabbit and, holding the dog near him, stole softly on.There were fluttering of wings among the branches and quick bird-notes, andrustling of dead leaves and rapid patterings. Venters crossed well-worn trailsmarked with fresh tracks; and when he had stolen on a little farther he sawmany birds and running quail, and more rabbits than he could count. He had notpenetrated the forest of oaks for a hundred yards, had not approached anywherenear the line of willows and cottonwoods which he knew grew along a stream. Buthe had seen enough to know that Surprise Valley was the home of many wildcreatures.

Venters returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits, and gave the dogs the onethey had quarreled over, and the skin of this he dressed and hung up to dry,feeling that he would like to keep it. It was a particularly rich, furry peltwith a beautiful white tail. Venters remembered that but for the bobbing ofthat white tail catching his eye he would not have espied the rabbit, and hewould never have discovered Surprise Valley. Little incidents of chance likethis had turned him here and there in Deception Pass; and now they had assumedto him the significance and direction of destiny.

His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to his mind thenecessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he took the axe and cutbundles of aspens and willows, and packed them up under the bridge to thenarrow outlet of the gorge. Here he began fashioning a fence, by driving aspensinto the ground and lacing them fast with willows. Trip after trip he made downfor more building material, and the afternoon had passed when he finished thework to his satisfaction. Wildcats might scale the fence, but no coyote couldcome in to search for prey, and no rabbits or other small game could escapefrom the valley.

Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease, around a finefire, without hurry or fear of discovery. After hard work that had definitepurpose, this freedom and comfort gave him peculiar satisfaction. He caughthimself often, as he kept busy round the camp-fire, stopping to glance at thequiet form in the cave, and at the dogs stretched cozily near him, and then outacross the beautiful valley. The present was not yet real to him.

While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved wall. As themorning sun burst wondrously through a grand arch into this valley, in agolden, slanting shaft, so the evening sun, at the moment of setting, shonethrough a gap of cliffs, sending down a broad red burst to brighten the ovalwith a blaze of fire. To Venters both sunrise and sunset were unreal.

A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, and while the lightlasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millions of facets of red, andsweeping the graceful spruces. Then with the wind soon came a shade and adarkening, and suddenly the valley was gray. Night came there quickly after thesinking of the sun. Venters went softly to look at the girl. She slept, and herbreathing was quiet and slow. He lifted Ring into the cave, with stern whisperfor him to stay there on guard. Then he drew the blanket carefully over her andreturned to the camp-fire.

Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude, but thisnight it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; it was from a desire torealize his position. The details of his wild environment seemed the onlysubstance of a strange dream. He saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turningblack, the undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and thespear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and the soft,continuous splash of falling water. The melancholy note of a cañon bird brokeclear and lonely from the high cliffs. Venters had no name for this nightsinger, and he had never seen one, but the few notes, always pealing out justat darkness, were as familiar to him as the cañon silence. Then they ceased,and the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound thatVenters fancied was not of earth. Neither had he a name for this, only it wasinexpressibly wild and sweet. The thought came that it might be a moan of thegirl in her last outcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! Thissound was not human, though it was like despair. He began to doubt hissensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamed what he thought heheard. Then the sound swelled with the strengthening of the breeze, and herealized it was the singing of the wind in the cliffs.

By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod, half asleep,with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself and calling Whitie, he went tothe cave. The girl lay barely visible in the dimness. Ring crouched beside her,and the patting of his tail on the stone assured Venters that the dog was awakeand faithful to his duty. Venters sought his own bed of fragrant boughs; and ashe lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and safety, the night seemed tosteal away from him and he sank softly into intangible space and rest andslumber.

Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only the hauntingecho of dream music. He opened his eyes to another surprise of this valley ofbeautiful surprises. Out of his cave he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of thesilver spruces crossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacyleafage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white stripes and longtails. They were mocking-birds, and they were singing as if they wanted toburst their throats. Venters listened. One long, silver-tipped branch droppedalmost to his cave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of thegraceful birds. Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its throat in song.He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave the birds fluttered and flewfarther away.

Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked in. The girlwas awake, with wide eyes and listening look, and she had a hand onRing’s neck.

“Mocking-birds!” she said.

“Yes,” replied Venters, “and I believe they like ourcompany.”

“Where are we?”

“Never mind now. After a little I’ll tell you.”

“The birds woke me. When I heard them—and saw the shinytrees—and the blue sky—and then a blaze of gold droppingdown—I wondered—”

She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he understood her meaning.She appeared to be wandering in mind. Venters felt her face and hands and foundthem burning with fever. He went for water, and was glad to find it almost ascold as if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine he had, and heput faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he made her swallow, and thenhe bathed her face and head and cooled her wrists.

The day began with the heightening of the fever. Venters spent the timereducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks and temples. He kept closewatch over her, and at the least indication of restlessness, that he knew ledto tossing and rolling of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent movecould reopen her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled and laughed and cried andmoaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was she did not reveal it. Attendedby something somber for Venters, the day passed. At night in the cool winds thefever abated and she slept.

The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third he seemed to see herwither and waste away before his eyes. That day he scarcely went from her sidefor a moment, except to run for fresh, cool water; and he did not eat. Thefever broke on the fourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a girlwith life only in her eyes. They hung upon Venters with a mute observance, andhe found hope in that.

To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish the little lifeand vitality that remained in her, was Venters’s problem. But he hadlittle resource other than the meat of the rabbits and quail; and from these hemade broths and soups as best he could, and fed her with a spoon. It came tohim that the human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capableof recovering from terrible shocks. For almost immediately she showed faintsigns of gathering strength. There was one more waiting day, in which hedoubted, and spent long hours by her side as she slept, and watched the gentleswell of her breast rise and fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangledchestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live.

Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his accustomed seatagainst the trunk of a big spruce, where once more he let his glance strayalong the sloping terraces. She would live, and the somber gloom lifted out ofthe valley, and he felt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call ofaction, to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp fixturesand utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and the desire to explore thevalley.

But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from camp, because hefancied that the girl rested easier when she could see him near at hand. And onthe first day her languor appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. Sheawoke stronger from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she moved aboutin her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, her eyes followed him.He knew now that her recovery would be rapid. She talked about the dogs, aboutthe caves, the valley, about how hungry she was, till Venters silenced her,asking her to put off further talk till another time. She obeyed, but she satup in her bed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him.

Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and would not permithim to bathe her face and feed her, which actions she performed for herself.She spoke little, however, and Venters was quick to catch in her the firstintimations of thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation.He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon his return he wasamazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see his invalid sitting with herback to a corner of the cave and her bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly heapproached, intending to advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhapsshe might overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on the littlehead with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval face with its pallor,and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue circles. She looked at him and helooked at her. In that exchange of glances he imagined each saw the other insome different guise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girlcould be Oldring’s Masked Rider. It flashed over him that he had made amistake which presently she would explain.

“Help me down,” she said.

“But—are you well enough?” he protested. “Wait—alittle longer.”

“I’m weak—dizzy. But I want to get down.”

He lifted her—what a light burden now!—and stood her upright besidehim, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting steps. She was likea stripling of a boy; the bright, small head scarcely reached his shoulder. Butnow, as she clung to his arm, the rider’s costume she wore did notcontradict, as it had done at first, his feeling of her femininity. She mightbe the famous Masked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but heroutline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and tremulous lips,and especially a something that Venters felt as a subtle essence rather thanwhat he saw, proclaimed her sex.

She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the spruce thatoverspread the camp-fire.

“Now tell me—everything,” she said.

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of therustlers in the cañon up to the present moment.

“You shot me—and now you’ve saved my life?”

“Yes. After almost killing you I’ve pulled you through.”

“Are you glad?”

“I should say so!”

Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily; she wasunconscious of that mirroring of her emotions and they shone with gratefulnessand interest and wonder and sadness.

“Tell me—about yourself?” she asked.

He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his variousoccupations till he became a rider, and then how the Mormons had practicallydriven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast.

Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he questioned herin turn.

“Are you Oldring’s Masked Rider?”

“Yes,” she replied, and dropped her eyes.

“I knew it—I recognized your figure—and mask, for I saw youonce. Yet I can’t believe it!... But you never werereally thatrustler, as we riders knew him? A thief—a marauder—a kidnapper ofwomen—a murderer of sleeping riders!”

“No! I never stole—or harmed any one—in all my life. I onlyrode and rode—”

“But why—why?” he burst out. “Why the name? Iunderstand Oldring made you ride. But the black mask—themystery—the things laid to your hands—the threats in your infamousname—the night-riding credited to you—the evil deeds deliberatelyblamed on you and acknowledged by rustlers—even Oldring himself! Why?Tell me why?”

“I never knew that,” she answered low. Her drooping headstraightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters’swith a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It verified his ownconviction.

“Never knew? That’s strange! Are you a Mormon?”

“No.”

“Is Oldring a Mormon?”

“No.”

“Do you—care for him?”

“Yes. I hate his men—his life—sometimes I almost hatehim!”

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self to askfor a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which he seemeddriven to hear.

“What are—what wereyou to Oldring?”

Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl wilted;her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept the red of shame.

Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It seemed sodifferent—his thought when spoken. Yet her shame established in his mindsomething akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering to feel for her.

“D—n that question!—forget it!” he cried, in a passionof pain for her and anger at himself. “But once and for all—tellme—I know it, yet I want to hear you say so—you couldn’t helpyourself?”

“Oh no.”

“Well, that makes it all right with me,” he went on, honestly.“I—I want you to feel that... you see—we’ve been throwntogether—and—and I want to help you—not hurt you. I thoughtlife had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel mean and little formy complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast. And now!... I don’t seevery clearly what it all means. Only we are here—together. We’vegot to stay here, for long, surely till you are well. But you’ll never goback to Oldring. And I’m sure helping you will help me, for I was sick inmind. There’s something now for me to do. And if I can win back yourstrength—then get you away, out of this wild country—help yousomehow to a happier life—just think how good that’ll be forme!”

CHAPTER X.
LOVE

During all these waiting days Venters, with the exception of the afternoon whenhe had built the gate in the gorge, had scarcely gone out of sight of camp andnever out of hearing. His desire to explore Surprise Valley was keen, and onthe morning after his long talk with the girl he took his rifle and, callingRing, made a move to start. The girl lay back in a rude chair of boughs he hadput together for her. She had been watching him, and when he picked up the gunand called the dog Venters thought she gave a nervous start.

“I’m only going to look over the valley,” he said.

“Will you be gone long?”

“No,” he replied, and started off. The incident set him thinking ofhis former impression that, after her recovery from fever, she did not seem atease unless he was close at hand. It was fear of being alone, due, heconcluded, most likely to her weakened condition. He must not leave her muchalone.

As he strode down the sloping terrace, rabbits scampered before him, and thebeautiful valley quail, as purple in color as the sage on the uplands, ranfleetly along the ground into the forest. It was pleasant under the trees, inthe gold-flecked shade, with the whistle of quail and twittering of birdseverywhere. Soon he had passed the limit of his former excursions and enterednew territory. Here the woods began to show open glades and brooks running downfrom the slope, and presently he emerged from shade into the sunshine of ameadow. The shaking of the high grass told him of the running of animals, whatspecies he could not tell, but from Ring’s manifest desire to have achase they were evidently some kind wilder than rabbits. Venters approached thewillow and cottonwood belt that he had observed from the height of slope. Hepenetrated it to find a considerable stream of water and great half-submergedmounds of brush and sticks, and all about him were old and new gnawed circlesat the base of the cottonwoods.

“Beaver!” he exclaimed. “By all that’s lucky! Themeadow’s full of beaver! How did they ever get here?”

Beaver had not found a way into the valley by the trail of the cliff-dwellers,of that he was certain; and he began to have more than curiosity as to theoutlet or inlet of the stream. When he passed some dead water, which he notedwas held by a beaver dam, there was a current in the stream, and it flowedwest. Following its course, he soon entered the oak forest again, and passedthrough to find himself before massed and jumbled ruins of cliff wall. Therewere tangled thickets of wild plum-trees and other thorny growths that madepassage extremely laborsome. He found innumerable tracks of wildcats and foxes.Rustlings in the thick undergrowth told him of stealthy movements of theseanimals. At length his further advance appeared futile, for the reason that thestream disappeared in a split at the base of immense rocks over which he couldnot climb. To his relief he concluded that though beaver might work their wayup the narrow chasm where the water rushed, it would be impossible for men toenter the valley there.

This western curve was the only part of the valley where the walls had beensplit asunder, and it was a wildly rough and inaccessible corner. Going back alittle way, he leaped the stream and headed toward the southern wall. Once outof the oaks he found again the low terrace of aspens, and above that the wide,open terrace fringed by silver spruces. This side of the valley contained thewind or water worn caves. As he pressed on, keeping to the upper terrace, caveafter cave opened out of the cliff; now a large one, now a small one. Thenyawned, quite suddenly and wonderfully above him, the great cavern of thecliff-dwellers.

It was still a goodly distance, and he tried to imagine, if it appeared so hugefrom where he stood, what it would be when he got there. He climbed the terraceand then faced a long, gradual ascent of weathered rock and dust, which madeclimbing too difficult for attention to anything else. At length he entered azone of shade, and looked up. He stood just within the hollow of a cavern soimmense that he had no conception of its real dimensions. The curved roof,stained by ages of leakage, with buff and black and rust-colored streaks, sweptup and loomed higher and seemed to soar to the rim of the cliff. Here again wasa magnificent arch, such as formed the grand gateway to the valley, only inthis instance it formed the dome of a cave instead of the span of a bridge.

Venters passed onward and upward. The stones he dislodged rolled down withstrange, hollow crack and roar. He had climbed a hundred rods inward, and yethe had not reached the base of the shelf where the cliff-dwellings rested, along half-circle of connected stone house, with little dark holes that he hadfancied were eyes. At length he gained the base of the shelf, and here foundsteps cut in the rock. These facilitated climbing, and as he went up he thoughthow easily this vanished race of men might once have held that strongholdagainst an army. There was only one possible place to ascend, and this wasnarrow and steep.

Venters had visited cliff-dwellings before, and they had been in ruins, and ofno great character or size but this place was of proportions that stunned him,and it had not been desecrated by the hand of man, nor had it been crumbled bythe hand of time. It was a stupendous tomb. It had been a city. It was just asit had been left by its builders. The little houses were there, thesmoke-blackened stains of fires, the pieces of pottery scattered about coldhearths, the stone hatchets; and stone pestles and mealing-stones lay besideround holes polished by years of grinding maize—lay there as if they hadbeen carelessly dropped yesterday. But the cliff-dwellers were gone!

Dust! They were dust on the floor or at the foot of the shelf, and theirhabitations and utensils endured. Venters felt the sublimity of that marvelousvaulted arch, and it seemed to gleam with a glory of something that was gone.How many years had passed since the cliff-dwellers gazed out across thebeautiful valley as he was gazing now? How long had it been since women groundgrain in those polished holes? What time had rolled by since men of an unknownrace lived, loved, fought, and died there? Had an enemy destroyed them? Haddisease destroyed them, or only that greatest destroyer—time? Venters sawa long line of blood-red hands painted low down upon the yellow roof of stone.Here was strange portent, if not an answer to his queries. The place oppressedhim. It was light, but full of a transparent gloom. It smelled of dust andmusty stone, of age and disuse. It was sad. It was solemn. It had the look of aplace where silence had become master and was now irrevocable and terrible andcould not be broken. Yet, at the moment, from high up in the carved crevices ofthe arch, floated down the low, strange wail of wind—a knell indeed forall that had gone.

Venters, sighing, gathered up an armful of pottery, such pieces as he thoughtstrong enough and suitable for his own use, and bent his steps toward camp. Hemounted the terrace at an opposite point to which he had left. He saw the girllooking in the direction he had gone. His footsteps made no sound in the deepgrass, and he approached close without her being aware of his presence. Whitielay on the ground near where she sat, and he manifested the usual actions ofwelcome, but the girl did not notice them. She seemed to be oblivious toeverything near at hand. She made a pathetic figure drooping there, with hersunny hair contrasting so markedly with her white, wasted cheeks and her handslistlessly clasped and her little bare feet propped in the framework of therude seat. Venters could have sworn and laughed in one breath at the idea ofthe connection between this girl and Oldring’s Masked Rider. She was thevictim of more than accident of fate—a victim to some deep plot themystery of which burned him. As he stepped forward with a half-formed thoughtthat she was absorbed in watching for his return, she turned her head and sawhim. A swift start, a change rather than rush of blood under her white cheeks,a flashing of big eyes that fixed their glance upon him, transformed her facein that single instant of turning, and he knew she had been watching for him,that his return was the one thing in her mind. She did not smile; she did notflush; she did not look glad. All these would have meant little compared to herindefinite expression. Venters grasped the peculiar, vivid, vital somethingthat leaped from her face. It was as if she had been in a dead, hopeless clampof inaction and feeling, and had been suddenly shot through and through withquivering animation. Almost it was as if she had returned to life.

And Venters thought with lightning swiftness, “I’ve savedher—I’ve unlinked her from that old life—she was watching asif I were all she had left on earth—she belongs to me!” The thoughtwas startlingly new. Like a blow it was in an unprepared moment. The cheerysalutation he had ready for her died unborn and he tumbled the pieces ofpottery awkwardly on the grass while some unfamiliar, deep-seated emotion,mixed with pity and glad assurance of his power to succor her, held him dumb.

“What a load you had!” she said. “Why, they’re pots andcrocks! Where did you get them?”

Venters laid down his rifle, and, filling one of the pots from his canteen, heplaced it on the smoldering campfire.

“Hope it’ll hold water,” he said, presently. “Why,there’s an enormous cliff-dwelling just across here. I got the potterythere. Don’t you think we needed something? That tin cup of mine hasserved to make tea, broth, soup—everything.”

“I noticed we hadn’t a great deal to cook in.”

She laughed. It was the first time. He liked that laugh, and though he wastempted to look at her, he did not want to show his surprise or his pleasure.

“Will you take me over there, and all around in the valley—prettysoon, when I’m well?” she added.

“Indeed I shall. It’s a wonderful place. Rabbits so thick youcan’t step without kicking one out. And quail, beaver, foxes, wildcats.We’re in a regular den. But—haven’t you ever seen acliff-dwelling?”

“No. I’ve heard about them, though. The—the men say the Passis full of old houses and ruins.”

“Why, I should think you’d have run across one in all your ridingaround,” said Venters. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, andhe essayed a perfectly casual manner, and pretended to be busy assorting piecesof pottery. She must have no cause again to suffer shame for curiosity of his.Yet never in all his days had he been so eager to hear the details ofanyone’s life.

“When I rode—I rode like the wind,” she replied, “andnever had time to stop for anything.”

“I remember that day I—I met you in the Pass—how dusty youwere, how tired your horse looked. Were you always riding?”

“Oh, no. Sometimes not for months, when I was shut up in thecabin.”

Venters tried to subdue a hot tingling.

“You were shut up, then?” he asked, carelessly.

“When Oldring went away on his long trips—he was gone for monthssometimes—he shut me up in the cabin.”

“What for?”

“Perhaps to keep me from running away. I always threatened that. Mostly,though, because the men got drunk at the villages. But they were always good tome. I wasn’t afraid.”

“A prisoner! That must have been hard on you?”

“I liked that. As long as I can remember I’ve been locked up thereat times, and those times were the only happy ones I ever had. It’s a bigcabin, high up on a cliff, and I could look out. Then I had dogs and pets I hadtamed, and books. There was a spring inside, and food stored, and the menbrought me fresh meat. Once I was there one whole winter.”

It now required deliberation on Venters’s part to persist in hisunconcern and to keep at work. He wanted to look at her, to volley questions ather.

“As long as you can remember—you’ve lived in DeceptionPass?” he went on.

“I’ve a dim memory of some other place, and women and children; butI can’t make anything of it. Sometimes I think till I’mweary.”

“Then you can read—you have books?”

“Oh yes, I can read, and write, too, pretty well. Oldring is educated. Hetaught me, and years ago an old rustler lived with us, and he had beensomething different once. He was always teaching me.”

“So Oldring takes long trips,” mused Venters. “Do you knowwhere he goes?”

“No. Every year he drives cattle north of Sterling—then does notreturn for months. I heard him accused once of living two lives—and hekilled the man. That was at Stone Bridge.”

Venters dropped his apparent task and looked up with an eagerness he no longerstrove to hide.

“Bess,” he said, using her name for the first time, “Isuspected Oldring was something besides a rustler. Tell me, what’s hispurpose here in the Pass? I believe much that he has done was to hide his realwork here.”

“You’re right. He’s more than a rustler. In fact, as the mensay, his rustling cattle is now only a bluff. There’s gold in thecañons!”

“Ah!”

“Yes, there’s gold, not in great quantities, but gold enough forhim and his men. They wash for gold week in and week out. Then they drive a fewcattle and go into the villages to drink and shoot and kill—to bluff theriders.”

“Drive a few cattle! But, Bess, the Withersteen herd, the redherd—twenty-five hundred head! That’s not a few. And I tracked theminto a valley near here.”

“Oldring never stole the red herd. He made a deal with Mormons. Theriders were to be called in, and Oldring was to drive the herd and keep it tilla certain time—I won’t know when—then drive it back to therange. What his share was I didn’t hear.”

“Did you hear whythat deal was made?” queried Venters.

“No. But it was a trick of Mormons. They’re full of tricks.I’ve heard Oldring’s men tell about Mormons. Maybe the Withersteenwoman wasn’t minding her halter! I saw the man who made the deal. He wasa little, queer-shaped man, all humped up. He sat his horse well. I heard oneof our men say afterward there was no better rider on the sage than thisfellow. What was the name? I forget.”

“Jerry Card?” suggested Venters.

“That’s it. I remember—it’s a name easy toremember—and Jerry Card appeared to be on fair terms with Oldring’smen.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Venters, thoughtfully.Verification of his suspicions in regard to Tull’s underhandwork—for the deal with Oldring made by Jerry Card assuredly had itsinception in the Mormon Elder’s brain, and had been accomplished throughhis orders—revived in Venters a memory of hatred that had been smotheredby press of other emotions. Only a few days had elapsed since the hour of hisencounter with Tull, yet they had been forgotten and now seemed far off, andthe interval one that now appeared large and profound with incalculable changein his feelings. Hatred of Tull still existed in his heart, but it had lost itswhite heat. His affection for Jane Withersteen had not changed in the least;nevertheless, he seemed to view it from another angle and see it as anotherthing—what, he could not exactly define. The recalling of these twofeelings was to Venters like getting glimpses into a self that was gone; andthe wonder of them—perhaps the change which was too illusive forhim—was the fact that a strange irritation accompanied the memory and adesire to dismiss it from mind. And straightway he did dismiss it, to return tothoughts of his significant present.

“Bess, tell me one more thing,” he said. “Haven’t youknown any women—any young people?”

“Sometimes there were women with the men; but Oldring never let me knowthem. And all the young people I ever saw in my life was when I rode fastthrough the villages.”

Perhaps that was the most puzzling and thought-provoking thing she had yet saidto Venters. He pondered, more curious the more he learned, but he curbed hisinquisitive desires, for he saw her shrinking on the verge of that shame, thecausing of which had occasioned him such self-reproach. He would ask no more.Still he had to think, and he found it difficult to think clearly. Thissad-eyed girl was so utterly different from what it would have been reason tobelieve such a remarkable life would have made her. On this day he had foundher simple and frank, as natural as any girl he had ever known. About her therewas something sweet. Her voice was low and well modulated. He could not lookinto her face, meet her steady, unabashed, yet wistful eyes, and think of heras the woman she had confessed herself. Oldring’s Masked Rider sat beforehim, a girl dressed as a man. She had been made to ride at the head of infamousforays and drives. She had been imprisoned for many months of her life in anobscure cabin. At times the most vicious of men had been her companions; andthe vilest of women, if they had not been permitted to approach her, had, atleast, cast their shadows over her. But—but in spite of allthis—there thundered at Venters some truth that lifted its voice higherthan the clamoring facts of dishonor, some truth that was the very life of herbeautiful eyes; and it was innocence.

In the days that followed, Venters balanced perpetually in mind this hauntingconception of innocence over against the cold and sickening fact of anunintentional yet actual gift. How could it be possible for the two things tobe true? He believed the latter to be true, and he would not relinquish hisconviction of the former; and these conflicting thoughts augmented the mysterythat appeared to be a part of Bess. In those ensuing days, however, it becameclear as clearest light that Bess was rapidly regaining strength; that, unlessreminded of her long association with Oldring, she seemed to have forgotten it;that, like an Indian who lives solely from moment to moment, she was utterlyabsorbed in the present.

Day by day Venters watched the white of her face slowly change to brown, andthe wasted cheeks fill out by imperceptible degrees. There came a time when hecould just trace the line of demarcation between the part of her face oncehidden by a mask and that left exposed to wind and sun. When that linedisappeared in clear bronze tan it was as if she had been washed clean of thestigma of Oldring’s Masked Rider. The suggestion of the mask always madeVenters remember; now that it was gone he seldom thought of her past.Occasionally he tried to piece together the several stages of strangeexperience and to make a whole. He had shot a masked outlaw the very sight ofwhom had been ill omen to riders; he had carried off a wounded woman whosebloody lips quivered in prayer; he had nursed what seemed a frail, shrunkenboy; and now he watched a girl whose face had become strangely sweet, whosedark-blue eyes were ever upon him without boldness, without shyness, but with asteady, grave, and growing light. Many times Venters found the clear gazeembarrassing to him, yet, like wine, it had an exhilarating effect. What didshe think when she looked at him so? Almost he believed she had no thought atall. All about her and the present there in Surprise Valley, and the dim yetsubtly impending future, fascinated Venters and made him thoughtful as all hislonely vigils in the sage had not.

Chiefly it was the present that he wished to dwell upon; but it was the call ofthe future which stirred him to action. No idea had he of what that future hadin store for Bess and him. He began to think of improving Surprise Valley as aplace to live in, for there was no telling how long they would be compelled tostay there. Venters stubbornly resisted the entering into his mind of aninsistent thought that, clearly realized, might have made it plain to him thathe did not want to leave Surprise Valley at all. But it was imperative that heconsider practical matters; and whether or not he was destined to stay longthere, he felt the immediate need of a change of diet. It would be necessaryfor him to go farther afield for a variety of meat, and also that he soon visitCottonwoods for a supply of food.

It occurred again to Venters that he could go to the cañon where Oldring kepthis cattle, and at little risk he could pack out some beef. He wished to dothis, however, without letting Bess know of it till after he had made the trip.Presently he hit upon the plan of going while she was asleep.

That very night he stole out of camp, climbed up under the stone bridge, andentered the outlet to the Pass. The gorge was full of luminous gloom. BalancingRock loomed dark and leaned over the pale descent. Transformed in the shadowylight, it took shape and dimensions of a spectral god waiting—waiting forthe moment to hurl himself down upon the tottering walls and close forever theoutlet to Deception Pass. At night more than by day Venters felt somethingfearful and fateful in that rock, and that it had leaned and waited through athousand years to have somehow to deal with his destiny.

“Old man, if you must roll, wait till I get back to the girl, and thenroll!” he said, aloud, as if the stones were indeed a god.

And those spoken words, in their grim note to his ear, as well as contents tohis mind, told Venters that he was all but drifting on a current which he hadnot power nor wish to stem.

Venters exercised his usual care in the matter of hiding tracks from theoutlet, yet it took him scarcely an hour to reach Oldring’s cattle. Heresight of many calves changed his original intention, and instead of packing outmeat he decided to take a calf out alive. He roped one, securely tied its feet,and swung it over his shoulder. Here was an exceedingly heavy burden, butVenters was powerful—he could take up a sack of grain and with ease pitchit over a pack-saddle—and he made long distance without resting. Thehardest work came in the climb up to the outlet and on through to the valley.When he had accomplished it, he became fired with another idea that againchanged his intention. He would not kill the calf, but keep it alive. He wouldgo back to Oldring’s herd and pack out more calves. Thereupon he securedthe calf in the best available spot for the moment and turned to make a secondtrip.

When Venters got back to the valley with another calf, it was close upondaybreak. He crawled into his cave and slept late. Bess had no inkling that hehad been absent from camp nearly all night, and only remarked solicitously thathe appeared to be more tired than usual, and more in the need of sleep. In theafternoon Venters built a gate across a small ravine near camp, and herecorralled the calves; and he succeeded in completing his task without Bessbeing any the wiser.

That night he made two more trips to Oldring’s range, and again on thefollowing night, and yet another on the next. With eight calves in his corral,he concluded that he had enough; but it dawned upon him then that he did notwant to kill one. “I’ve rustled Oldring’s cattle,” hesaid, and laughed. He noted then that all the calves were red.“Red!” he exclaimed. “From the red herd. I’ve stolenJane Withersteen’s cattle!... That’s about the strangest thingyet.”

One more trip he undertook to Oldring’s valley, and this time he roped ayearling steer and killed it and cut out a small quarter of beef. The howlingof coyotes told him he need have no apprehension that the work of his knifewould be discovered. He packed the beef back to camp and hung it upon aspruce-tree. Then he sought his bed.

On the morrow he was up bright and early, glad that he had a surprise for Bess.He could hardly wait for her to come out. Presently she appeared and walkedunder the spruce. Then she approached the camp-fire. There was a tinge ofhealthy red in the bronze of her cheeks, and her slender form had begun toround out in graceful lines.

“Bess, didn’t you say you were tired of rabbit?” inquiredVenters. “And quail and beaver?”

“Indeed I did.”

“What would you like?”

“I’m tired of meat, but if we have to live on it I’d likesome beef.”

“Well, how does that strike you?” Venters pointed to the quarterhanging from the spruce-tree. “We’ll have fresh beef for a fewdays, then we’ll cut the rest into strips and dry it.”

“Where did you get that?” asked Bess, slowly.

“I stole that from Oldring.”

“You went back to the cañon—you risked—” While shehesitated the tinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks.

“It wasn’t any risk, but it was hard work.”

“I’m sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How—When didyou get that beef?”

“Last night.”

“While I was asleep?”

“Yes.”

“I woke last night sometime—but I didn’t know.”

Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever they did so thesteady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to the wistful light. In the formershe saw as the primitive woman without thought; in the latter she lookedinward, and her gaze was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Ventershad not seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought wasbeautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think.

“I’ve done more than pack in that beef,” he said. “Forfive nights I’ve been working while you slept. I’ve got eightcalves corralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!”

“You went five nights!”

All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slow pallor, andher exclamation, was fear—fear for herself or for him.

“Yes. I didn’t tell you, because I knew you were afraid to be leftalone.”

“Alone?” She echoed his word, but the meaning of it was nothing toher. She had not even thought of being left alone. It was not, then, fear forherself, but for him. This girl, always slow of speech and action, now seemedalmost stupid. She put forth a hand that might have indicated the groping ofher mind. Suddenly she stepped swiftly to him, with a look and touch that drovefrom him any doubt of her quick intelligence or feeling.

“Oldring has men watch the herds—they would kill you. You mustnever go again!”

When she had spoken, the strength and the blaze of her died, and she swayedtoward Venters.

“Bess, I’ll not go again,” he said, catching her.

“Bess, I’ll not go again”

She leaned against him, and her body was limp and vibrated to a long, waveringtremble. Her face was upturned to his. Woman’s face, woman’s eyes,woman’s lips—all acutely and blindly and sweetly and terriblytruthful in their betrayal! But as her fear was instinctive, so was herclinging to this one and only friend.

Venters gently put her from him and steadied her upon her feet; and all thewhile his blood raced wild, and a thrilling tingle unsteadied his nerve, andsomething—that he had seen and felt in her—that he could notunderstand—seemed very close to him, warm and rich as a fragrant breath,sweet as nothing had ever before been sweet to him.

With all his will Venters strove for calmness and thought and judgment unbiasedby pity, and reality unswayed by sentiment. Bess’s eyes were still fixedupon him with all her soul bright in that wistful light. Swiftly, resolutely heput out of mind all of her life except what had been spent with him. He scornedhimself for the intelligence that made him still doubt. He meant to judge heras she had judged him. He was face to face with the inevitableness of lifeitself. He saw destiny in the dark, straight path of her wonderful eyes. Herewas the simplicity, the sweetness of a girl contending with new and strange andenthralling emotions here the living truth of innocence; here the blind terrorof a woman confronted with the thought of death to her savior and protector.All this Venters saw, but, besides, there was in Bess’s eyes aslow-dawning consciousness that seemed about to break out in glorious radiance.

“Bess, are you thinking?” he asked.

“Yes—oh yes!”

“Do you realize we are here alone—man and woman?”

“Yes.”

“Have you thought that we may make our way out to civilization, or we mayhave to stay here—alone—hidden from the world all our lives?”

“I never thought—till now.”

“Well, what’s your choice—to go—or to stayhere—alone with me?”

“Stay!” New-born thought of self, ringing vibrantly in her voice,gave her answer singular power.

Venters trembled, and then swiftly turned his gaze from her face—from hereyes. He knew what she had only half divined—that she loved him.

CHAPTER XI.
FAITH AND UNFAITH

At Jane Withersteen’s home the promise made to Mrs. Larkin to care forlittle Fay had begun to be fulfilled. Like a gleam of sunlight through thecottonwoods was the coming of the child to the gloomy house of Withersteen. Thebig, silent halls echoed with childish laughter. In the shady court, where Janespent many of the hot July days, Fay’s tiny feet pattered over the stoneflags and splashed in the amber stream. She prattled incessantly. Whatdifference, Jane thought, a child made in her home! It had never been a realhome, she discovered. Even the tidiness and neatness she had so observed, andupon which she had insisted to her women, became, in the light of Fay’ssmile, habits that now lost their importance. Fay littered the court withJane’s books and papers, and other toys her fancy improvised, and many astrange craft went floating down the little brook.

And it was owing to Fay’s presence that Jane Withersteen came to see moreof Lassiter. The rider had for the most part kept to the sage. He rode for her,but he did not seek her except on business; and Jane had to acknowledge inpique that her overtures had been made in vain. Fay, however, captured Lassiterthe moment he first laid eyes on her.

Jane was present at the meeting, and there was something about it which dimmedher sight and softened her toward this foe of her people. The rider had clankedinto the court, a tired yet wary man, always looking for the attack upon himthat was inevitable and might come from any quarter; and he had walked rightupon little Fay. The child had been beautiful even in her rags and amid thesurroundings of the hovel in the sage, but now, in a pretty white dress, withher shining curls brushed and her face clean and rosy, she was lovely. She lefther play and looked up at Lassiter.

If there was not an instinct for all three of them in that meeting, anunreasoning tendency toward a closer intimacy, then Jane Withersteen believedshe had been subject to a queer fancy. She imagined any child would have fearedLassiter. And Fay Larkin had been a lonely, a solitary elf of the sage, not atall an ordinary child, and exquisitely shy with strangers. She watched Lassiterwith great, round, grave eyes, but showed no fear. The rider gave Jane afavorable report of cattle and horses; and as he took the seat to which sheinvited him, little Fay edged as much as half an inch nearer. Jane replied tohis look of inquiry and told Fay’s story. The rider’s gray, earnestgaze troubled her. Then he turned to Fay and smiled in a way that made Janedoubt her sense of the true relation of things. How could Lassiter smile so ata child when he had made so many children fatherless? But he did smile, and tothe gentleness she had seen a few times he added something that was infinitelysad and sweet. Jane’s intuition told her that Lassiter had never been afather, but if life ever so blessed him he would be a good one. Fay, also, musthave found that smile singularly winning. For she edged closer and closer, andthen, by way of feminine capitulation, went to Jane, from whose side she bent abeautiful glance upon the rider.

Lassiter only smiled at her.

Jane watched them, and realized that now was the moment she should seize, ifshe was ever to win this man from his hatred. But the step was not easy totake. The more she saw of Lassiter the more she respected him, and the greaterher respect the harder it became to lend herself to mere coquetry. Yet as shethought of her great motive, of Tull, and of that other whose name she hadschooled herself never to think of in connection with Milly Erne’savenger, she suddenly found she had no choice. And her creed gave her boldnessfar beyond the limit to which vanity would have led her.

“Lassiter, I see so little of you now,” she said, and was consciousof heat in her cheeks.

“I’ve been riding hard,” he replied.

“But you can’t live in the saddle. You come in sometimes.Won’t you come here to see me—oftener?”

“Is that an order?”

“Nonsense! I simply ask you to come to see me when you find time.”

“Why?”

The query once heard was not so embarrassing to Jane as she might haveimagined. Moreover, it established in her mind a fact that there existedactually other than selfish reasons for her wanting to see him. And as she hadbeen bold, so she determined to be both honest and brave.

“I’ve reasons—only one of which I need mention,” sheanswered. “If it’s possible I want to change you toward my people.And on the moment I can conceive of little I wouldn’t do to gain thatend.”

How much better and freer Jane felt after that confession! She meant to showhim that there was one Mormon who could play a game or wage a fight in theopen.

“I reckon,” said Lassiter, and he laughed.

It was the best in her, if the most irritating, that Lassiter always aroused.

“Will you come?” She looked into his eyes, and for the life of hercould not quite subdue an imperiousness that rose with her spirit. “Inever asked so much of any man—except Bern Venters.”

“’Pears to me that you’d run no risk, or Venters, either. Butmebbe that doesn’t hold good for me.”

“You mean it wouldn’t be safe for you to be often here? You lookfor ambush in the cottonwoods?”

“Not that so much.”

At this juncture little Fay sidled over to Lassiter.

“Has oo a little dirl?” she inquired.

“No, lassie,” replied the rider.

Whatever Fay seemed to be searching for in Lassiter’s sun-reddened faceand quiet eyes she evidently found. “Oo tan tom to see me,” sheadded, and with that, shyness gave place to friendly curiosity. First hissombrero with its leather band and silver ornaments commanded her attention;next his quirt, and then the clinking, silver spurs. These held her for sometime, but presently, true to childish fickleness, she left off playing withthem to look for something else. She laughed in glee as she ran her littlehands down the slippery, shiny surface of Lassiter’s leather chaps. Soonshe discovered one of the hanging gun—sheaths, and she dragged it up andbegan tugging at the huge black handle of the gun. Jane Withersteen repressedan exclamation. What significance there was to her in the little girl’sefforts to dislodge that heavy weapon! Jane Withersteen saw Fay’s playand her beauty and her love as most powerful allies to her own woman’spart in a game that suddenly had acquired a strange zest and a hint of danger.And as for the rider, he appeared to have forgotten Jane in the wonder of thislovely child playing about him. At first he was much the shyer of the two.Gradually her confidence overcame his backwardness, and he had the temerity tostroke her golden curls with a great hand. Fay rewarded his boldness with asmile, and when he had gone to the extreme of closing that great hand over herlittle brown one, she said, simply, “I like oo!”

Sight of his face then made Jane oblivious for the time to his character as ahater of Mormons. Out of the mother longing that swelled her breast she divinedthe child hunger in Lassiter.

He returned the next day, and the next; and upon the following he came both atmorning and at night. Upon the evening of this fourth day Jane seemed to feelthe breaking of a brooding struggle in Lassiter. During all these visits he hadscarcely a word to say, though he watched her and played absent-mindedly withFay. Jane had contented herself with silence. Soon little Fay substituted forthe expression of regard, “I like oo,” a warmer and more generousone, “I love oo.”

Thereafter Lassiter came oftener to see Jane and her little protégée. Daily hegrew more gentle and kind, and gradually developed a quaintly merry mood. Inthe morning he lifted Fay upon his horse and let her ride as he walked besideher to the edge of the sage. In the evening he played with the child at aninfinite variety of games she invented, and then, oftener than not, he acceptedJane’s invitation to supper. No other visitor came to Withersteen Houseduring those days. So that in spite of watchfulness he never forgot, Lassiterbegan to show he felt at home there. After the meal they walked into the groveof cottonwoods or up by the lakes, and little Fay held Lassiter’s hand asmuch as she held Jane’s. Thus a strange relationship was established, andJane liked it. At twilight they always returned to the house, where Fay kissedthem and went in to her mother. Lassiter and Jane were left alone.

Then, if there were anything that a good woman could do to win a man and stillpreserve her self-respect, it was something which escaped the natural subtletyof a woman determined to allure. Jane’s vanity, that after all was notgreat, was soon satisfied with Lassiter’s silent admiration. And herhonest desire to lead him from his dark, blood-stained path would never haveblinded her to what she owed herself. But the driving passion of her religion,and its call to save Mormons’ lives, one life in particular, bore JaneWithersteen close to an infringement of her womanhood. In the beginning she hadreasoned that her appeal to Lassiter must be through the senses. With whatevermeans she possessed in the way of adornment she enhanced her beauty. And shestooped to artifices that she knew were unworthy of her, but which shedeliberately chose to employ. She made of herself a girl in every variable moodwherein a girl might be desirable. In those moods she was not above the methodsof an inexperienced though natural flirt. She kept close to him wheneveropportunity afforded; and she was forever playfully, yet passionatelyunderneath the surface, fighting him for possession of the great black guns.These he would never yield to her. And so in that manner their hands were oftenand long in contact. The more of simplicity that she sensed in him the greaterthe advantage she took.

She had a trick of changing—and it was not altogethervoluntary—from this gay, thoughtless, girlish coquettishness to thesilence and the brooding, burning mystery of a woman’s mood. The strengthand passion and fire of her were in her eyes, and she so used them thatLassiter had to see this depth in her, this haunting promise more fitted to heryears than to the flaunting guise of a wilful girl.

The July days flew by. Jane reasoned that if it were possible for her to behappy during such a time, then she was happy. Little Fay completely filled along aching void in her heart. In fettering the hands of this Lassiter she wasaccomplishing the greatest good of her life, and to do good even in a small wayrendered happiness to Jane Withersteen. She had attended the regular Sundayservices of her church; otherwise she had not gone to the village for weeks. Itwas unusual that none of her churchmen or friends had called upon her of late;but it was neglect for which she was glad. Judkins and his boy riders hadexperienced no difficulty in driving the white herd. So these warm July dayswere free of worry, and soon Jane hoped she had passed the crisis; and for herto hope was presently to trust, and then to believe. She thought often ofVenters, but in a dreamy, abstract way. She spent hours teaching and playingwith little Fay. And the activity of her mind centered around Lassiter. Thedirection she had given her will seemed to blunt any branching off of thoughtfrom that straight line. The mood came to obsess her.

In the end, when her awakening came, she learned that she had builded betterthan she knew. Lassiter, though kinder and gentler than ever, had parted withhis quaint humor and his coldness and his tranquillity to become a restless andunhappy man. Whatever the power of his deadly intent toward Mormons, thatpassion now had a rival, the one equally burning and consuming. JaneWithersteen had one moment of exultation before the dawn of a strangeuneasiness. What if she had made of herself a lure, at tremendous cost to himand to her, and all in vain!

That night in the moonlit grove she summoned all her courage and, turningsuddenly in the path, she faced Lassiter and leaned close to him, so that shetouched him and her eyes looked up to his.

“Lassiter!... Will you do anything for me?”

In the moonlight she saw his dark, worn face change, and by that change sheseemed to feel him immovable as a wall of stone.

Jane slipped her hands down to the swinging gun-sheaths, and when she hadlocked her fingers around the huge, cold handles of the guns, she trembled aswith a chilling ripple over all her body.

“May I take your guns?”

“Why?” he asked, and for the first time to her his voice carried aharsh note. Jane felt his hard, strong hands close round her wrists. It was notwholly with intent that she leaned toward him, for the look of his eyes and thefeel of his hands made her weak.

“It’s no trifle—no woman’s whim—it’sdeep—as my heart. Let me take them?”

“Why?”

“I want to keep you from killing more men—Mormons. You must let mesave you from more wickedness—more wanton bloodshed—” Thenthe truth forced itself falteringly from her lips. “Youmust—let—help me to keep my vow to Milly Erne. I swore toher—as she lay dying—that if ever any one came here to avengeher—I swore I would stay his hand. Perhaps I—I alone can savethe—the man who—who—Oh, Lassiter!... I feel that Ican’t change you—then soon you’ll be out to kill—andyou’ll kill by instinct—and among the Mormons you kill will be theone—who... Lassiter, if you care a little for me—let me—formy sake—let me take your guns!”

As if her hands had been those of a child, he unclasped their clinging gripfrom the handles of his guns, and, pushing her away, he turned his gray face toher in one look of terrible realization and then strode off into the shadows ofthe cottonwoods.

When the first shock of her futile appeal to Lassiter had passed, Jane took hiscold, silent condemnation and abrupt departure not so much as a refusal to herentreaty as a hurt and stunned bitterness for her attempt at his betrayal. Uponfurther thought and slow consideration of Lassiter’s past actions, shebelieved he would return and forgive her. The man could not be hard to a woman,and she doubted that he could stay away from her. But at the point where shehad hoped to find him vulnerable she now began to fear he was proof against allpersuasion. The iron and stone quality that she had early suspected in him hadactually cropped out as an impregnable barrier. Nevertheless, if Lassiterremained in Cottonwoods she would never give up her hope and desire to changehim. She would change him if she had to sacrifice everything dear to her excepthope of heaven. Passionately devoted as she was to her religion, she had yetrefused to marry a Mormon. But a situation had developed wherein self paled inthe great white light of religious duty of the highest order. That was theleading motive, the divinely spiritual one; but there were other motives,which, like tentacles, aided in drawing her will to the acceptance of apossible abnegation. And through the watches of that sleepless night JaneWithersteen, in fear and sorrow and doubt, came finally to believe that if shemust throw herself into Lassiter’s arms to make him abide by “Thoushalt not kill!” she would yet do well.

In the morning she expected Lassiter at the usual hour, but she was not able togo at once to the court, so she sent little Fay. Mrs. Larkin was ill andrequired attention. It appeared that the mother, from the time of her arrivalat Withersteen House, had relaxed and was slowly losing her hold on life. Janehad believed that absence of worry and responsibility coupled with good nursingand comfort would mend Mrs. Larkin’s broken health. Such, however, wasnot the case.

When Jane did get out to the court, Fay was there alone, and at the momentembarking on a dubious voyage down the stone-lined amber stream upon a craft oftwo brooms and a pillow. Fay was as delightfully wet as she could possibly wishto get.

Clatter of hoofs distracted Fay and interrupted the scolding she was gleefullyreceiving from Jane. The sound was not the light-spirited trot that Bells madewhen Lassiter rode him into the outer court. This was slower and heavier, andJane did not recognize in it any of her other horses. The appearance of BishopDyer startled Jane. He dismounted with his rapid, jerky motion flung thebridle, and, as he turned toward the inner court and stalked up on the stoneflags, his boots rang. In his authoritative front, and in the red angerunmistakably flaming in his face, he reminded Jane of her father.

“Is that the Larkin pauper?” he asked, bruskly, without anygreeting to Jane.

“It’s Mrs. Larkin’s little girl,” replied Jane, slowly.

“I hear you intend to raise the child?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?”

“No.”

His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling that some one elsewas replying for her.

“I’ve come to say a few things to you.” He stopped to measureher with stern, speculative eye.

Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest childhood she had been taught torevere and love bishops of her church. And for ten years Bishop Dyer had beenthe closest friend and counselor of her father, and for the greater part ofthat period her own friend and Scriptural teacher. Her interpretation of hercreed and her religious activity in fidelity to it, her acceptance ofmysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this Bishop. BishopDyer as an entity was next to God. He was God’s mouthpiece to the littleMormon community at Cottonwoods. God revealed himself in secret to this mortal.

And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing affront to herconsciousness of reverence by some strange, irresistible twist of thoughtwherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And the train of thought hurdled therising, crying protests of that other self whose poise she had lost. It was nother Bishop who eyed her in curious measurement. It was a man who tramped intoher presence without removing his hat, who had no greeting for her, who had nosemblance of courtesy. In looks, as in action, he made her think of a bullstamping cross-grained into a corral. She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgettingthe minister in the fury of a common man, and now she was to feel it. Theglance by which she measured him in turn momentarily veiled the divine in theordinary. He looked a rancher; he was booted, spurred, and covered with dust;he carried a gun at his hip, and she remembered that he had been known to useit. But during the long moment while he watched her there was nothingcommonplace in the slow-gathering might of his wrath.

“Brother Tull has talked to me,” he began. “It was yourfather’s wish that you marry Tull, and my order. You refused him?”

“Yes.”

“You would not give up your friendship with that tramp Venters?”

“No.”

“But you’ll do as Iorder!” he thundered. “Why,Jane Withersteen, you are in danger of becoming a heretic! You can thank yourGentile friends for that. You face the damning of your soul toperdition.”

In the flux and reflux of the whirling torture of Jane’s mind, that new,daring spirit of hers vanished in the old habitual order of her life. She was aMormon, and the Bishop regained ascendance.

“It’s well I got you in time, Jane Withersteen. What would yourfather have said to these goings-on of yours? He would have put you in a stonecage on bread and water. He would have taught you something about Mormonism.Remember, you’re a bornMormon. There have been Mormons who turnedheretic—damn their souls!—but no born Mormon ever left us yet. Ah,I see your shame. Your faith is not shaken. You are only a wild girl.”The Bishop’s tone softened. “Well, it’s enough that I got toyou in time.... Now tell me about this Lassiter. I hear strange things.”

“What do you wish to know?” queried Jane.

“About this man. You hired him?”

“Yes, he’s riding for me. When my riders left me I had to have anyone I could get.”

“Is it true what I hear—that he’s a gun-man, a Mormon-hater,steeped in blood?”

“True—terribly true, I fear.”

“But what’s he doing here in Cottonwoods? This place isn’tnotorious enough for such a man. Sterling and the villages north, wherethere’s universal gun-packing and fights every day—where there aremore men like him, it seems to me they would attract him most. We’re onlya wild, lonely border settlement. It’s only recently that the rustlershave made killings here. Nor have there been saloons till lately, nor thedrifting in of outcasts. Has not this gun-man some special mission here?”

Jane maintained silence.

“Tell me,” ordered Bishop Dyer, sharply.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me that.”

“Bishop Dyer, I don’t want to tell.”

He waved his hand in an imperative gesture of command. The red once more leapedto his face, and in his steel-blue eyes glinted a pin-point of curiosity.

“That first day,” whispered Jane, “Lassiter said he came hereto find—Milly Erne’s grave!”

With downcast eyes Jane watched the swift flow of the amber water. She saw itand tried to think of it, of the stones, of the ferns; but, like her body, hermind was in a leaden vise. Only the Bishop’s voice could release her.Seemingly there was silence of longer duration than all her former life.

“For what—else?” When Bishop Dyer’s voice did cleavethe silence it was high, curiously shrill, and on the point of breaking. Itreleased Jane’s tongue, but she could not lift her eyes.

“To kill the man who persuaded Milly Erne to abandon her home and herhusband—and her God!”

With wonderful distinctness Jane Withersteen heard her own clear voice. Sheheard the water murmur at her feet and flow on to the sea; she heard therushing of all the waters in the world. They filled her ears with low, unrealmurmurings—these sounds that deadened her brain and yet could not breakthe long and terrible silence. Then, from somewhere—from an immeasurabledistance—came a slow, guarded, clinking, clanking step. Into her it shotelectrifying life. It released the weight upon her numbed eyelids. Lifting hereyes she saw—ashen, shaken, stricken—not the Bishop but the man!And beyond him, from round the corner came that soft, silvery step. A longblack boot with a gleaming spur swept into sight—and then Lassiter!Bishop Dyer did not see, did not hear: he stared at Jane in the throes ofsudden revelation.

“Ah, I understand!” he cried, in hoarse accents.“That’s why you made love to this Lassiter—to bind hishands!”

It was Jane’s gaze riveted upon the rider that made Bishop Dyer turn.Then clear sight failed her. Dizzily, in a blur, she saw the Bishop’shand jerk to his hip. She saw gleam of blue and spout of red. In her ears bursta thundering report. The court floated in darkening circles around her, and shefell into utter blackness.

It was Jane’s gaze riveted upon the rider that made Bishop Dyer turn.

The darkness lightened, turned to slow-drifting haze, and lifted. Through athin film of blue smoke she saw the rough-hewn timbers of the court roof. Acool, damp touch moved across her brow. She smelled powder, and it was thatwhich galvanized her suspended thought. She moved, to see that she lay proneupon the stone flags with her head on Lassiter’s knee, and he was bathingher brow with water from the stream. The same swift glance, shifting low,brought into range of her sight a smoking gun and splashes of blood.

“Ah-h!” she moaned, and was drifting, sinking again intodarkness, when Lassiter’s voice arrested her.

“It’s all right, Jane. It’s all right.”

“Did—you—kill—him?” she whispered.

“Who? That fat party who was here? No. I didn’t kill him.”

“Oh!... Lassiter!”

“Say! It was queer for you to faint. I thought you were such a strongwoman, not faintish like that. You’re all right now—only some pale.I thought you’d never come to. But I’m awkward round women folks. Icouldn’t think of anythin’.”

“Lassiter!... the gun there!... the blood!”

“So that’s troublin’ you. I reckon it needn’t. You seeit was this way. I come round the house an’ seen that fat party an’heard him talkin’ loud. Then he seen me, an’ very impolite goesstraight for his gun. He oughtn’t have tried to throw a gun onme—whatever his reason was. For that’s meetin’ me on my owngrounds. I’ve seen runnin’ molasses that was quicker’n him.Now I didn’t know who he was, visitor or friend or relation of yours,though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an’ I couldn’t get seriousabout shootin’. So I winged him—put a bullet through his arm as hewas pullin’ at his gun. An’ he dropped the gun there, an’ alittle blood. I told him he’d introduced himself sufficient, an’ toplease move out of my vicinity. An’ he went.”

Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there was a hint oflevity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her brow, was gentle andsteady. His impassive face, and the kind gray eyes, further stilled heragitation.

“He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple him—youwouldn’t kill him—you—Lassiter?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Jane kissed his hand.

All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished.

“Don’t do that! I won’t stand it! An’ I don’tcare a damn who that fat party was.”

He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair. Then with the wet scarf he had usedto bathe her face he wiped the blood from the stone flags and, picking up thegun, he threw it upon a couch. With that he began to pace the court, and hissilver spurs jangled musically, and the great gun-sheaths softly brushedagainst his leather chaps.

“So—it’s true—what I heard him say?” Lassiterasked, presently halting before her. “You made love to me—to bindmy hands?”

“Yes,” confessed Jane. It took all her woman’s courage tomeet the gray storm of his glance.

“All these days that you’ve been so friendly an’ like apardner—all these evenin’s that have been so bewilderin’ tome—your beauty—an’—an’ the way you lookedan’ came close to me—they were woman’s tricks to bind myhands?”

“Yes.”

“An’ your sweetness that seemed so natural, an’ yourthrowin’ little Fay an’ me so much together—to make me lovethe child—all that was for the same reason?”

“Yes.”

Lassiter flung his arms—a strange gesture for him.

“Mebbe it wasn’t much in your Mormon thinkin’, for you toplay that game. But to ring the child in—that was hellish!”

Jane’s passionate, unheeding zeal began to loom darkly.

“Lassiter, whatever my intention in the beginning, Fay loves youdearly—and I—I’ve grown to—to like you.”

“That’s powerful kind of you, now,” he said. Sarcasm andscorn made his voice that of a stranger. “An’ you sit therean’ look me straight in the eyes! You’re a wonderful strange woman,Jane Withersteen.”

“I’m not ashamed, Lassiter. I told you I’d try to changeyou.”

“Would you mind tellin’ me just what you tried?”

“I tried to make you see beauty in me and be softened by it. I wanted youto care for me so that I could influence you. It wasn’t easy. At firstyou were stone-blind. Then I hoped you’d love little Fay, and throughthat come to feel the horror of making children fatherless.”

“Jane Withersteen, either you’re a fool or noble beyond myunderstandin’. Mebbe you’re both. I know you’re blind. Whatyou meant is one thing—what you didwas to make me loveyou.”

“Lassiter!”

“I reckon I’m a human bein’, though I never loved any one butmy sister, Milly Erne. That was long—”

“Oh, are you Milly’s brother?”

“Yes, I was, an’ I loved her. There never was any one but her in mylife till now. Didn’t I tell you that long ago I back-trailed myself fromwomen? I was a Texas ranger till—till Milly left home, an’ then Ibecame somethin’ else—Lassiter! For years I’ve been a lonelyman set on one thing. I came here an’ met you. An’ now I’mnot the man I was. The change was gradual, an’ I took no notice of it. Iunderstand now that never-satisfied longin’ to see you, listen to you,watch you, feel you near me. It’s plain now why you were never out of mythoughts. I’ve had no thoughts but of you. I’ve lived an’breathed for you. An’ now when I know what it means—whatyou’ve done—I’m burnin’ up with hell’sfire!”

“Oh, Lassiter—no—no—you don’t love me thatway!” Jane cased.

“If that’s what love is, then I do.”

“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to make you love me like that. Oh, whata tangle of our lives! You—Milly Erne’s brother! AndI—heedless, mad to melt your heart toward Mormons. Lassiter, I may bewicked but not wicked enough to hate. If I couldn’t hate Tull, could Ihate you?”

“After all, Jane, mebbe you’re only blind—Mormon blind. Thatonly can explain what’s close to selfishness—”

“I’m not selfish. I despise the very word. If I werefree—”

“But you’re not free. Not free of Mormonism. An’ inplayin’ this game with me you’ve been unfaithful.”

“Un-faithful!” faltered Jane.

“Yes, I said unfaithful. You’re faithful to your Bishop an’unfaithful to yourself. You’re false to your womanhood an’ true toyour religion. But for a savin’ innocence you’d have made yourselflow an’ vile—betrayin’ yourself, betrayin’ me—allto bind my hands an’ keep me from snuffin’ out Mormon life.It’s your damned Mormon blindness.”

“Is it vile—is it blind—is it only Mormonism to save humanlife? No, Lassiter, that’s God’s law, divine, universal for allChristians.”

“The blindness I mean is blindness that keeps you from seein’ thetruth. I’ve known many good Mormons. But some are blacker than hell. Youwon’t see that even when you know it. Else, why all this blind passion tosave the life of that—that....”

Jane shut out the light, and the hands she held over her eyes trembled andquivered against her face.

“Blind—yes, en’ let me make it clear en’ simple toyou,” Lassiter went on, his voice losing its tone of anger. “Take,for instance, that idea of yours last night when you wanted my guns. It wasgood an’ beautiful, an’ showed your heart—but—why,Jane, it was crazy. Mind I’m assumin’ that life to me is as sweetas to any other man. An’ to preserve that life is each man’s firstan’ closest thought. Where would any man be on this border without guns?Where, especially, would Lassiter be? Well, I’d be under the sage withthousands of other men now livin’ an’ sure better men than me.Gun-packin’ in the West since the Civil War has growed into a kind ofmoral law. An’ out here on this border it’s the difference betweena man an’ somethin’ not a man. Look what your takin’Venters’s guns from him all but made him! Why, your churchmen carry guns.Tull has killed a man an’ drawed on others. Your Bishop has shot a halfdozen men, an’ it wasn’t through prayers of his that theyrecovered. An’ to-day he’d have shot me if he’d been quickenough on the draw. Could I walk or ride down into Cottonwoods without my guns?This is a wild time, Jane Withersteen, this year of our Lord eighteenseventy-one.”

“No time—for a woman!” exclaimed Jane, brokenly. “Oh,Lassiter, I feel helpless—lost—and don’t know where to turn.If I amblind—then—I need some one—a friend—you,Lassiter—more than ever!”

“Well, I didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ back on you,did I?”

CHAPTER XII.
THE INVISIBLE HAND

Jane received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his own handwriting, whichstated that the abrupt termination of their interview had left him in somedoubt as to her future conduct. A slight injury had incapacitated him fromseeking another meeting at present, the letter went on to say, and ended with arequest 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 Bishop Dyer nordid she go to see him. On Sunday she remained absent from the service—forthe second time in years—and though she did not actually suffer there wasa dead-lock of feelings deep within her, and the waiting for a balance to fallon either side was almost as bad as suffering. She had a gloomy expectancy ofuntoward circumstances, and with it a keen-edged curiosity to watchdevelopments. She had a half-formed conviction that her future conduct—asrelated to her churchmen—was beyond her control and would be governed bytheir attitude toward her. Something was changing in her, forming, waiting fordecision to make it a real and fixed thing. She had told Lassiter that she felthelpless and lost in the fateful tangle of their lives; and now she feared thatshe was approaching the same chaotic condition of mind in regard to herreligion. It appalled her to find that she questioned phases of that religion.Absolute faith had been her serenity. Though leaving her faith unshaken, herserenity had been disturbed, and now it was broken by open war between her andher ministers. That something within her—a whisper—which she hadtried in vain to hush had become a ringing voice, and it called to her to wait.She had transgressed no laws of God. Her churchmen, however invested with thepower and the glory of a wonderful creed, however they sat in inexorablejudgment of her, must now practice toward her the simple, common, Christianvirtue they professed to preach, “Do unto others as you would have othersdo unto you!”

Jane Withersteen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained faithful still. But itwas darkness that must soon be pierced by light. If her faith were justified,if her churchmen were trying only to intimidate her, the fact would soon bemanifest, as would their failure, and then she would redouble her zeal towardthem and toward what had been the best work of her life—work for thewelfare and happiness of those among whom she lived, Mormon and Gentile alike.If that secret, intangible power closed its coils round her again, if thatgreat invisible hand moved here and there and everywhere, slowly paralyzing herwith its mystery and its inconceivable sway over her affairs, then she wouldknow beyond doubt that it was not chance, nor jealousy, nor intimidation, norministerial wrath at her revolt, but a cold and calculating policy thought outlong before 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 shewould rise again, and to the light. God would be merciful to a driven woman whohad 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 sawa change in him, though it did not relate to his kindness and gentleness. Hewas quieter and more thoughtful. While playing with Fay or conversing with Janehe seemed to be possessed of another self that watched with cool, roving eyes,that listened, listened always as if the murmuring amber stream broughtmessages, and the moving leaves whispered something. Lassiter never rode Bellsinto the court any more, nor did he come by the lane or the paths. When heappeared it was suddenly and noiselessly 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 been watched 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 reckonit’d be a good idea for us to talk low. You’re spied on here byyour women.”

“Lassiter!” she whispered in turn. “That’s hard tobelieve. My women love me.”

“What of that?” he asked. “Of course they love you. Butthey’re Mormon women.”

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’ prettysoon—give them time to hear us—pretend to go over there to thetable, en’ then quick-like make a move for the door en’ openit.”

“I will,” said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was right; henever made 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 soconstituted that to employ even such small deceit toward her women made herashamed, and angry for her shame as well as theirs. Then a singular thoughtconfronted her that made her hold up this simple ruse—which hurt her,though it was well justified—against the deceit she had wittingly andeagerly used toward Lassiter. The difference was staggering in its suggestionof that blindness of which he had accused her. Fairness and justice and mercy,that she had imagined were anchor-cables to hold fast her soul to righteousnesshad not been hers in the strange, biased duty that had so exalted andconfounded her.

Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and play with Fay, totalk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then she made deliberate mention of abook in which she kept records of all pertaining to her stock, and she walkedslowly toward the table, and when near the door she suddenly whirled and thrustit open. Her sharp action nearly knocked down a woman who had undoubtedly beenlistening.

“Hester,” said Jane, sternly, “you may go home, and you neednot come back.”

Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily, she put herhand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone, and how this stab ofdisloyalty 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 longspared her. “It’s begun again—that work in the dark.”

“Nay, Lassiter—it never stopped!”

So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fled Withersteen House andfled forever. The women who owed much to Jane Withersteen changed not in lovefor her, nor in devotion to their household work, but they poisoned both by athousand acts of stealth and cunning and duplicity. Jane broke out once andcaught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood. Thereafter shebroke out no more. She forgave them because they were driven. Poor, fettered,and sealed Hagars, how she pitied them! What terrible thing bound them andlocked their lips, when they showed neither consciousness of guilt toward theirbenefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart of long-established anddear ties?

“The blindness again!” cried Jane Withersteen. “In my sistersas in me!... O God!”

There came a time when no words passed between Jane and her women. Silentlythey went about their household duties, and secretly they went about theunderhand work to which they had been bidden. The gloom of the house and thegloom of its mistress, which darkened even the bright spirit of little Fay, didnot pervade these women. Happiness was not among them, but they were aloof fromgloom. They spied and listened; they received and sent secret messengers; andthey stole Jane’s books and records, and finally the papers that weredeeds of her possessions. Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind oftrance. Then one by one, without leave or explanation or farewell, they leftWithersteen House, 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 allher Mormon employees about the great ranch only Jerd remained. He went on withhis duty, but talked no more of the change than if it had never occurred.

“Jerd,” said Jane, “what stock you can’t take care ofturn out in the sage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night. Keepthem in perfect condition. Run them every day and watch them always.”

Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved her possessions.She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, and the farms, and the grove,and the old stone house, and the beautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, andevery one of a myriad of horses and colts and burros and fowls down to thesmallest rabbit that nipped her vegetables; but she loved best her nobleArabian steeds. In common with all riders of the upland sage Jane cherished twomaterial things—the cold, sweet, brown water that made life possible inthe wilderness and the horses which were a part of that life. When Lassiterasked her what Lassiter would be without his guns he was assuming that hishorse was part of himself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it washer nature to love all beautiful creatures—perhaps all living things; andthen she loved them because she herself was of the sage and in her had beenborn and bred the rider’s instinct to rely on his four-footed brother.And when Jane gave Jerd the order to keep her favorites trained down to the dayit was a half-conscious admission that presaged a time when she would need herfleet horses.

Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils that were closinground her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the August days began; she requiredconstant care; there was little Fay to look after; and such household work aswas imperative. Lassiter put Bells in the stable with the other racers, anddirected his efforts to a closer attendance upon Jane. She welcomed the change.He was always at hand to help, and it was her fortune to learn that his boastof being awkward around women had its root in humility and was not true.

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways which a womanmight have envied. He shared Jane’s work, and was of especial help to herin nursing Mrs. Larkin. The woman suffered most at night, and this often brokeJane’s rest. So it came about that Lassiter would stay by Mrs. Larkinduring the day, when she needed care, and Jane would make up the sleep she lostin night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly to the gentle Lassiter, and,without ever asking who or what he was, praised him to Jane. “He’sa good man and loves children,” she said. How sad to hear this truthspoken of a man whom Jane thought lost beyond all redemption! Yet ever and everLassiter towered above her, and behind or through his black, sinister figureshone something luminous that strangely affected Jane. Good and evil began toseem incomprehensibly blended in her judgment. It was her belief that evilcould not come forth from good; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed ingentleness, patience, and love any man she had ever known.

She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when early one morningJudkins presented himself before her in the courtyard.

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him, with hisleather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots worn through on the stirrupside, he looked the rider of riders. He wore two guns and carried a Winchester.

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread and drink beforehim; and called Lassiter out to see him. The men exchanged glances, and themeaning of Lassiter’s keen inquiry and Judkins’s bold reply, bothunspoken, was not lost upon Jane.

“Where’s your hoss?” asked Lassiter, aloud.

“Left him down the slope,” answered Judkins. “I footed it ina ways, an’ slept last night in the sage. I went to the place you told meyou ’most always slept, but didn’t strike you.”

“I moved up some, near the spring, an’ now I go therenights.”

“Judkins—the white herd?” queried Jane, hurriedly.

“Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I’ve not lost a steer. Fer agood while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble. Why, even thesage dogs left us. But it’s begun agin—thet flashin’ oflights over ridge tips, an’ queer puffin’ of smoke, en’ thenat night strange whistles en’ noises. But the herd’s actedmagnificent. An’ my boys, say, Miss Withersteen, they’re only kids,but I ask no better riders. I got the laugh in the village fer takin’them out. They’re a wild lot, an’ you know boys hev more nerve thangrown men, because they don’t know what danger is. I’m notdenyin’ there’s danger. But they glory in it, an’ mebbe Ilike it myself—anyway, we’ll stick. We’re goin’ todrive the herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass.There’s a great round valley over there, an’ no ridges or piles ofrocks to aid these stampeders. The rains are due. We’ll hev plenty ofwater fer a while. An’ we can hold thet herd from anybody exceptOldrin’. I come in fer supplies. I’ll pack a couple of burrosan’ drive out after dark to-night.”

“Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter will help you.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 it backto 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. Perhapsthat would be wisest.”

“Oh... Miss Withersteen!” ejaculated the rider. “Icouldn’t earn so much in—in ten years. It’s not right—Ioughtn’t take it.”

“Judkins, you know I’m a rich woman. I tell you I’ve fewfaithful friends. I’ve fallen upon evil days. God only knows what willbecome of me and mine! So take the gold.”

She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and left him withLassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first, then in louder accentsemphasized by the thumping of his rifle on the stones. “As infernal a jobas even you, Lassiter, ever heerd of.”

“Why, son,” was Lassiter’s reply, “this breakin’of Miss Withersteen may seem bad to you, but it ain’t bad—yet. Someof these wall-eyed fellers who look jest as if they was walkin’ in theshadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now they can think ofthings en’ do things that are really hell-bent.”

Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there like caged lioness shepaced to and fro till the coming of little Fay reversed her dark 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 to thehitching-rack. He leaped off and approached Jane with the manner of a mandetermined to execute difficult mission, yet fearful of its reception. In thegaunt, wiry figure and the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormonriders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken. Of all theriders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, and as he stepped beforeher, removing his hat and making manly efforts to subdue his emotion, he showedthat 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—restingat last, thank God!... I’ve come to ride for you again, if you’llhave me. Don’t think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy. When shewas living and your riders quit, I had to also. I was afraid of what might bedone—said to her.... Miss Withersteen, we can’t talk of—ofwhat’s going on 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 agood one. But—there are some things!... It’s no use, MissWithersteen, I can’t say any more—what I’d like to. But willyou take me back?”

“Blake!... You know what it means?”

“I don’t care. I’m sick of—of—I’ll show youa Mormon who’ll be true to you!”

“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 Iknow you pretty well—know you’ll never give in. I wouldn’t ifI were you. And I—I must—Something makes me tell you the worst isyet to come. That’s all. I absolutely can’t say more. Will you takeme back—let me ride for you—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.And not 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, I hesitateto 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 believe in 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 whatevery rider 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 me tocome back.... Will you take me?”

“God bless you, Blake! Yes, I’ll take you back. And willyou—will you accept 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 havenothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We’ll forearm you againstpoverty, and me against endless regret. I’ll give you gold which you canhide—till some future time.”

“Well, if it pleases you,” replied Blake. “But you know Inever thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see thisman Lassiter. Is he here?”

“Yes, but, Blake—what—Need you see him? Why?” askedJane, instantly worried. “I can speak to him—tell him aboutyou.”

“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,”answered Jane, 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 tome and he wishes to speak to you.”

Blake’s brown face turned exceedingly pale.

“Yes, I had to speak to you,” he said, swiftly. “Myname’s Blake. I’m a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit MissWithersteen. I’ve come to beg her to take me back. Now I don’t knowyou; but I know—what you are. So I’ve this to say to your face. Itwould never occur to this woman to imagine—let alone suspect me to be aspy. She couldn’t think it might just be a low plot to come here andshoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn’t that kind of a mind....Well, I’ve not come for that. I want to help her—to pull a bridlealong with Judkins and—and you. The thing is—do you believeme?”

“I reckon I do,” replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speechcontrasted with Blake’s hot, impulsive words! “You might have savedsome of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has metsome square Mormons! An’ mebbe—”

“Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate acolloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at once and fetchme a report of my horses.”

“Miss Withersteen!... You mean the big drove—down in thesage-cleared fields?”

“Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, exceptthe blooded stock 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. Dorntold 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 flags at hisfeet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strovedesperately, but she could not rise immediately from such a blow.

“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. Ican stand 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 oflosing my racers?”

“A rustler—or—or anybody stealin’ hosses of yours wouldmost of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter. His evasive reply wasaffirmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence.

“Oh! Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

“Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake. “One morerider won’t be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star andNight, if you put such store on their value.”

“Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there’s another reasonwhy I mustn’t lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every daywhen he runs the horses, and don’t let them out of your sight. If youwould please me—win my gratitude, guard my black racers.”

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regarded Jane withthe smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.

“’Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses.Now I ain’t gainsayin’ that the Arabians are the handsomest hossesI ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an’ run neck en’ neck withBlack Star.”

“Lassiter, don’t tease me now. I’m miserable—sick.Bells is fast, but he can’t stay with the blacks, and you know it. OnlyWrangle can do that.”

“I’ll bet that big raw-boned brute can more’n show his heelsto your black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wranglecould kill your favorites.”

“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do yousay that so often? I know you’ve teased me at times, and I believeit’s only kindness. You’re always trying to keep my mind off worry.But you mean more 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 the silverpieces 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 theUtah border?”

“I reckon. An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks Iwouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catchyou. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn’t gothim now.... Besides—things are happenin’, an’ somethin’of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”

“God knows you’re right!... Poor Bern, how long he’s gone! Inmy trouble I’ve been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I’ve littlefear for him. I’ve heard my riders say he’s as keen as a wolf....As to your reading my thoughts—well, your suggestion makes an actualthought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying fromthis wild borderland, Lassiter. I’ve strange dreams. I’m not alwayspractical and thinking of my many duties, as you said once. Forinstance—if I dared—if I dared I’d ask you to saddle theblacks and ride away with me—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 he hadstood beside Milly Erne’s grave. But one and all they could not beconsidered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiter turnwhite—not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose his coolness, butalso he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her tohis breast.

“Lassiter!” cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which shetook sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her.“Forgive me!” went on Jane. “I’m always forgettingyour—your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I’malways making you out more than human... only, let me say—I meantthat—about riding away. I’m wretched, sick ofthis—this—Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!”

“Jane, the hell—of it,” he replied, with deep intake ofbreath, “is you can’tride away. Mebbe realizin’ itaccounts for my grabbin’ you—that way, as much as the crazyboy’s rapture your words gave me. I don’t understand myself.... Butthe hell of this game is—you can’tride away.”

“Lassiter!... What on earth do you mean? I’m an absolutely freewoman.”

“You ain’t absolutely anythin’ of the kind.... I reckonI’ve got to tell you!”

“Tell me all. It’s uncertainty that makes me a coward. It’sfaith and hope—blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Everyday I awake believing—still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts,fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into my heart. Thencomes 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 night again!... Butif you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can’t ride away—tellme what more I’m to lose—tell me the worst.”

“Jane, you’re watched. There’s no single move of yours,except when you’re hid in your house, that ain’t seen by sharpeyes. The cottonwood grove’s full of creepin’, crawlin’ men.Like Indians in the grass. When you rode, which wasn’t often lately, thesage was full of sneakin’ men. At night they crawl under your windowsinto the court, an’ I reckon into the house. Jane Withersteen, you know,never locked a door! This here grove’s a hummin’ bee-hive ofmysterious happenin’s. Jane, it ain’t so much that these spies keepout of my way as me keepin’ out of theirs. They’re goin’ totry to kill me. That’s plain. But mebbe I’m as hard to shoot in theback as in the face. So far I’ve seen fit to watch only. This all means,Jane, that you’re a marked woman. You can’t get away—not now.Mebbe later, when you’re broken, you might. But that’s suredoubtful. Jane, you’re to lose the cattle that’s left—yourhome an’ ranch—an’ Amber Spring. You can’t even hide asack of gold! For it couldn’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’mtellin’ you, Jane, hopin’ to prepare you, if the worst does come. Itold you once before about that strange power I’ve got to feelthings.”

“Lassiter, what can I do?”

“Nothin’, I reckon, except know what’s comin’ an’wait an’ be game. If you’d let me make a call on Tull, an’ along-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’sdaughter—a Mormon, yet I can’t see! I’ve not failed inreligion—in duty. For years I’ve given with a free and full heart.When my father died I was rich. If I’m still rich it’s because Icouldn’t find enough ways to become poor. What am I, what are mypossessions to set in motion such intensity of secret oppression?”

“Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder.”

“But, Lassiter, I would give freely—all I own to avertthis—this wretched thing. If I gave—that would leave me with faithstill. Surely my—my churchmen think of my soul? If I lose my trust inthem—”

“Child, be still!” said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had init something of pity. “You are a woman, fine en’ big an’strong, an’ your heart matches your size. But in mind you’re achild. I’ll say a little more—then I’m done. I’ll nevermention this again. Among many thousands of women you’re one who hasbucked against your churchmen. They tried you out, an’ failed ofpersuasion, an’ finally of threats. You meet now the cold steel of a willas far from Christlike as the universe is wide. You’re to be broken. Yourbody’s to be held, given to some man, made, if possible, to bringchildren into the world. But your soul?... What do they care for yoursoul?”

CHAPTER XIII.
SOLITUDE AND STORM

In his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his ears rang withinnumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds, and his eyes opened wideupon the glorious golden shaft of sunlight shining through the great stonebridge. The circle of cliffs surrounding Surprise Valley lay shrouded inmorning mist, a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, moving cloudalong the ramparts. The oak forest in the center was a plumed and tufted ovalof gold.

He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery of strength shealways rose with the dawn. At the moment she was feeding the quail she hadtamed. And she had begun to tame the mocking-birds. They fluttered among thebranches overhead and some left off their songs to flit down and shyly hop nearthe twittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits crouched in the grass, nownibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching the dogs.

Venters’s swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess and herpets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to return again and rest upon thegirl. She had changed. To the dark trousers and blouse she had added moccasinsof her own make, but she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed tomark the rounded contours of a woman. The change had been to grace and beauty.A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint of red shone in theclear dark brown of cheeks. The haunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, thatearlier had been illusive, a promise, had become a living fact. She fittedharmoniously into that wonderful setting; she was like SurpriseValley—wild and beautiful.

Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day.

He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after the passing of thesummer rains. The rains were due soon. But until their arrival and thenecessity for his trip to the village he sequestered in a far corner of mindall thought of peril, of his past life, and almost that of the present. It wasenough to live. He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distantfuture. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home of the cliff-dwellersthere were peace and quiet and solitude, and another thing, wondrous as thegolden morning shaft of sunlight, that he dared not ponder over long enough tounderstand.

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. He wasassimilating something from this valley of gleams and shadows. From thisstrange girl he was assimilating more.

The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As Venters had no tools withwhich to build, or to till the terraces, he remained idle. Beyond the cookingof the simple fare there were no tasks. And as there were no tasks, there wasno system. He and Bess began one thing, to leave it; to begin another, to leavethat; and then do nothing but lie under the spruces and watch the greatcloud-sails majestically move along the ramparts, and dream and dream. Thevalley was a golden, sunlit world. It was silent. The sighing wind and thetwittering quail and the singing birds, even the rare and seldom-occurringhollow crack of a sliding weathered stone, only thickened and deepened thatinsulated silence.

Venters and Bess had vagrant minds.

“Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle?” inquired Venters.

“A hundred times,” she replied.

“Oh, have I? I’d forgotten. I want you to see him. He’llcarry us both.”

“I’d like to ride him. Can he run?”

“Run? He’s a demon. Swiftest horse on the sage! I hope he’llstay in that cañon.”

“He’ll stay.”

They left camp to wander along the terraces, into the aspen ravines, under thegleaming walls. Ring and Whitie wandered in the fore, often turning, oftentrotting back, open-mouthed and solemn-eyed and happy. Venters lifted his gazeto the grand archway over the entrance to the valley, and Bess lifted hers tofollow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held their attention fora long time. To-day a soaring eagle attracted them.

“How he sails!” exclaimed Bess. “I wonder where his mateis?”

“She’s at the nest. It’s on the bridge in a crack near thetop. I see her often. She’s almost white.”

They wandered on down the terrace, into the shady, sun-flecked forest. A brownbird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess peeped into the leaves. “Look! Anest and four little birds. They’re not afraid of us. See how they opentheir mouths. They’re hungry.”

Rabbits rustled the dead brush and pattered away. The forest was full of adrowsy hum of insects. Little darts of purple, that were running quail, crossedthe glades. And a plaintive, sweet peeping came from the coverts. Bess’ssoft step disturbed a sleeping lizard that scampered away over the leaves. Shegave chase and caught it, a slim creature of nameless color but of exquisitebeauty.

“Jewel eyes,” she said. “It’s like arabbit—afraid. We won’t eat you. There—go.”

Murmuring water drew their steps down into a shallow shaded ravine where abrown brook brawled softly over mossy stones. Multitudes of strange, gray frogswith white spots and black eyes lined the rocky bank and leaped only at closeapproach. Then Venters’s eye descried a very thin, very long green snakecoiled round a sapling. They drew closer and closer till they could havetouched it. The snake had no fear and watched them with scintillating eyes.

“It’s pretty,” said Bess. “How tame! I thought snakesalways ran.”

“No. Even the rabbits didn’t run here till the dogs chasedthem.”

On and on they wandered to the wild jumble of massed and broken fragments ofcliff at the west end of the valley. The roar of the disappearing stream dinnedin their ears. Into this maze of rocks they threaded a tortuous way, climbing,descending, halting to gather wild plums and great lavender lilies, and goingon at the will of fancy. Idle and keen perceptions guided them equally.

“Oh, let us climb there!” cried Bess, pointing upward to a smallspace of terrace left green and shady between huge abutments of broken cliff.And they climbed to the nook and rested and looked out across the valley to thecurling column of blue smoke from their campfire. But the cool shade and therich grass and the fine view were not what they had climbed for. They could nothave told, although whatever had drawn them was well-satisfying. Light,sure-footed as a mountain goat, Bess pattered down at Venters’s heels;and they went on, calling the dogs, eyes dreamy and wide, listening to the windand the bees and the crickets and the birds.

Part of the time Ring and Whitie led the way, then Venters, then Bess; and thedirection was not an object. They left the sun-streaked shade of the oaks,brushed the long grass of the meadows, entered the green and fragrant swayingwillows, to stop, at length, under the huge old cottonwoods where the beaverswere busy.

Here they rested and watched. A dam of brush and logs and mud and stones backedthe stream into a little lake. The round, rough beaver houses projected fromthe water. Like the rabbits, the beavers had become shy. Gradually, however, asVenters and Bess knelt low, holding the dogs, the beavers emerged to swim withlogs and gnaw at cottonwoods and pat mud walls with their paddle-like tails,and, glossy and shiny in the sun, to go on with their strange, persistentindustry. They were the builders. The lake was a mud-hole, and the immediateenvironment a scarred and dead region, but it was a wonderful home of wonderfulanimals.

“Look at that one—he puddles in the mud,” said Bess.“And there! See him dive! Hear them gnawing! I’d think they’dbreak their teeth. How’s it they can stay out of the water and under thewater?”

And she laughed.

Then Venters and Bess wandered farther, and, perhaps not all unconsciously thistime, wended their slow steps to the cave of the cliff-dwellers, where sheliked best to go.

The tangled thicket and the long slant of dust and little chips of weatheredrock and the steep bench of stone and the worn steps all were arduous work forBess in the climbing. But she gained the shelf, gasping, hot of cheek, glad ofeye, with her hand in Venters’s. Here they rested. The beautiful valleyglittered below with its millions of wind-turned leaves bright-faced in thesun, and the mighty bridge towered heavenward, crowned with blue sky. Bess,however, never rested for long. Soon she was exploring, and Venters followed;she dragged forth from corners and shelves a multitude of crudely fashioned andpainted pieces of pottery, and he carried them. They peeped down into the darkholes of the kivas, and Bess gleefully dropped a stone and waited for thelong-coming hollow sound to rise. They peeped into the little globular houses,like mud-wasp nests, and wondered if these had been store-places for grain, orbaby cribs, or what; and they crawled into the larger houses and laughed whenthey bumped their heads on the low roofs, and they dug in the dust of thefloors. And they brought from dust and darkness armloads of treasure which theycarried to the light. Flints and stones and strange curved sticks and potterythey found; and twisted grass rope that crumbled in their hands, and bits ofwhitish stone which crushed to powder at a touch and seemed to vanish in theair.

“That white stuff was bone,” said Venters, slowly. “Bones ofa cliff-dweller.”

“No!” exclaimed Bess.

“Here’s another piece. Look!... Whew! dry, powdery smoke!That’s bone.”

Then it was that Venters’s primitive, childlike mood, like asavage’s, seeing, yet unthinking, gave way to the encroachment ofcivilized thought. The world had not been made for a single day’s play orfancy or idle watching. The world was old. Nowhere could be gotten a betteridea of its age than in this gigantic silent tomb. The gray ashes inVenters’s hand had once been bone of a human being like himself. The palegloom of the cave had shadowed people long ago. He saw that Bess had receivedthe same shock—could not in moments such as this escape her feelingliving, thinking destiny.

“Bern, people have livedhere,” she said, with wide,thoughtful eyes.

“Yes,” he replied.

“How long ago?”

“A thousand years and more.”

“What were they?”

“Cliff-dwellers. Men who had enemies and made their homes high out ofreach.”

“They had to fight?”

“Yes.”

“They fought for—what?”

“For life. For their homes, food, children, parents—for theirwomen!”

“Has the world changed any in a thousand years?”

“I don’t know—perhaps a little.”

“Have men?”

“I hope so—I think so.”

“Things crowd into my mind,” she went on, and the wistful light inher eyes told Venters the truth of her thoughts. “I’ve ridden theborder of Utah. I’ve seen people—know how they live—but theymust be few of all who are living. I had my books and I studied them. But allthat doesn’t help me any more. I want to go out into the big world andsee it. Yet I want to stay here more. What’s to become of us? Are wecliff-dwellers? We’re alone here. I’m happy when I don’tthink. These—these bones that fly into dust—they make me sick and alittle afraid. Did the people who lived here once have the same feelings as wehave? What was the good of their living at all? They’re gone!What’s the meaning of it all—of us?”

“Bess, you ask more than I can tell. It’s beyond me. Only there waslaughter here once—and now there’s silence. There waslife—and now there’s death. Men cut these little steps, made thesearrow-heads and mealing-stones, plaited the ropes we found, and left theirbones to crumble in our fingers. As far as time is concerned it might all havebeen yesterday. We’re here to-day. Maybe we’re higher in the scaleof human beings—in intelligence. But who knows? We can’t be anyhigher in the things for which life is lived at all.”

“What are they?”

“Why—I suppose relationship, friendship—love.”

“Love!”

“Yes. Love of man for woman—love of woman for man. That’s thenature, the meaning, the best of life itself.”

She said no more. Wistfulness of glance deepened into sadness.

“Come, let us go,” said Venters.

Action brightened her. Beside him, holding his hand she slipped down the shelf,ran down the long, steep slant of sliding stones, out of the cloud of dust, andlikewise out of the pale gloom.

“We beat the slide,” she cried.

The miniature avalanche cracked and roared, and rattled itself into an inertmass at the base of the incline. Yellow dust like the gloom of the cave, butnot so changeless, drifted away on the wind; the roar clapped in echo from thecliff, returned, went back, and came again to die in the hollowness. Down onthe sunny terrace there was a different atmosphere. Ring and Whitie leapedaround Bess. Once more she was smiling, gay, and thoughtless, with thedream-mood in the shadow of her eyes.

“Bess, I haven’t seen that since last summer. Look!” saidVenters, pointing to the scalloped edge of rolling purple clouds that peepedover the western wall. “We’re in for a storm.”

“Oh, I hope not. I’m afraid of storms.”

“Are you? Why?”

“Have you ever been down in one of these walled-up pockets in a badstorm?”

“No, now I think of it, I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s terrible. Every summer I get scared to death and hidesomewhere in the dark. Storms up on the sage are bad, but nothing to what theyare down here in the cañons. And in this little valley—why, echoes canrap back and forth so quick they’ll split our ears.”

“We’re perfectly safe here, Bess.”

“I know. But that hasn’t anything to do with it. The truth isI’m afraid of lightning and thunder, and thunder-claps hurt my head. Ifwe have a bad storm, will you stay close to me?”

“Yes.”

When they got back to camp the afternoon was closing, and it was exceedinglysultry. Not a breath of air stirred the aspen leaves, and when these did notquiver the air was indeed still. The dark-purple clouds moved almostimperceptibly out of the west.

“What have we for supper?” asked Bess.

“Rabbit.”

“Bern, can’t you think of another new way to cook rabbit?”went on Bess, with earnestness.

“What do you think I am—a magician?” retorted Venters.

“I wouldn’t dare tell you. But, Bern, do you want me to turn into arabbit?”

There was a dark-blue, merry flashing of eyes and a parting of lips; then shelaughed. In that moment she was naive and wholesome.

“Rabbit seems to agree with you,” replied Venters. “You arewell and strong—and growing very pretty.”

Anything in the nature of compliment he had never before said to her, and justnow he responded to a sudden curiosity to see its effect. Bess stared as if shehad not heard aright, slowly blushed, and completely lost her poise in happyconfusion.

“I’d better go right away,” he continued, “and fetchsupplies from Cottonwoods.”

A startlingly swift change in the nature of her agitation made him reproachhimself for his abruptness.

“No, no, don’t go!” she said. “I didn’tmean—that about the rabbit. I—I was only trying to be—funny.Don’t leave me all alone!”

“Bess, I must go sometime.”

“Wait then. Wait till after the storms.”

The purple cloud-bank darkened the lower edge of the setting sun, crept up andup, obscuring its fiery red heart, and finally passed over the last ruddycrescent of its upper rim.

The intense dead silence awakened to a long, low, rumbling roll of thunder.

“Oh!” cried Bess, nervously.

“We’ve had big black clouds before this without rain,” saidVenters. “But there’s no doubt about that thunder. The storms arecoming. I’m glad. Every rider on the sage will hear that thunder withglad ears.”

Venters and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasks around the camp,then faced the open terrace, the valley, and the west, to watch and await theapproaching storm.

Venters and Bess finished their simple meal—then facedthe open terrace, to watch and await the approaching storm.

It required keen vision to see any movement whatever in the purple clouds. Byinfinitesimal degrees the dark cloud-line merged upward into the golden-redhaze of the afterglow of sunset. A shadow lengthened from under the westernwall across the valley. As straight and rigid as steel rose the delicatespear-pointed silver spruces; the aspen leaves, by nature pendant andquivering, hung limp and heavy; no slender blade of grass moved. A gentlesplashing of water came from the ravine. Then again from out of the westsounded the low, dull, and rumbling roll of thunder.

A wave, a ripple of light, a trembling and turning of the aspen leaves, likethe approach of a breeze on the water, crossed the valley from the west; andthe lull and the deadly stillness and the sultry air passed away on a coolwind.

The night bird of the cañon, with clear and melancholy notes announced thetwilight. And from all along the cliffs rose the faint murmur and moan andmourn of the wind singing in the caves. The bank of clouds now swept hugely outof the western sky. Its front was purple and black, with gray between, abulging, mushrooming, vast thing instinct with storm. It had a dark, angry,threatening aspect. As if all the power of the winds were pushing and pilingbehind, it rolled ponderously across the sky. A red flare burned outinstantaneously, flashed from the west to east, and died. Then from the deepestblack of the purple cloud burst a boom. It was like the bowling of a hugeboulder along the crags and ramparts, and seemed to roll on and fall into thevalley to bound and bang and boom from cliff to cliff.

“Oh!” cried Bess, with her hands over her ears. “What did Itell you?”

“Why, Bess, be reasonable!” said Venters.

“I’m a coward.”

“Not quite that, I hope. It’s strange you’re afraid. I love astorm.”

“I tell you a storm down in these cañons is an awful thing. I knowOldring hated storms. His men were afraid of them. There was one who went deafin a bad storm, and never could hear again.”

“Maybe I’ve lots to learn, Bess. I’ll lose my guess if thisstorm isn’t bad enough. We’re going to have heavy wind first, thenlightning and thunder, then the rain. Let’s stay out as long as wecan.”

The tips of the cottonwoods and the oaks waved to the east, and the rings ofaspens along the terraces twinkled their myriad of bright faces in fleet andglancing gleam. A low roar rose from the leaves of the forest, and the sprucesswished in the rising wind. It came in gusts, with light breezes between. As itincreased in strength the lulls shortened in length till there was a strong andsteady blow all the time, and violent puffs at intervals, and sudden whirlingcurrents. The clouds spread over the valley, rolling swiftly and low, andtwilight faded into a sweeping darkness. Then the singing of the wind in thecaves drowned the swift roar of rustling leaves; then the song swelled to amourning, moaning wail; then with the gathering power of the wind the wailchanged to a shriek. Steadily the wind strengthened and constantly the strangesound changed.

The last bit of blue sky yielded to the on-sweep of clouds. Like angry surf thepale gleams of gray, amid the purple of that scudding front, swept beyond theeastern rampart of the valley. The purple deepened to black. Broad sheets oflightning flared over the western wall. There were not yet any ropes or zigzagstreaks darting down through the gathering darkness. The storm center was stillbeyond Surprise Valley.

“Listen!... Listen!” cried Bess, with her lips close toVenters’s ear. “You’ll hear Oldring’s knell!”

“What’s that?”

“Oldring’s knell. When the wind blows a gale in the caves it makeswhat the rustlers call Oldring’s knell. They believe it bodes his death.I think he believes so, too. It’s not like any sound on earth....It’s beginning. Listen!”

The gale swooped down with a hollow unearthly howl. It yelled and pealed andshrilled and shrieked. It was made up of a thousand piercing cries. It was arising and a moving sound. Beginning at the western break of the valley, itrushed along each gigantic cliff, whistling into the caves and cracks, to mountin power, to bellow a blast through the great stone bridge. Gone, as into anengulfing roar of surging waters, it seemed to shoot back and begin all overagain.

It was only wind, thought Venters. Here sped and shrieked the sculptor thatcarved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs. It was only a gale, but asVenters listened, as his ears became accustomed to the fury and strife, out ofit all or through it or above it pealed low and perfectly clear andpersistently uniform a strange sound that had no counterpart in all the soundsof the elements. It was not of earth or of life. It was the grief and agony ofthe gale. A knell of all upon which it blew!

Black night enfolded the valley. Venters could not see his companion, and knewof her presence only through the tightening hold of her hand on his arm. Hefelt the dogs huddle closer to him. Suddenly the dense, black vault overheadsplit asunder to a blue-white, dazzling streak of lightning. The whole valleylay vividly clear and luminously bright in his sight. Upreared, vast andmagnificent, the stone bridge glimmered like some grand god of storm in thelightning’s fire. Then all flashed black again—blacker thanpitch—a thick, impenetrable coal-blackness. And there came a ripping,crashing report. Instantly an echo resounded with clapping crash. The initialreport was nothing to the echo. It was a terrible, living, reverberating,detonating crash. The wall threw the sound across, and could have made nogreater roar if it had slipped in avalanche. From cliff to cliff the echo wentin crashing retort and banged in lessening power, and boomed in thinner volume,and clapped weaker and weaker till a final clap could not reach across thewaiting cliff.

In the pitchy darkness Venters led Bess, and, groping his way, by feel of handfound the entrance to her cave and lifted her up. On the instant a blindingflash of lightning illumined the cave and all about him. He saw Bess’sface white now with dark, frightened eyes. He saw the dogs leap up, and hefollowed suit. The golden glare vanished; all was black; then came thesplitting crack and the infernal din of echoes.

Bess shrank closer to him and closer, found his hands, and pressed them tightlyover her ears, and dropped her face upon his shoulder, and hid her eyes.

Then the storm burst with a succession of ropes and streaks and shafts oflightning, playing continuously, filling the valley with a broken radiance; andthe cracking shots followed each other swiftly till the echoes blended in onefearful, deafening crash.

Venters looked out upon the beautiful valley—beautiful now as neverbefore—mystic in its transparent, luminous gloom, weird in the quivering,golden haze of lightning. The dark spruces were tipped with glimmering lights;the aspens bent low in the winds, as waves in a tempest at sea; the forest ofoaks tossed wildly and shone with gleams of fire. Across the valley the hugecavern of the cliff-dwellers yawned in the glare, every little black window asclear as at noonday; but the night and the storm added to their tragedy. Flungarching to the black clouds, the great stone bridge seemed to bear the brunt ofthe storm. It caught the full fury of the rushing wind. It lifted its noblecrown to meet the lightnings. Venters thought of the eagles and their loftynest in a niche under the arch. A driving pall of rain, black as the clouds,came sweeping on to obscure the bridge and the gleaming walls and the shiningvalley. The lightning played incessantly, streaking down through opaquedarkness of rain. The roar of the wind, with its strange knell and there-crashing echoes, mingled with the roar of the flooding rain, and allseemingly were deadened and drowned in a world of sound.

In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl. She had sunk intohis arms, upon his breast, burying her face. She clung to him. He felt thesoftness of her, and the warmth, and the quick heave of her breast. He saw thedark, slender, graceful outline of her form. A woman lay in his arms! And heheld her closer. He who had been alone in the sad, silent watches of the nightwas not now and never must be again alone. He who had yearned for the touch ofa hand felt the long tremble and the heart-beat of a woman. By what strangechance had she come to love him! By what change—by what marvel had shegrown into a treasure!

No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder-storm. For with thetouch of clinging hands and the throbbing bosom he grew conscious of an inwardstorm—the tingling of new chords of thought, strange music of unheard,joyous bells, sad dreams dawning to wakeful delight, dissolving doubt,resurging hope, force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of desire. Astorm in his breast—a storm of real love.

CHAPTER XIV.
WEST WIND

When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late in the night, ashis blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrill subsided, he fell asleep.

With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley lay drenched andbathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. The rain-washed walls glistenedin the morning light. Waterfalls of many forms poured over the rims. One, abroad, lacy sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the western notch and struck aledge in its downward fall, to bound into broader leap, to burst far below intowhite and gold and rosy mist.

Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man.

“It’s a glorious morning,” said Bess, in greeting.

“Yes. After the storm the west wind,” he replied.

“Last night was I—very much of a baby?” she asked, watchinghim.

“Pretty much.”

“Oh, I couldn’t help it!”

“I’m glad you were afraid.”

“Why?” she asked, in slow surprise.

“I’ll tell you some day,” he answered, soberly. Then aroundthe camp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterward he strolledthoughtfully off alone along the terrace. He climbed a great yellow rockraising its crest among the spruces, and there he sat down to face the valleyand the west.

“I love her!”

Aloud he spoke—unburdened his heart—confessed his secret. For aninstant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls waved, and allabout him whirled with tumult within.

“I love her!... I understand now.”

Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the complications of thepresent amazed him with proof of how far he had drifted from his old life. Hediscovered that he hated to take up the broken threads, to delve into darkproblems and difficulties. In this beautiful valley he had been living abeautiful dream. Tranquillity had come to him, and the joy of solitude, andinterest in all the wild creatures and crannies of this incomparablevalley—and love. Under the shadow of the great stone bridge God hadrevealed Himself to Venters.

“The world seems very far away,” he muttered, “but it’sthere—and I’m not yet done with it. Perhaps I never shall be....Only—how glorious it would be to live here always and never thinkagain!”

Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony of his wish,steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out of it all he presently evolvedthese things: he must go to Cottonwoods; he must bring supplies back toSurprise Valley; he must cultivate the soil and raise corn and stock, and, mostimperative of all, he must decide the future of the girl who loved him and whomhe loved. The first of these things required tremendous effort, the last one,concerning Bess, seemed simply and naturally easy of accomplishment. He wouldmarry her. Suddenly, as from roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgottentruth concerning her. It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on itshot, tearing way to his heart. She had been Oldring’s Masked Rider. ToVenters’s question, “What were you to Oldring?” she hadanswered with scarlet shame and drooping head.

“What do I care who she is or what she was!” he cried,passionately. And he knew it was not his old self speaking. It was this softer,gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts in the quiet valley. Tenderness,masterful in him now, matched the absence of joy and blunted the knife-edge ofentering jealousy. Strong and passionate effort of will, surprising to him,held back the poison from piercing his soul.

“Wait!... Wait!” he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed hisbreast, and he might have called to the pang there. “Wait! It’s allso strange—so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who am I to judge her?I’ll glory in my love for her. But I can’t tellit—can’t give up to it.”

Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying her was impossible inSurprise Valley and in any village south of Sterling. Even without the mask shehad once worn she would easily have been recognized as Oldring’s Rider.No man who had ever seen her would forget her, regardless of his ignorance asto her sex. Then more poignant than all other argument was the fact that he didnot want to take her away from Surprise Valley. He resisted all thought ofthat. He had brought her to the most beautiful and wildest place of theuplands; he had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom asone of the valley lilies; he knew her life there to be pure and sweet—shebelonged to him, and he loved her. Still these were not all the reasons why hedid not want to take her away. Where could they go? He feared therustlers—he feared the riders—he feared the Mormons. And if heshould ever succeed in getting Bess safely away from these immediate perils, hefeared the sharp eyes of women and their tongues, the big outside world withits problems of existence. He must wait to decide her future, which, after all,was deciding his own. But between her future and his something hung impending.Like Balancing Rock, which waited darkly over the steep gorge, ready to closeforever the outlet to Deception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yetintangible as fate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of thefuture.

“I’ve dreamed,” muttered Venters, as he rose. “Well,why not?... To dream is happiness! But let me just once see this clearlywholly; then I can go on dreaming till the thing falls. I’ve got to tellJane Withersteen. I’ve dangerous trips to take. I’ve work here tomake comfort for this girl. She’s mine. I’ll fight to keep her safefrom that old life. I’ve already seen her forget it. I love her. And if abeast ever rises in me I’ll burn my hand off before I lay it on her withshameful intent. And, by God! sooner or later I’ll kill the man who hidher and kept her in Deception Pass!”

As he spoke the west wind softly blew in his face. It seemed to soothe hispassion. That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, and it carried a sweet,strange burden of far-off things—tidings of life in other climes, ofsunshine asleep on other walls—of other places where reigned peace. Itcarried, too, sad truth of human hearts and mystery—of promise and hopeunquenchable. Surprise Valley was only a little niche in the wide world whenceblew that burdened wind. Bess was only one of millions at the mercy of unknownmotive in nature and life. Content had come to Venters in the valley; happinesshad breathed in the slow, warm air; love as bright as light had hovered overthe walls and descended to him; and now on the west wind came a whisper of theeternal triumph of faith over doubt.

“How much better I am for what has come to me!” he exclaimed.“I’ll let the future take care of itself. Whatever falls,I’ll be ready.”

Venters retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp, and found Bess inthe old familiar seat, waiting and watching for his return.

“I went off by myself to think a little,” he explained.

“You never looked that way before. What—what is it? Won’t youtell me?”

“Well, Bess, the fact is I’ve been dreaming a lot. This valleymakes a fellow dream. So I forced myself to think. We can’t live this waymuch longer. Soon I’ll simply have to go to Cottonwoods. We need a wholepack train of supplies. I can get—”

“Can you go safely?” she interrupted.

“Why, I’m sure of it. I’ll ride through the Pass at night. Ihaven’t any fear that Wrangle isn’t where I left him. And once onhim—Bess, just wait till you see that horse!”

“Oh, I want to see him—to ride him. But—but, Bern, this iswhat troubles me,” she said. “Will—will you come back?”

“Give me four days. If I’m not back in four days you’ll knowI’m dead. For that only shall keep me.”

“Oh!”

“Bess, I’ll come back. There’s danger—I wouldn’tlie to you—but I can take care of myself.”

“Bern, I’m sure—oh, I’m sure of it! All my lifeI’ve watched hunted men. I can tell what’s in them. And I believeyou can ride and shoot and see with any rider of the sage. It’snot—not that I—fear.”

“Well, what is it, then?”

“Why—why—why should you come back at all?”

“I couldn’t leave you here alone.”

“You might change your mind when you get to the village—among oldfriends—”

“I won’t change my mind. As for old friends—” Heuttered a short, expressive laugh.

“Then—there—there must be a—a woman!” Dark redmantled the clear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes ofshame, upheld a long moment by intense, straining search for the verificationof her fear. Suddenly they drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flewto her hot cheeks.

“Bess—look here,” said Venters, with a sharpness due to theviolence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion.

As if compelled against her will—answering to an irresistiblevoice—Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, and triedto whisper with tremulous lips.

“There’s no woman,” went on Venters, deliberately holding herglance with his. “Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keepme away.”

Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; but like thevanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as he had never beheld her.

“I am nothing—I am lost—I am nameless!”

“Do you wantme to come back?” he asked, with sudden sterncoldness. “Maybe youwant to go back to Oldring!”

That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, proud eyes and mutelips refuting his insinuation.

“Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that. But youangered me. I intend to work—to make a home for you here—to bea—a brother to you as long as ever you need me. And you must forget whatyou are—were—I mean, and be happy. When you remember that old lifeyou are bitter, and it hurts me.”

“I was happy—I shall be very happy. Oh, you’re so goodthat—that it kills me! If I think, I can’t believe it. I grow sickwith wondering why. I’m only a—let me sayit—only a lost, nameless—girl of the rustlers.Oldring’s Girl, they called me. That you should save me—beso good and kind—want to make me happy—why, it’s beyondbelief. No wonder I’m wretched at the thought of your leaving me. ButI’ll be wretched and bitter no more. I promise you. If only I could repayyou even a little—”

“You’ve repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?”

“Believe you! I couldn’t do else.”

“Then listen!... Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valleywith you, I’ve found myself. I’ve learned to think while I wasdreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful spirit,has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what you say aboutyourself. I can’t explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whateverthe terrible wrongs you’ve suffered, God holds you blameless. I seethat—feel that in you every moment you are near me. I’ve a motherand a sister ’way back in Illinois. If I could I’d take you tothem—to-morrow.”

“If it were true!Oh, I might—I might lift my head!”she cried.

“Lift it then—you child. For I swear it’s true.”

She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a part of heractions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which alwaystortured Venters, but now with something more—a spirit rising from thedepths that linked itself to his brave words.

“I’ve been thinking—too,” she cried, with quiveringsmile and swelling breast. “I’ve discovered myself—too.I’m young—I’m alive—I’m so full—oh!I’m a woman!”

“Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery—beforeyou,” Venters said, and laughed.

“Oh, there’s more—there’s something I must tellyou.”

“Tell it, then.”

“When will you go to Cottonwoods?”

“As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them.”

“I’ll tell you before you go. I can’t now. I don’t knowhow I shall then. But it must be told. I’d never let you leave me withoutknowing. For in spite of what you say there’s a chance you mightn’tcome back.”

Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after day the cloudsclustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sang and the caves rang withOldring’s knell, and the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, theechoes crashed and crashed, and the rains flooded the valley. Wild flowerssprang up everywhere, swaying with the lengthening grass on the terraces,smiling wanly from shady nooks, peeping wondrously from year-dry crevices ofthe walls. The valley bloomed into a paradise. Every single moment, from thebreaking of the gold bar through the bridge at dawn on to the reddening of raysover the western wall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick,transparent haze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in thetwilight. At the end of every storm a rainbow curved down into the leaf-brightforest to shine and fade and leave lingeringly some faint essence of its rosyiris in the air.

Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched the lights changeon the walls, and faced the wind from out of the west.

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off things. Itblew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It blew down the groovesof time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fightingmen and praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was theburden of its tidings—youth in the shady woods, waders through the wetmeadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf,sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlitlanes—everywhere in far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts andlonging lips—from all the world tidings of unquenchable love.

Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and asked himself of whatwas she dreaming? For the changing light of the valley reflected its gleam andits color and its meaning in the changing light of her eyes. He saw in theminfinitely more than he saw in his dreams. He saw thought and soul andnature—strong vision of life. All tidings the west wind blew fromdistance and age he found deep in those dark-blue depths, and found themmysteries solved. Under their wistful shadow he softened, and in the softeningfelt himself grow a sadder, a wiser, and a better man.

While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full, teaching him aman’s part, the days passed, the purple clouds changed to white, and thestorms were over for that summer.

“I must go now,” he said.

“When?” she asked.

“At once—to-night.”

“I’m glad the time has come. It dragged at me. Go—foryou’ll come back the sooner.”

Late in the afternoon, as the ruddy sun split its last flame in the raggednotch of the western wall, Bess walked with Venters along the eastern terrace,up the long, weathered slope, under the great stone bridge. They entered thenarrow gorge to climb around the fence long before built there by Venters.Farther than this she had never been. Twilight had already fallen in the gorge.It brightened to waning shadow in the wider ascent. He showed her BalancingRock, of which he had often told her, and explained its sinister leaning overthe outlet. Shuddering, she looked down the long, pale incline with itsclosed-in, toppling walls.

“What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here?”

“I did, surely,” replied he.

“It frightens me, somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. I’dride anywhere a horse could go, and climb where he couldn’t. Butthere’s something fearful here. I feel as—as if the place waswatching me.”

“Look at this rock. It’s balanced here—balanced perfectly.You know I told you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock, and why. But they’regone and the rock waits. Can’t you see—feel how it waits here? Imoved it once, and I’ll never dare again. A strong heave would start it.Then it would fall and bang, and smash that crag, and jar the walls, and closeforever the outlet to Deception Pass!”

“Ah! When you come back I’ll steal up here and push and push withall my might to roll the rock and close forever the outlet to the Pass!”She said it lightly, but in the undercurrent of her voice was a heavier note, aring deeper than any ever given mere play of words.

“Bess!... You can’t dare me! Wait till I come back withsupplies—then roll the stone.”

“I—was—in—fun.” Her voice now throbbed low.“Always you must be free to go when you will. Go now... this placepresses on me—stifles me.”

“I’m going—but you had something to tell me?”

“Yes.... Will you—come back?”

“I’ll come if I live.”

“But—but you mightn’t come?”

“That’s possible, of course. It’ll take a good deal to killme. A man couldn’t have a faster horse or keener dog. And, Bess,I’ve guns, and I’ll use them if I’m pushed. But don’tworry.”

“I’ve faith in you. I’ll not worry until after four days.Only—because you mightn’t come—I musttellyou—”

She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great, glowing, earnest eyes, seemed tostand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. The dog whined, breaking thesilence.

“I musttell you—because you mightn’t comeback,” she whispered. “You mustknow what—what I thinkof your goodness—of you. Always I’ve been tongue-tied. I seemed notto be grateful. It was deep in my heart. Even now—if I were other than Iam—I couldn’t tell you. But I’m nothing—only arustler’s girl—nameless—infamous. You’ve savedme—and I’m—I’m yours to do with as you like.... Withall my heart and soul—I love you!”

CHAPTER XV.
SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE

In the cloudy, threatening, waning summer days shadows lengthened down thesage-slope, and Jane Withersteen likened them to the shadows gathering andclosing in around her life.

Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no known relative.Jane’s love redoubled. It was the saving brightness of a darkening hour.Fay turned now to Jane in childish worship. And Jane at last found fullexpression for the mother-longing in her heart. Upon Lassiter, too, Mrs.Larkin’s death had some subtle reaction. Before, he had often, withoutexplanation, advised Jane to send Fay back to any Gentile family that wouldtake her in. Passionately and reproachfully and wonderingly Jane had refusedeven to entertain such an idea. And now Lassiter never advised it again, grewsadder and quieter in his contemplation of the child, and infinitely moregentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold, inexplicable sensation of dreadwhen she saw Lassiter watching Fay. What did the rider see in the future? Whydid he, day by day, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in propheticassurance of something to be?

No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman power of foresight,saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening shadows that were soon to crowdand gloom over him and her and little Fay. Jane Withersteen awaited thelong-deferred breaking of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that hadcome to her in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt and fear, subservient toher will, no longer gave her sleepless nights and tortured days. Love remained.All that she had loved she now loved the more. She seemed to feel that she wasdefiantly flinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune and ofhate. No day passed but she prayed for all—and most fervently for herenemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or had never gained, the wholecontrol of her mind. In some measure reason and wisdom and decision were lockedin a chamber of her brain, awaiting a key. Power to think of some things wastaken from her. Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly todeny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the intangibly slowgrowth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into her heart.

On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the court for Lassiter,heard a clear, ringing report of a rifle. It came from the grove, somewheretoward the corrals. Jane glanced out in alarm. The day was dull, windless,soundless. The leaves of the cottonwoods drooped, as if they had foretold thedoom of Withersteen House and were now ready to die and drop and decay. Neverhad Jane seen such shade. She pondered on the meaning of the report. Revolvershots had of late cracked from different parts of the grove—spies takingsnap-shots at Lassiter from a cowardly distance! But a rifle report meant more.Riders seldom used rifles. Judkins and Venters were the exceptions she calledto mind. Had the men who hounded her hidden in her grove, taken to the rifle torid her of Lassiter, her last friend? It was probable—it was likely. Andshe did not share his cool assumption that his death would never come at thehands of a Mormon. Long had she expected it. His constancy to her, his singularreluctance to use the fatal skill for which he was famed—both now plainto all Mormons—laid him open to inevitable assassination. Yet what charmagainst ambush and aim and enemy he seemed to bear about him! No, Janereflected, it was not charm; only a wonderful training of eye and ear, andsense of impending peril. Nevertheless that could not forever avail againstsecret attack.

That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention; then the familiarclinking accompaniment of a slow, soft, measured step, and Lassiter walked intothe court.

“Jane, there’s a fellow out there with a long gun,” he said,and, removing his sombrero, showed his head bound in a bloody scarf.

“I heard the shot; I knew it was meant for you. Let me see—youcan’t be badly injured?”

“I reckon not. But mebbe it wasn’t a close call!... I’ll sithere in this corner where nobody can see me from the grove.” He untiedthe scarf and removed it to show a long, bleeding furrow above his left temple.

“It’s only a cut,” said Jane. “But how it bleeds! Holdyour scarf over it just a moment till I come back.”

She ran into the house and returned with bandages; and while she bathed anddressed the wound Lassiter talked.

“That fellow had a good chance to get me. But he must have flinched whenhe pulled the trigger. As I dodged down I saw him run through the trees. He hada rifle. I’ve been expectin’ that kind of gun play. I reckon nowI’ll have to keep a little closer hid myself. These fellers all seem toget chilly or shaky when they draw a bead on me, but one of them might jesthappen to hit me.”

“Won’t you go away—leave Cottonwoods as I’ve begged youto—before some one does happen to hit you?” she appealed to him.

“I reckon I’ll stay.”

“But, oh, Lassiter—your blood will be on my hands!”

“See here, lady, look at your hands now, right now. Aren’t theyfine, firm, white hands? Aren’t they bloody now? Lassiter’s blood!That’s a queer thing to stain your beautiful hands. But if you could onlysee deeper you’d find a redder color of blood. Heart color, Jane!”

“Oh!... My friend!”

“No, Jane, I’m not one to quit when the game grows hot, no morethan you. This game, though, is new to me, an’ I don’t know themoves yet, else I wouldn’t have stepped in front of that bullet.”

“Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you—to findhim—and—and kill him?”

“Well, I reckon I haven’t any great hankerin’ forthat.”

“Oh, the wonder of it!... I knew—I prayed—I trusted.Lassiter, I almost gave—all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God,and thank you, my friend.... But, selfish woman that I am, this is no greattest. What’s the life of one of those sneaking cowards to such a man asyou? I think of your great hate toward him who—I think of yourlife’s implacable purpose. Can it be—”

“Wait!... Listen!” he whispered. “I hear a hoss.”

He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled hissombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging his gun-sheaths round infront, he stepped into the alcove.

“It’s a hoss—comin’ fast,” he added.

Jane’s listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs.It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss tounderstand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharpdifference when the horse passed from the sage trail to the hard-packed groundof the grove. It became a ringing run—swift in its bell-like clatterings,yet singular in longer pause than usual between the hoofbeats of a horse.

“It’s Wrangle!... It’s Wrangle!” cried JaneWithersteen. “I’d know him from a million horses!”

Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Withersteen’scalm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrel flit inreddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. Then he was poundingdown the lane—thundering into the court—crashing his greatiron-shod hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy andwild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining his flanks. Hereared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leaped off, threw the bridle,and held hard on a lasso looped round Wrangle’s head and neck.Janet’s heart sank as she tried to recognize Venters in the rider.Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in the sweep of powerfulshoulders. But this bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothespatched with pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs andfeet—this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be Venters.

“Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So—so—so.You’re home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of wateryou’ll remember.”

In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangle to thehitching-rack and turned to the court.

“Oh, Bern!... You wild man!” she exclaimed.

“Jane—Jane, it’s good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes,it’s Venters.”

Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane’s. In it she felt thedifference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn—yet how splendid! He hadgone away a boy—he had returned a man. He appeared taller, wider ofshoulder, deeper-chested, more powerfully built. But was that only herfancy—he had always been a young giant—was the change one ofspirit? He might have been absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grownlike Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes—were they keener, moreflashing than before?—met hers with clear, frank, warm regard, in whichperplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain.

“Look at me long as you like,” he said, with a laugh.“I’m not much to look at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter, canbrag. You’re paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he wears a bloodybandage under his hat. That reminds me. Some one took a flying shot at me downin the sage. It made Wrangle run some.... Well, perhaps you’ve more totell me than I’ve got to tell you.”

Briefly, in few words, Jane outlined the circumstances of her undoing in theweeks of his absence.

Under his beard and bronze she saw his face whiten in terrible wrath.

“Lassiter—what held you back?”

No time in the long period of fiery moments and sudden shocks had JaneWithersteen ever beheld Lassiter as calm and serene and cool as then.

“Jane had gloom enough without my addin’ to it by shootin’ upthe village,” he said.

As strange as Lassiter’s coolness was Venters’s curious, intentscrutiny of them both, and under it Jane felt a flaming tide wave from bosom totemples.

“Well—you’re right,” he said, with slow pause.“It surprises me a little, that’s all.”

Jane sensed then a slight alteration in Venters, and what it was, in her ownconfusion, she could not tell. It had always been her intention to acquaint himwith the deceit she had fallen to in her zeal to move Lassiter. She did notmean to spare herself. Yet now, at the moment, before these riders, it was animpossibility to explain.

Venters was speaking somewhat haltingly, without his former frankness. “Ifound Oldring’s hiding-place and your red herd. I learned—Iknow—I’m sure there was a deal between Tull and Oldring.” Hepaused and shifted his position and his gaze. He looked as if he wanted to saysomething that he found beyond him. Sorrow and pity and shame seemed to contendfor mastery over him. Then he raised himself and spoke with effort. “JaneI’ve cost you too much. You’ve almost ruined yourself for me. Itwas wrong, for I’m not worth it. I never deserved such friendship. Well,maybe it’s not too late. You must give me up. Mind, I haven’tchanged. I am just the same as ever. I’ll see Tull while I’m here,and tell him to his face.”

“Bern, it’s too late,” said Jane.

“I’ll makehim believe!” cried Venters, violently.

“You ask me to break our friendship?”

“Yes. If you don’t, I shall.”

“Forever?”

“Forever!”

Jane sighed. Another shadow had lengthened down the sage slope to cast furtherdarkness upon her. A melancholy sweetness pervaded her resignation. The boy whohad left her had returned a man, nobler, stronger, one in whom she divinedsomething unbending as steel. There might come a moment later when she wouldwonder why she had not fought against his will, but just now she yielded to it.She liked him as well—nay, more, she thought, only her emotions weredeadened by the long, menacing wait for the bursting storm.

Once before she had held out her hand to him—when she gave it; now shestretched it tremblingly forth in acceptance of the decree circumstance hadlaid upon them. Venters bowed over it kissed it, pressed it hard, and halfstifled a sound very like a sob. Certain it was that when he raised his headtears glistened in his eyes.

“Some—women—have a hard lot,” he said, huskily. Then heshook his powerful form, and his rags lashed about him. “I’ll say afew things to Tull—when I meet him.”

“Bern—you’ll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be! Promiseme—”

“I promise you this,” he interrupted, in stern passion thatthrilled while it terrorized her. “If you say one more word for thatplotter I’ll kill him as I would a mad coyote!”

Jane clasped her hands. Was this fire-eyed man the one whom she had once madeas wax to her touch? Had Venters become Lassiter and Lassiter Venters?

“I’ll—say no more,” she faltered.

“Jane, Lassiter once called you blind,” said Venters. “Itmust be true. But I won’t upbraid you. Only don’t rouse the devilin me by praying for Tull! I’ll try to keep cool when I meet him.That’s all. Now there’s one more thing I want to ask ofyou—the last. I’ve found a valley down in the Pass. It’s awonderful place. I intend to stay there. It’s so hidden I believe no onecan find it. There’s good water, and browse, and game. I want to raisecorn and stock. I need to take in supplies. Will you give them to me?”

“Assuredly. The more you take the better you’ll please me—andperhaps the less my—my enemies will get.”

“Venters, I reckon you’ll have trouble packin’ anythin’away,” put in Lassiter.

“I’ll go at night.”

“Mebbe that wouldn’t be best. You’d sure be stopped.You’d better go early in the mornin’—say, just after dawn.That’s the safest time to move round here.”

“Lassiter, I’ll be hard to stop,” returned Venters, darkly.

“I reckon so.”

“Bern,” said Jane, “go first to the riders’ quartersand get yourself a complete outfit. You’re a—a sight. Then helpyourself to whatever else you need—burros, packs, grain, dried fruits,and meat. You must take coffee and sugar and flour—all kinds of supplies.Don’t forget corn and seeds. I remember how you used to starve.Please—please take all you can pack away from here. I’ll make abundle for you, which you mustn’t open till you’re in your valley.How I’d like to see it! To judge by you and Wrangle, how wild it mustbe!”

Jane walked down into the outer court and approached the sorrel. Upstarting, helaid back his ears and eyed her.

“Wrangle—dear old Wrangle,” she said, and put a caressinghand on his matted mane. “Oh, he’s wild, but he knows me! Bern, canhe run as fast as ever?”

“Run? Jane, he’s done sixty miles since last night at dark, and Icould make him kill Black Star right now in a ten-mile race.”

“He never could,” protested Jane. “He couldn’t even ifhe was fresh.”

“I reckon mebbe the best hoss’ll prove himself yet,” saidLassiter, “an’, Jane, if it ever comes to that race I’d likeyou to be on Wrangle.”

“I’d like that, too,” rejoined Venters. “But, Jane,maybe Lassiter’s hint is extreme. Bad as your prospects are, you’llsurely never come to the running point.”

“Who knows!” she replied, with mournful smile.

“No, no, Jane, it can’t be so bad as all that. Soon as I see Tullthere’ll be a change in your fortunes. I’ll hurry down to thevillage.... Now don’t worry.”

Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter’s subtle forecastingof disaster, Venters’s forced optimism, neither remained in mind.Material loss weighed nothing in the balance with other losses she wassustaining. She wondered dully at her sitting there, hands folded listlessly,with a kind of numb deadness to the passing of time and the passing of herriches. She thought of Venters’s friendship. She had not lost that, butshe had lost him. Lassiter’s friendship—that was more thanlove—it would endure, but soon he, too, would be gone. Little Fay sleptdreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming over the pillow. Jane hadthe child’s worship. Would she lose that, too? And if she did, what thenwould be left? Conscience thundered at her that there was left her religion.Conscience thundered that she should be grateful on her knees for this baptismof fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, and suffering her soul might befused pure gold. But the old, spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exaltedher. She wanted to be a woman—not a martyr. Like the saint of old whomortified his flesh, Jane Withersteen had in her the temper for heroicmartyrdom, if by sacrificing herself she could save the souls of others. Buthere the damnable verdict blistered her that the more she sacrificed herselfthe blacker grew the souls of her churchmen. There was something terribly wrongwith her soul, something terribly wrong with her churchmen and her religion. Inthe whirling gulf of her thought there was yet one shining light to guide her,to sustain her in her hope; and it was that, despite her errors and herfrailties and her blindness, she had one absolute and unfaltering hold onultimate and supreme justice. That was love. “Love your enemies asyourself!” was a divine word, entirely free from any church or creed.

Jane’s meditations were disturbed by Lassiter’s soft, tinkling stepin the court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always he was in readiness toride. She passed out and called him into the huge, dim hall.

“I think you’ll be safer here. The court is too open,” shesaid.

“I reckon,” replied Lassiter. “An’ it’s coolerhere. The day’s sure muggy. Well, I went down to the village withVenters.”

“Already! Where is he?” queried Jane, in quick amaze.

“He’s at the corrals. Blake’s helpin’ him get theburros an’ packs ready. That Blake is a good fellow.”

“Did—did Bern meet Tull?”

“I guess he did,” answered Lassiter, and he laughed dryly.

“Tell me! Oh, you exasperate me! You’re so cool, so calm! ForHeaven’s sake, tell me what happened!”

“First time I’ve been in the village for weeks,” went onLassiter, mildly. “I reckon there ain’t been more of a show for along time. Me an’ Venters walkin’ down the road! It was funny. Iain’t sayin’ anybody was particular glad to see us. I’m notmuch thought of hereabouts, an’ Venters he sure looks like what youcalled him, a wild man. Well, there was some runnin’ of folks before wegot to the stores. Then everybody vamoosed except some surprised rustlers infront of a saloon. Venters went right in the stores an’ saloons,an’ of course I went along. I don’t know which tickled me themost—the actions of many fellers we met, or Venters’s nerve. Jane,I was downright glad to be along. You see thatsort of thing is myelement, an’ I’ve been away from it for a spell. But wedidn’t find Tull in one of them places. Some Gentile feller at last toldVenters he’d find Tull in that long buildin’ next toParsons’s store. It’s a kind of meetin’-room; and sureenough, when we peeped in, it was half full of men.

“Venters yelled: ‘Don’t anybody pull guns! We ain’tcome for that!’ Then he tramped in, an’ I was some put to keepalongside him. There was a hard, scrapin’ sound of feet, a loud cry,an’ then some whisperin’, an’ after that stillness you couldcut with a knife. Tull was there, an’ that fat party who once tried tothrow a gun on me, an’ other important-lookin’ men, en’ thatlittle frog-legged feller who was with Tull the day I rode in here. I wish youcould have seen their faces, ’specially Tull’s an’ the fatparty’s. But there ain’t no use of me tryin’ to tell you howthey looked.

“Well, Venters an’ I stood there in the middle of the room withthat batch of men all in front of us, en’ not a blamed one of them winkedan eyelash or moved a finger. It was natural, of course, for me to notice manyof them packed guns. That’s a way of mine, first noticin’ themthings. Venters spoke up, an’ his voice sort of chilled an’ cut,en’ he told Tull he had a few things to say.”

Here Lassiter paused while he turned his sombrero round and round, in hisfamiliar habit, and his eyes had the look of a man seeing over again somethrilling spectacle, and under his red bronze there was strange animation.

“Like a shot, then, Venters told Tull that the friendship between youan’ him was all over, an’ he was leaving your place. He saidyou’d both of you broken off in the hope of propitiatin’ yourpeople, but you hadn’t changed your mind otherwise, an’ neverwould.

“Next he spoke up for you. I ain’t goin’ to tell you what hesaid. Only—no other woman who ever lived ever had such tribute! You had achampion, Jane, an’ never fear that those thick-skulled men don’tknow you now. It couldn’t be otherwise. He spoke the ringin’,lightnin’ truth.... Then he accused Tull of the underhand, miserablerobbery of a helpless woman. He told Tull where the red herd was, of a dealmade with Oldrin’, that Jerry Card had made the deal. I thought Tull wasgoin’ to drop, an’ that little frog-legged cuss, he looked somelimp an’ white. But Venters’s voice would have kept anybody’slegs from bucklin’. I was stiff myself. He went on an’ calledTull—called him every bad name ever known to a rider, an’ thensome. He cursed Tull. I never hear a man get such a cursin’. He laughedin scorn at the idea of Tull bein’ a minister. He said Tull an’ afew more dogs of hell builded their empire out of the hearts of such innocentan’ God-fearin’ women as Jane Withersteen. He called Tull a binderof women, a callous beast who hid behind a mock mantle ofrighteousness—an’ the last an’ lowest coward on the face ofthe earth. To prey on weak women through their religion—that was the lastunspeakable crime!

“Then he finished, an’ by this time he’d almost lost hisvoice. But his whisper was enough. ‘Tull,’ he said,‘shebegged me not to draw on you to-day. Shewould prayfor you if you burned her at the stake.... But listen!... I swear if you and Iever come face to face again, I’ll kill you!’

“We backed out of the door then, an’ up the road. But nobodyfollered us.”

Jane found herself weeping passionately. She had not been conscious of it tillLassiter ended his story, and she experienced exquisite pain and relief inshedding tears. Long had her eyes been dry, her grief deep; long had heremotions been dumb. Lassiter’s story put her on the rack; the appallingnature of Venters’s act and speech had no parallel as an outrage; it wasworse than bloodshed. Men like Tull had been shot, but had one ever been soterribly denounced in public? Over-mounting her horror, an uncontrollable,quivering passion shook her very soul. It was sheer human glory in the deed ofa fearless man. It was hot, primitive instinct to live—to fight. It was akind of mad joy in Venters’s chivalry. It was close to the wrath that hadfirst shaken her in the beginning of this war waged upon her.

“Well, well, Jane, don’t take it that way,” said Lassiter, inevident distress. “I had to tell you. There’s some things a fellerjest 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 Idon’t know women. Mebbe there’s reason for you to cry. I knowthis—nothin’ ever rang in my soul an’ so filled it as whatVenters did. I’d like to have done it, but—I’m only good forthrowin’ a gun, en’ it seems you hate that.... Well, I’ll begoin’ 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 onanother.”

“Tell Bern to come for the pack I want to give him—and—and tosay good-by,” called Jane, as Lassiter went out.

Jane passed the rest of that day in a vain endeavor to decide what and what notto put in the pack for Venters. This task was the last she would ever performfor him, and the gifts were the last she would ever make him. So she picked andchose and rejected, and chose again, and often paused in sad revery, and beganagain, till at length she filled the pack.

It was about sunset, and she and Fay had finished supper and were sitting inthe court, when Venters’s quick steps rang on the stones. She scarcelyknew him, for he had changed the tattered garments, and she missed the darkbeard and long hair. Still he was not the Venters of old. As he came up thesteps she felt herself pointing to the pack, and heard herself speaking wordsthat were meaningless to her. He said good-by; he kissed her, released her, andturned 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 thecottonwoods 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? Theblackness of her room seemed blacker for the sad, entering gray of morninglight. She heard the chirp of awakening birds, and fancied she caught a faintclatter of hoofs. Then low, dull distant, throbbed a heavy gunshot. She hadexpected it, was waiting for it; nevertheless, an electric shock checked herheart, froze the very living fiber of her bones. That vise-like hold on herfaculties apparently did not relax for a long time, and it was a voice underher window that released her.

“Jane!... Jane!” softly called Lassiter.

She answered somehow.

“It’s all right. Venters got away. I thought mebbe you’dheard that shot, en’ I was worried some.”

“What was it—who fired?”

“Well—some fool feller tried to stop Venters out there in thesage—an’ he only stopped lead!... I think it’ll be all right.I haven’t seen or heard of any other fellers round. Venters’ll gothrough safe. An’, Jane, I’ve got Bells saddled, an’I’m going to trail Venters. Mind, I won’t show myself unless hefalls foul of somebody an’ needs me. I want to see if this place wherehe’s goin’ is safe for him. He says nobody can track him there. Inever seen the place yet I couldn’t track a man to. Now, Jane, you stayindoors while I’m gone, an’ keep close watch on Fay. Willyou?”

“Yes! Oh yes!”

“An’ another thing, Jane,” he continued, then paused forlong—“another thing—if you ain’t here when I comeback—if you’re gone—don’t fear, I’ll trailyou—I’ll find you out.”

“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—orcorralled in some gulch—or chained in a cave! Milly Ernewas—till she give in! Mebbe that’s news to you.... Well, ifyou’re gone I’ll hunt for you.”

“No, Lassiter,” she replied, sadly and low. “If I’mgone just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded selfish deceit you repaid withkindness and love.”

She heard a deep, muttering curse, under his breath, and then the silverytinkling of his spurs as he moved away.

Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disasterhung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when hereported, appeared without his usual cheer; and Jerd wore a harassed look of aworn and worried man. And when Judkins put in appearance, riding a lame horse,and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his dust-covered figure and hisdarkly grim, almost dazed expression told Jane of dire calamity. She had noneed of words.

“Miss Withersteen, I have to report—loss of the—whiteherd,” 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 whichhe appeared badly in need, she asked no questions.

“No one rider—could hev done more—Miss Withersteen,” hewent on, presently.

“Judkins, don’t be distressed. You’ve done more than anyother rider. I’ve long expected to lose the white herd. It’s nosurprise. It’s in line with other things that are happening. I’mgrateful 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 fer you,an’ I’d got fond of my job. We led the herd a ways off to the northof the break in the valley. There was a big level an’ pools of wateran’ tip-top browse. But the cattle was in a high nervous condition.Wild—as wild as antelope! You see, they’d been so scared they neverslept. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you of the many tricks that werepulled off out there in the sage. But there wasn’t a day for weeks thetthe herd didn’t get started to run. We allus managed to ride ’emclose an’ drive ’em back an’ keep ’em bunched. Honest,Miss Withersteen, them steers was thin. They was thinwhen waterand grass was everywhere. Thinat this season—thet’ll tellyou how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, one night a strangerunnin’ streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak was acoyote—with an oiled an’ blazin’ tail!Fer I shot itan’ found out. We had hell with the herd that night, an’ if thesage an’ grass hadn’t been wet—we, hosses, steers, an’all would hev burned up. But I said I wasn’t goin’ to tell you anyof the tricks.... Strange now, Miss Withersteen, when the stampede did come itwas from natural cause—jest a whirlin’ devil of dust. You’veseen the like often. An’ this wasn’t no big whirl, fer the dust wasmostly settled. It had dried out in a little swale, an’ ordinarily nosteer would ever hev run fer it. But the herd was nervous en’ wild.An’ jest as Lassiter said, when that bunch of white steers got tomovin’ they was as bad as buffalo. I’ve seen some buffalo stampedesback 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 equalto it, Miss Withersteen. I don’t believe the rider lives who could hevturned thet herd. We kept along of the herd fer miles, an’ more’none 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 ransomethin’ fierce. We left the little gullies an’ washes level-fullof dead steers. Finally I saw the herd was makin’ to pass a kind of lowpocket between ridges. There was a hog-back—as we used to call’em—a pile of rocks stickin’ up, and I saw the herd wasgoin’ 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 ’eminto the pocket. So, with all my boys except three, I rode hard to turn theherd a little to the right. We couldn’t budge ’em. They went onen’ split round the rocks, en’ the most of ’em was turnedsharp to the left by a deep wash we hedn’t seen—hed no chance tosee.

“The other three boys—Jimmy Vail, Joe Willis, an’ thet littleCairns boy—a nervy kid! they, with Cairns leadin’, tried to buckthet herd round to the pocket. It was a wild, fool idee. I couldn’t donothin’. The boys got hemmed in between the steers an’ thewash—thet they hedn’t no chance to see, either. Vail an’Willis was run down right before our eyes. An’ Cairns, who rode a finehoss, he did some ridin’. I never seen equaled, en’ would hev beatthe 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 intothe 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 that outafter, an’ as fer Vail an’ Willis—two thousand steers ranover the poor boys. There wasn’t much left to pack home fer burying!...An’, Miss Withersteen, thet all happened yesterday, en’ I believe,if the white herd didn’t run over the wall of the Pass, it’srunnin’ yet.”

On the morning of the second day after Judkins’s recital, during whichtime Jane remained indoors a prey to regret and sorrow for the boy riders, anda new and now strangely insistent fear for her own person, she again heard whatshe had missed more than she dared honestly confess—the soft, jinglingstep of Lassiter. Almost overwhelming relief surged through her, a feeling asakin to joy as any she could have been capable of in those gloomy hours ofshadow, and one that suddenly stunned her with the significance of whatLassiter had come to mean to her. She had begged him, for his own sake, toleave Cottonwoods. She might yet beg that, if her weakening courage permittedher to dare absolute loneliness and helplessness, but she realized now that ifshe 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 histall, black-garbed form filled the door, she felt an inexpressible sense ofimmediate safety. In his presence she lost her fear of the dim passageways ofWithersteen House and of every sound. Always it had been that, when he enteredthe court or the hall, she had experienced a distinctly sickening but graduallylessening shock at sight of the huge black guns swinging at his sides. Thistime the sickening shock again visited her, it was, however, because arevealing flash of thought told her that it was not alone Lassiter who wasthrillingly welcome, but also his fatal weapons. They meant so much. How shehad fallen—how broken and spiritless must she be—to have still thesame 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’ partof the trail was the hardest I ever tackled. Mebbe there’s a rustler orsomebody in this country who’s as good at trackin’ as I am. Ifthat’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 abouthis trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. Jane reflected that one hundredand twenty miles, with probably a great deal of climbing on foot, all in threedays, was enough to tire any rider. Moreover, it presently developed thatLassiter had returned in a mood of singular sadness and preoccupation. She putit down to a moodiness over the loss of her white herd and the now precariouscondition of her fortune.

Several days passed, and as nothing happened, Jane’s spirits began tobrighten. Once in her musings she thought that this tendency of hers to reboundwas as sad as it was futile. Meanwhile, she had resumed her walks through thegrove with little Fay.

One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen the slope since thebeginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a rich deep purple. There was a highwind blowing, and the sage tossed and waved and colored beautifully from lightto dark. Clouds scudded across the sky and their shadows sailed darkly down thesunny slope.

Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to the stables, and shehad scarcely entered the great open space with its corrals and sheds when shesaw Lassiter hurriedly approaching. Fay broke from her and, running to a corralfence, 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 uponwhich the stable stood.

“Jane—look!” he said, and pointed to the ground.

Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision made out splotches ofblood on the stones, and broad, smooth marks in the dust, leading out towardthe sage.

“What made these?” she asked.

“I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where there washosses 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 eyes—suddenly she could nolonger 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 hoofsof her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer.

“Where’s Blake—and—and Jerb?” she asked,haltingly.

“I don’t know where Jerb is. Bolted, most likely,” repliedLassiter, as he took her through the stone door. “But Blake—poorBlake! He’s gone forever!... Be prepared, Jane.”

With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, withfixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung andempty, and discharged shells scattered near.

Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastlywhite—dead—one hand clutching a gun and the other twisted in hisbloody blouse.

“Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers—Blakekilled some of them!” said Lassiter.

“Thieves?” whispered Jane.

“I reckon. Hoss-thieves!... Look!” Lassiter waved his hand towardthe stalls.

The first stall—Bells’s stall—was empty. All the stalls wereempty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone! BlackStar was gone!

CHAPTER XVI.
GOLD

As Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters “went through” safely,and after a toilsome journey reached the peaceful shelter of Surprise Valley.When finally he lay wearily down under the silver spruces, resting from thestrain of dragging packs and burros up the slope and through the entrance toSurprise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time went inregretting that he had not been frank with his loyal friend, Jane Withersteen.

But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more face to facewith her and had been shocked at the change in her and had heard the details ofher adversity, he had not had the heart to tell her of the closer interestwhich had entered his life. He had not lied; yet he had kept silence.

Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the outfit he had packedfrom Cottonwoods. He had certainly brought a hundred times more than he hadgone for; enough, surely, for years, perhaps to make permanent home in thevalley. He saw no reason why he need ever leave there again.

After a day of rest he recovered his strength and shared Bess’s pleasurein rummaging over the endless packs, and began to plan for the future. And inthis planning, his trip to Cottonwoods, with its revived hate of Tull andconsequent unleashing of fierce passions, soon faded out of mind. By slowerdegrees his friendship for Jane Withersteen and his contrition drifted from theactive preoccupation of his present thought to a place in memory, with more andmore infrequent recalls.

And as far as the state of his mind was concerned, upon the second day afterhis return, the valley, with its golden hues and purple shades, the speakingwest wind and the cool, silent night, and Bess’s watching eyes with theirwonderful light, so wrought upon Venters that he might never have left them atall.

That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered him upon beginning,though it in no wise checked his delight, and that in the multiplicity of tasksplanned to make a paradise out of the valley he could not choose the one withwhich to begin. He had to grow into the habit of passing from one dreamypleasure to another, like a bee going from flower to flower in the valley, andhe found this wandering habit likely to extend to his labors. Nevertheless, hemade a start.

At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable help in some waysand a very great hindrance in others. Her excitement and joy were spurs,inspirations; but she was utterly impracticable in her ideas, and she flittedfrom one plan to another with bewildering vacillation. Moreover, he fanciedthat she grew more eager, youthful, and sweet; and he marked that it was fareasier to watch her and listen to her than it was to work. Therefore he gaveher tasks that necessitated her going often to the cave where he had stored hispacks.

Upon the last of these trips, when he was some distance down the terrace andout of sight of camp, he heard a scream, and then the sharp barking of thedogs.

For an instant he straightened up, amazed. Danger for her had been absolutelyout of his mind. She had seen a rattlesnake—or a wildcat. Still she wouldnot have been likely to scream at sight of either; and the barking of the dogswas ominous. Dropping his work, he dashed back along the terrace. Upon breakingthrough a clump of aspens he saw the dark form of a man in the camp. Cold, thenhot, Venters burst into frenzied speed to reach his guns. He was cursinghimself for a thoughtless fool when the man’s tall form became familiarand he recognized Lassiter. Then the reversal of emotions changed his run to awalk; he tried to call out, but his voice refused to carry; when he reachedcamp there was Lassiter staring at the white-faced girl. By that time Ring andWhitie had recognized him.

“Hello, Venters! I’m makin’ you a visit,” saidLassiter, slowly. “An’ I’m some surprised to see you’vea—a young feller for company.”

One glance had sufficed for the keen rider to read Bess’s real sex, andfor once his cool calm had deserted him. He stared till the white ofBess’s cheeks flared into crimson. That, if it were needed, was theconcluding evidence of her femininity, for it went fittingly with hersun-tinted hair and darkened, dilated eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, and thestriking symmetry of her slender shape.

“Heavens! Lassiter!” panted Venters, when he caught his breath.“What relief—it’s only you! How—in the name of allthat’s wonderful—did you ever get here?”

“I trailed you. We—I wanted to know where you was, if you had asafe place. So I trailed you.”

“Trailed me,” cried Venters, bluntly.

“I reckon. It was some of a job after I got to them smooth rocks. I wasall day trackin’ you up to them little cut steps in the rock. The restwas easy.”

“Where’s your hoss? I hope you hid him.”

“I tied him in them queer cedars down on the slope. He can’t beseen from the valley.”

“That’s good. Well, well! I’m completely dumfounded. It wasmy idea that no man could track me in here.”

“I reckon. But if there’s a tracker in these uplands as good as mehe can find you.”

“That’s bad. That’ll worry me. But, Lassiter, nowyou’re here I’m glad to see you. And—and my companion here isnot a young fellow!... Bess, this is a friend of mine. He saved my lifeonce.”

The embarrassment of the moment did not extend to Lassiter. Almost at once hismanner, as he shook hands with Bess, relieved Venters and put the girl at ease.After Venters’s words and one quick look at Lassiter, her agitationstilled, and, though she was shy, if she were conscious of anything out of theordinary in the situation, certainly she did not show it.

“I reckon I’ll only stay a little while,” Lassiter wassaying. “An’ if you don’t mind troublin’, I’mhungry. I fetched some biscuits along, but they’re gone. Venters, thisplace is sure the wonderfullest ever seen. Them cut steps on the slope! Thatoutlet into the gorge! An’ it’s like climbin’ up through hellinto heaven to climb through that gorge into this valley! There’s aqueer-lookin’ rock at the top of the passage. I didn’t have time tostop. I’m wonderin’ how you ever found this place. It’s sureinterestin’.”

During the preparation and eating of dinner Lassiter listened mostly, as washis wont, and occasionally he spoke in his quaint and dry way. Venters noted,however, that the rider showed an increasing interest in Bess. He asked her noquestions, and only directed his attention to her while she was occupied andhad no opportunity to observe his scrutiny. It seemed to Venters that Lassitergrew more and more absorbed in his study of Bess, and that he lost his coolnessin some strange, softening sympathy. Then, quite abruptly, he arose andannounced the necessity for his early departure. He said good-by to Bess in avoice gentle and somewhat broken, and turned hurriedly away. Ventersaccompanied him, and they had traversed the terrace, climbed the weatheredslope, and passed under the stone bridge before either spoke again.

Then Lassiter put a great hand on Venters’s shoulder and wheeled him tomeet a smoldering fire of gray eyes.

“Lassiter, I couldn’t tell Jane! I couldn’t,” burst outVenters, reading his friend’s mind. “I tried. But I couldn’t.She wouldn’t understand, and she has troubles enough. And I love thegirl!”

“Venters, I reckon this beats me. I’ve seen some queer things in mytime, too. This girl—who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know! What is she, then?”

“I don’t know that, either. Oh, it’s the strangest story youever heard. I must tell you. But you’ll never believe.”

“Venters, women were always puzzles to me. But for all that, if this girlain’t a child, an’ as innocent, I’m no fit person to think ofvirtue an’ goodness in anybody. Are you goin’ to be square withher?”

“I am—so help me God!”

“I reckoned so. Mebbe my temper oughtn’t led me to make sure. But,man, she’s a woman in all but years. She’s sweeter’n thesage.”

“Lassiter, I know, I know. And the hellof it is that in spite ofher innocence and charm she’s—she’s not what sheseems!”

“I wouldn’t want to—of course, I couldn’t call you aliar, Venters,” said the older man.

“What’s more, she was Oldring’s Masked Rider!”

Venters expected to floor his friend with that statement, but he was not in anyway prepared for the shock his words gave. For an instant he was astounded tosee Lassiter stunned; then his own passionate eagerness to unbosom himself, totell the wonderful story, precluded any other thought.

“Son, tell me all about this,” presently said Lassiter as he seatedhimself on a stone and wiped his moist brow.

Thereupon Venters began his narrative at the point where he had shot therustler and Oldring’s Masked Rider, and he rushed through it, tellingall, not holding back even Bess’s unreserved avowal of her love or hisdeepest emotions.

“That’s the story,” he said, concluding. “I love her,though I’ve never told her. If I did tell her I’d be ready to marryher, and that seems impossible in this country. I’d be afraid to risktaking her anywhere. So I intend to do the best I can for her here.”

“The longer I live the stranger life is,” mused Lassiter, withdowncast eyes. “I’m reminded of somethin’ you once said toJane about hands in her game of life. There’s that unseen hand of power,an’ Tull’s black hand, an’ my red one, an’ yourindifferent one, an’ the girl’s little brown, helpless one.An’, Venters there’s another one that’s all-wise an’all-wonderful. That’sthe hand guidin’ JaneWithersteen’s game of life!... Your story’s one to daze a farclearer head than mine. I can’t offer no advice, even if you asked forit. Mebbe I can help you. Anyway, I’ll hold Oldrin’ up when hecomes to the village an’ find out about this girl. I knew the rustleryears ago. He’ll remember me.”

“Lassiter, if I ever meet Oldring I’ll kill him!” criedVenters, with sudden intensity.

“I reckon that’d be perfectly natural,” replied the rider.

“Make him think Bess is dead—as she is to him and that oldlife.”

“Sure, sure, son. Cool down now. If you’re goin’ to beginpullin’ guns on Tull an’ Oldrin’ you want to be cool. Ireckon, though, you’d better keep hid here. Well, I must beleavin’.”

“One thing, Lassiter. You’ll not tell Jane about Bess? Pleasedon’t!”

“I reckon not. But I wouldn’t be afraid to bet that aftershe’d got over anger at your secrecy—Venters, she’d befurious once in her life!—she’d think more of you. I don’tmind sayin’ for myself that I think you’re a good deal of aman.”

In the further ascent Venters halted several times with the intention of sayinggood-by, yet he changed his mind and kept on climbing till they reachedBalancing Rock. Lassiter examined the huge rock, listened to Venters’sidea of its position and suggestion, and curiously placed a strong hand uponit.

“Hold on!” cried Venters. “I heaved at it once and have nevergotten over my scare.”

“Well, you do seem uncommon nervous,” replied Lassiter, muchamused. “Now, as for me, why I always had the funniest notion to rollstones! When I was a kid I did it, an’ the bigger I got the bigger stonesI’d roll. Ain’t that funny? Honest—even now I often get offmy hoss just to tumble a big stone over a precipice, en’ watch it drop,en’ listen to it bang an’ boom. I’ve started some slides inmy time, an’ don’t you forget it. I never seen a rock I wanted toroll as bad as this one! Wouldn’t there jest be roarin’,crashin’ hell down that trail?”

“You’d close the outlet forever!” exclaimed Venters.“Well, good-by, Lassiter. Keep my secret and don’t forget me. Andbe mighty careful how you get out of the valley below. The rustlers’cañon isn’t more than three miles up the Pass. Now you’ve trackedme here, I’ll never feel safe again.”

In his descent to the valley, Venters’s emotion, roused to stirring pitchby the recital of his love story, quieted gradually, and in its place came asober, thoughtful mood. All at once he saw that he was serious, because hewould never more regain his sense of security while in the valley. WhatLassiter could do another skilful tracker might duplicate. Among the manyriders with whom Venters had ridden he recalled no one who could have taken histrail at Cottonwoods and have followed it to the edge of the bare slope in thepass, let alone up that glistening smooth stone. Lassiter, however, was not anordinary rider. Instead of hunting cattle tracks he had likely spent a goodlyportion of his life tracking men. It was not improbable that amongOldring’s rustlers there was one who shared Lassiter’s gift fortrailing. And the more Venters dwelt on this possibility the more perturbed hegrew.

Lassiter’s visit, moreover, had a disquieting effect upon Bess, andVenters fancied that she entertained the same thought as to future seclusion.The breaking of their solitude, though by a well-meaning friend, had not onlydispelled all its dream and much of its charm, but had instilled a canker offear. Both had seen the footprint in the sand.

Venters did no more work that day. Sunset and twilight gave way to night, andthe cañon bird whistled its melancholy notes, and the wind sang softly in thecliffs, and the camp-fire blazed and burned down to red embers. To Venters asubtle difference was apparent in all of these, or else the shadowy change hadbeen in him. He hoped that on the morrow this slight depression would havepassed away.

In that measure, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Furthermore, Bessreverted to a wistful sadness that he had not observed in her since herrecovery. His attempt to cheer her out of it resulted in dismal failure, andconsequently in a darkening of his own mood. Hard work relieved him; still,when the day had passed, his unrest returned. Then he set to deliberatethinking, and there came to him the startling conviction that he must leaveSurprise Valley and take Bess with him. As a rider he had taken many chances,and as an adventurer in Deception Pass he had unhesitatingly risked his life,but now he would run no preventable hazard of Bess’s safety andhappiness, and he was too keen not to see that hazard. It gave him a pang tothink of leaving the beautiful valley just when he had the means to establish apermanent and delightful home there. One flashing thought tore in hottemptation through his mind—why not climb up into the gorge, rollBalancing Rock down the trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass?“That was the beast in me—showing his teeth!” mutteredVenters, scornfully. “I’ll just kill him good and quick! I’llbe fair to this girl, if it’s the last thing I do on earth!”

Another day went by, in which he worked less and pondered more and all the timecovertly watched Bess. Her wistfulness had deepened into downright unhappiness,and that made his task to tell her all the harder. He kept the secret anotherday, hoping by some chance she might grow less moody, and to his exceedinganxiety she fell into far deeper gloom. Out of his own secret and the tormentof it he divined that she, too, had a secret and the keeping of it wastorturing her. As yet he had no plan thought out in regard to how or when toleave the valley, but he decided to tell her the necessity of it and topersuade her to go. Furthermore, he hoped his speaking out would induce her tounburden her own mind.

“Bess, what’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she answered, with averted face.

Venters took hold of her gently, though masterfully, forced her to meet hiseyes.

“You can’t look at me and lie,” he said.“Now—what’s wrong with you? You’re keeping somethingfrom me. Well, I’ve got a secret, too, and I intend to tell itpresently.”

“Oh—I havea secret. I was crazy to tell you when you cameback. That’s why I was so silly about everything. I kept holding mysecret back—gloating over it. But when Lassiter came I got anidea—that changed my mind. Then I hated to tell you.”

“Are you going to now?”

“Yes—yes. I was coming to it. I tried yesterday, but you were socold. I was afraid. I couldn’t keep it much longer.”

“Very well, most mysterious lady, tell your wonderful secret.”

“You needn’t laugh,” she retorted, with a first glimpse ofreviving spirit. “I can take the laugh out of you in one second.”

“It’s a go.”

She ran through the spruces to the cave, and returned carrying something whichwas manifestly heavy. Upon nearer view he saw that whatever she held with suchevident importance had been bound up in a black scarf he well remembered. Thatalone was sufficient to make him tingle with curiosity.

“Have you any idea what I did in your absence?” she asked.

“I imagine you lounged about, waiting and watching for me,” hereplied, smiling. “I’ve my share of conceit, you know.”

“You’re wrong. I worked. Look at my hands.” She dropped onher knees close to where he sat, and, carefully depositing the black bundle,she held out her hands. The palms and inside of her fingers were white,puckered, and worn.

“Why, Bess, you’ve been fooling in the water,” he said.

“Fooling? Look here!” With deft fingers she spread open the blackscarf, and the bright sun shone upon a dull, glittering heap of gold.

“Gold!” he ejaculated.

“Yes, gold! See, pounds of gold! I found it—washed it out of thestream—picked it out grain by grain, nugget by nugget!”

“Gold!” he cried.

“Yes. Now—now laugh at my secret!”

For a long minute Venters gazed. Then he stretched forth a hand to feel if thegold was real.

“Gold!” he almost shouted. “Bess, there arehundreds—thousands of dollars’ worth here!”

He leaned over to her, and put his hand, strong and clenching now, on hers.

“Is there more where this came from?” he whispered.

“Plenty of it, all the way up the stream to the cliff. You knowI’ve often washed for gold. Then I’ve heard the men talk. I thinkthere’s no great quantity of gold here, but enough for—for afortune for you.”

“That—was—your—secret!”

“Yes. I hate gold. For it makes men mad. I’ve seen them drunk withjoy and dance and fling themselves around. I’ve seen them curse and rave.I’ve seen them fight like dogs and roll in the dust. I’ve seen themkill each other for gold.”

“Is that why you hated to tell me?”

“Not—not altogether.” Bess lowered her head. “It wasbecause I knew you’d never stay here long after you found gold.”

“You were afraid I’d leave you?”

“Yes.”

“Listen!... You great, simple child! Listen... You sweet, wonderful,wild, blue-eyed girl! I was tortured by my secret. It was that I knewwe—wemust leave the valley. We can’t stay here much longer.I couldn’t think how we’d get away—out of thecountry—or how we’d live, if we ever got out. I’m a beggar.That’s why I kept my secret. I’m poor. It takes money to make waybeyond Sterling. We couldn’t ride horses or burros or walk forever. Sowhile I knew we must go, I was distracted over how to go and what to do.Now!We’ve gold! Once beyond Sterling, we’ll be safe fromrustlers. We’ve no others to fear.

“Oh! Listen! Bess!” Venters now heard his voice ringing high andsweet, and he felt Bess’s cold hands in his crushing grasp as she leanedtoward him pale, breathless. “This is how much I’d leave you! Youmade me live again! I’ll take you away—far away from this wildcountry. You’ll begin a new life. You’ll be happy. You shall seecities, ships, people. You shall have anything your heart craves. All the shameand sorrow of your life shall be forgotten—as if they had never been.This is how much I’d leave you here alone—you sad-eyed girl. I loveyou! Didn’t you know it? How could you fail to know it? I love you!I’m free! I’m a man—a man you’ve made—no more abeggar!... Kiss me! This is how much I’d leave you here alone—youbeautiful, strange, unhappy girl. But I’ll make you happy.What—what do I care for—your past! I love you! I’ll take youhome to Illinois—to my mother. Then I’ll take you to far places.I’ll make up all you’ve lost. Oh, I know you love me—knew itbefore you told me. And it changed my life. And you’ll go with me, not asmy companion as you are here, nor my sister, but, Bess, darling!... As mywife!”

CHAPTER XVII.
WRANGLE’S RACE RUN

The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to go to thevillage, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for Bess, or at least lessstriking apparel than her present garb, and to return post-haste to the valley.Meanwhile, she would add to their store of gold. Then they would strike thelong and perilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the event of his inability tofetch back a horse for her, they intended to make the giant sorrel carrydouble. The gold, a little food, saddle blankets, and Venters’s guns wereto compose the light outfit with which they would make the start.

“I love this beautiful place,” said Bess. “It’s hard tothink of leaving it.”

“Hard! Well, I should think so,” replied Venters.“Maybe—in years—” But he did not complete in words histhought that might be possible to return after many years of absence andchange.

Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of Balancing Rock, andthis time it was with whispered hope and tenderness and passionate trust. Longafter he had left her, all down through the outlet to the Pass, the clingingclasp of her arms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new andexquisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly and thrillingly in hismind. The girl who had sadly called herself nameless and nothing had beenmarvelously transformed in the moment of his avowal of love. It was somethingto think over, something to warm his heart, but for the present it hadabsolutely to be forgotten so that all his mind could be addressed to the tripso fraught with danger.

He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of bread and meat,and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progress down the slope and out intothe valley. Darkness was coming on, and he welcomed it. Stars were blinkingwhen he reached his old hiding-place in the split of cañon wall, and by theiraid he slipped through the dense thickets to the grassy enclosure. Wranglestood in the center of it with his head up, and he appeared black and ofgigantic proportions in the dim light. Venters whistled softly, began a slowapproach, and then called. The horse snorted and, plunging away with dull,heavy sound of hoofs, he disappeared in the gloom. “Wilder thanever!” muttered Venters. He followed the sorrel into the narrowing splitbetween the walls, and presently had to desist because he could not see a footin advance. As he went back toward the open Wrangle jumped out of an ebonyshadow of cliff and like a thunderbolt shot huge and black past him down intothe starlit glade. Deciding that all attempts to catch Wrangle at night wouldbe useless, Venters repaired to the shelving rock where he had hidden saddleand blanket, and there went to sleep.

The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was light enough todistinguish objects, he took his lasso off his saddle and went out to rope thesorrel. He espied Wrangle at the lower end of the cove and approached him in aperfectly natural manner. When he got near enough, Wrangle evidently recognizedhim, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on into the narrow lanebetween the walls. This favored Venters’s speedy capture of the horse,so, coiling his noose ready to throw, he hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get towithin a hundred feet and then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly gettinginto his stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He had time tobrace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw him and dragged himseveral yards before halting.

“You wild devil,” said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle up.“Don’t you know me? Come now—oldfellow—so—so—”

Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters’s strong hand. He was asstraggly and wild-looking as a horse left to roam free in the sage. He droppedhis long ears and stood readily to be saddled and bridled. But he wasexceedingly sensitive, and quivered at every touch and sound. Venters led himto the thicket, and, bending the close saplings to let him squeeze through, atlength reached the open. Sharp survey in each direction assured him of theusual lonely nature of the cañon, then he was in the saddle, riding south.

Wrangle’s long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer. His stridewas almost twice that of an ordinary horse; and his endurance was equallyremarkable. Venters pulled him in occasionally, and walked him up the stretchesof rising ground and along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown anyindication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless, there was nowreason to save the horse, therefore Venters did not resort to the hurry thathad characterized his former trip. He camped at the last water in the Pass.What distance that was to Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however,that it was in the neighborhood of fifty miles.

Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the middle of theforenoon reached the constricted gap that marked the southerly end of the Pass,and through which led the trail up to the sage-level. He spied outLassiter’s tracks in the dust, but no others, and dismounting, hestraightened out Wrangle’s bridle and began to lead him up the trail. Theshort climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the levelabove, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of slope.

Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage. Remounting, Ventersheaded up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face. He had proceededfor perhaps a couple of miles when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threwVenters heavily against the pommel.

“What’s wrong, old boy?” called Venters, looking down for aloose shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded, heraised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head high, with his longears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out adust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope. If they had seenhim, it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction.

“Wonder who they are!” exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed torun. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he reflected that,whoever the approaching riders were, they could not be friends. He slipped outof the saddle and led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve toconceal them until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were;after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered him.

After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in working order, hewatched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitter fierceness, longdormant, gathered ready to flame into life. If those riders were not rustlershe had forgotten how rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, socompact and dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual that theirhorses did not see Wrangle! But such failure, Venters decided, was owing to thespeed with which they were traveling. They moved at a swift canter affectedmore by rustlers than by riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibilitythat these horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance totell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yards he deliberatelyled Wrangle out into the trail.

Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and saw horses rearand plunge back with up-flung heads and flying manes. Several little whitepuffs of smoke appeared sharply against the black background of riders andhorses, and shots rang out. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whippedup the dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great forrevolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to check advance,they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in Venters. Slipping his armthrough the bridle, so that Wrangle could not get away, Venters lifted hisrifle and pulled the trigger twice.

He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another lurch in hissaddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle, plunging in fright, liftedVenters and nearly threw him. He jerked the horse down with a powerful hand andleaped into the saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, thatVenters had not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swift movement,he secured it and dropped the loop over the pommel. Then, with grinding teeth,he looked to see what the issue would be.

The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark for bullets. Theriders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns. He heard a sharper report,and just as Wrangle plunged again he caught the whizz of a leaden missile thatwould have hit him but for Wrangle’s sudden jump. A swift, hot wave,turning cold, passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out the one riderwith a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted shrilly and bolted into thesage. Venters let him run a few rods, then with iron arm checked him.

just as Wrangle plunged again he caught the whizz of a leaden missile

Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the saddle to securehis fallen comrade’s carbine. A shot from Venters, which missed the manbut sent the dust flying over him made him run back to his horse. Then theyseparated. The crippled rider went one way; the one frustrated in his attemptto get the carbine rode another, Venters thought he made out a third rider,carrying a strange-appearing bundle and disappearing in the sage. But in therapidity of action and vision he could not discern what it was. Two riders withthree horses swung out to the right. Afraid of the long rifle—aburdensome weapon seldom carried by rustlers or riders—they had been putto rout.

Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted was riding JaneWithersteen’s horse Bells—the beautiful bay racer she had given toLassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry. Then the small, wiry, frog-likeshape of the second rider, and the ease and grace of his seat in thesaddle—things so strikingly incongruous—grew more and more familiarin Venters’s sight.

“Jerry Card!” cried Venters.

It was indeed Tull’s right-hand man. Such a white hot wrath inflamedVenters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze.

“It’s Jerry Card!” he exclaimed, instantly. “Andhe’s riding Black Star and leading Night!”

The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters’s heart burst into flame. Hespurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride Venters slippedcartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it was once again full. Card andhis companion were now half a mile or more in advance, riding easily down theslope. Venters marked the smooth gait, and understood it when Wrangle gallopedout of the sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had oncetracked Jane Withersteen’s red herd. This hard-packed trail, from yearsof use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters saw Jerry Card look backover his shoulder, the other rider did likewise. Then the three racerslengthened their stride to the point where the swinging canter was ready tobreak into a gallop.

“Wrangle, the race’s on,” said Venters, grimly.“We’ll canter with them and gallop with them and run with them.We’ll let them set the pace.”

Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless horse everridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling Jane Withersteen’sdevoted assurance that Night could run neck and neck with Wrangle, and BlackStar could show his heels to him, Venters wished that Jane were there to seethe race to recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the giantsorrel. Then Venters found himself thankful that she was absent, for he meantthat race to end in Jerry Card’s death. The first flush, the raging ofVenters’s wrath, passed, to leave him in sullen, almost cold possessionof his will. It was a deadly mood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered,fostered, and released by the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. Thestrength in him then—the thing rife in him that was not hate, butsomething as remorseless—might have been the fiery fruition of a wholelifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped him.

Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells would probably dropbehind and take to the sage. What he did was of little moment to Venters. Tostop Jerry Card, his evil hidden career as well as his present flight, and thento catch the blacks—that was all that concerned Venters. The cattle trailwound for miles and miles down the slope. Venters saw with a rider’s keenvision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear purple sage. There were no on-comingriders or rustlers to aid Card. His only chance to escape lay in abandoning thestolen horses and creeping away in the sage to hide. In ten miles Wrangle couldrun Black Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could kill themoutright. So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card make the running. It wasa long race that would save the blacks.

In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept appreciably closer tothe three horses. Jerry Card turned again, and when he saw how the sorrel hadgained, he put Black Star to a gallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him,swept into his stride.

Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into a gallop. Thesorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. But Venters restrained him. Andin the gallop he gained more than in the canter. Bells was fast in that gait,but Black Star and Night had been trained to run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gapdown to a quarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer.

Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the red flash of his redface. This time he looked long. Venters laughed. He knew what passed inCard’s mind. The rider was trying to make out what horse it happened tobe that thus gained on Jane Withersteen’s peerless racers. Wrangle had solong been away from the village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten.Besides, whatever Jerry’s qualifications for his fame as the greatestrider of the sage, certain it was that his best point was not far-sightedness.He had not recognized Wrangle. After what must have been a searching gaze hegot his comrade to face about. This action gave Venters amusement. It spoke sosurely of the facts that neither Card nor the rustler actually knew theirdanger. Yet if they kept to the trail—and the last thing such men woulddo would be to leave it—they were both doomed.

This comrade of Card’s whirled far around in his saddle, and he evenshaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then, all at once, he facedahead again and, bending lower in the saddle, began to fling his right arm upand down. That flinging Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry alsobecame active. And the three racers lengthened out into a run.

“Now, Wrangle!” cried Venters. “Run, you big devil!Run!”

Venters laid the reins on Wrangle’s neck and dropped the loop over thepommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth trail. He was surer-footedin a run than at any other fast gait, and his running gave the impression ofsomething devilish. He might now have been actuated by Venters’s spirit;undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of his rider. Venters bentforward swinging with the horse, and gripped his rifle. His eye measured thedistance between him and Jerry Card.

In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the blacks, andWrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated that the rustler would soontake to the sage. Yet he did not. Not improbably he reasoned that the powerfulsorrel could more easily overtake Bells in the heavier going outside of thetrail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay between Bells and Wrangle. Turning inhis saddle, the rustler began to shoot, and the bullets beat up little whiffsof dust. Venters raised his rifle, ready to take snap shots, and waited forfavorable opportunity when Bells was out of line with the forward horses.Venters had it in him to kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes,but also he had restraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane’sbeloved Arabians.

No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to the left, outof line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters, aiming high and waiting forthe pause between Wrangle’s great strides, began to take snap shots atthe rustler. The fleeing rider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he wasmoving swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting fromWrangle’s back was shooting from a thunderbolt. And added to that was thedanger of a low-placed bullet taking effect on Bells. Yet, despite theseconsiderations, making the shot exceedingly difficult, Venters’sconfidence, like his implacability, saw a speedy and fatal termination of thatrustler’s race. On the sixth shot the rustler threw up his arms and tooka flying tumble off his horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself to ahalf-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the sage. As Venterswent thundering by he peered keenly into the sage, but caught no sign of theman. Bells ran a few hundred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wranglepassed him.

Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine of his rifle,and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not drop a single cartridge.With the eye of a rider and the judgment of a marksman he once more measuredthe distance between him and Jerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing him intorifle range. Venters was hard put to it now not to shoot, but thought it betterto withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of a running fusillade, hadhuddled himself into a little twisted ball on Black Star’s neck, nowsurmising that this pursuer would make sure of not wounding one of the blacks,rose to his natural seat in the saddle.

In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters’s, this moment was thebeginning of the real race.

Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle’s neck, then backwardto put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled and vibrated andrippled a wonderful muscular activity. But Wrangle’s flesh was stillcold. What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt in him a love for thehorse he had never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possiblefor any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a passion to save aloved one or fear of his own life, to be astride the sorrel to swing with hisswing, to see his magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs,to ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.

So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters lived out thatride, and drank a rider’s sage-sweet cup of wildness to the dregs.

When Wrangle’s long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in thecheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a downward glance totry to see Wrangle’s actual stride, and saw only twinkling, dartingstreaks and the white rush of the trail. He watched the sorrel’s savagehead, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but his nostrils distendedas if he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race withdeath. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing, colorlesswall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple breadth split by thewhite trail. The wind, blowing with heavy, steady blast into his face, sickenedhim with enduring, sweet odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.

Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space separating him fromJerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The blacks were proving theirfleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider’shorsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born in thesaddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, or the positionof the horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had beenleading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racer was now on theside to the left. No—it was Black Star. But, Venters argued in amaze,Jerry had been mounted on Black Star. Another clearer, keener gaze assuredVenters that Black Star was really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.

“He’s changed from one to the other!” ejaculated Venters,realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. “Changed at fullspeed! Jerry Card, that’s what you’ve done unless I’m drunkon the smell of sage. But I’ve got to see the trick before I believeit.”

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the little rider.Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daring horsemen of theuplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out the greatness of theblacks in that long race. He had them on a dead run, but not yet at the laststrained and killing pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wisegeneral in retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of pursuers,and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt, Card, with his life atstake, gloried in that race, perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had beenborn to the sage and the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Notuntil the last call—the sudden up-flashing instinct ofself-preservation—would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and thespirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry’s mind. That littlecrime-stained rider was actually thinking of his horses, husbanding theirspeed, handling them with knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful,swift, racing stride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hungsuspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sunflashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and closer towardNight, till they ran side by side, as one horse. Then Card raised himself inthe saddle, slipped out of the stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leapedupon Black Star. He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech hewas there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right foot,that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to catch the stirrup. Thegrace and dexterity and daring of that rider’s act won something morethan admiration from Venters.

For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed back toNight. But all Jerry’s skill and the running of the blacks could availlittle more against the sorrel.

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

Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle’s flanks. A light touch of spurwas sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a ringing, wild snort, heseemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shoot forward with animpetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashedby, and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once more.And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make his last desperaterunning. Venters aimed to the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing thedust beyond Jerry. Venters hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take tothe sage. But Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close inthe dust at Wrangle’s flying feet. Venters held his fire then, while therider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behindand 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 togain rapidly on the other black.

Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and Wrangle. The giantsorrel 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 hotas fire. Savage as ever, strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendousstride jarred Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle’s power and spirit andmomentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle’s great race wasnearly won—and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before him as avast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black Star moved in it as ablur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wranglethundered on—on—on! Venters felt the increase in quivering,straining shock after every leap. Flecks of foam flew into Venters’seyes, burning him, making him see all the sage as red. But in that red haze hesaw, or seemed to see, Black Star suddenly riderless and with broken gait.Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break. Then Venterspulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot towalk, and walk to stop, the great sorrel ended his race.

Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. Jerry Card hadtaken 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 hadrecovered sufficiently to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off thesaddle and bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But hehad 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 intothe sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him Venters removed the saddleand bridle. Black Star had been killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had nohope for the stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth,mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful body inconvulsions.

Unable to stay there to see Jane’s favorite racer die, Venters hurried upthe trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookout for JerryCard. 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 wouldlinger in the vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Nightsoon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him down near theothers, and unsaddling him, let him loose to rest. Night wearily lay down inthe dust and rolled, proving himself not yet spent.

Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he was compelled tostay where he was, or comparatively near, for the night. The horses must restand drink. He must find water. He was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and,he believed, close to the cañon where the cattle trail must surely turn offand go down into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.

He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep cañon into which the trailturned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes, and these slopedinto the cañon. Following the cañon line, he saw where its rim was broken byother intersecting cañons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffsleading toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass. Walkingout a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail went down. The descentwas gradual, along a stone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this wasthe place where Oldring drove cattle into the Pass. There was, however, noindication at all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring hadmany holes to his burrow.

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his relief, foundwater. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat, while he waitedfor a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safely give the horses adrink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to restand Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended to make nomove. The longer they rested the better, and the safer it would be to give themwater. 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 whollyrecovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters wasoverjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presently labored tohis 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 gavethe racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but adrop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more. Venters now ledNight down to drink, and after a further time Black Star also. Then the blacksbegan to graze.

The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and the cañon.Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Venters concludedWrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he went to fetch himback. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw where the horse had mademuddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk hisfill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything but easy tocatch. 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 assimply perverse. In a quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hopingmuch, yet doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he mightbe caught.

As the afternoon wore away Venters’s concern diminished, yet he keptclose watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was no telling ofwhat Jerry Card might be capable. Venters sullenly acquiesced to the idea thatthe 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;and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened. The rims of the cañonsgleamed crimson and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silenceenfolded the scene.

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

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His head was highand twisted, in a most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Ventersdescried 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 hisstrange position and the sorrel’s wild scream that shook Venters’snerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went down. Heplunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his leaps took him to thevery edge of the precipice.

Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of Wrangle’snose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a memory of this trick of afew desperate riders. He even thought of one rider who had worn off his teethin this terrible hold to break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeedgone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more thanhalf-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in afew more rods Jerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading downinto the cañon.

“No—Jerry!” whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwingup the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over thesights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shot once...twice... the third time... four times... five! All wasted shots and preciousseconds!

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and pulledthe trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horriblestrangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, and with one last splendidleap he cleared the cañon rim. And he whirled downward with the littlefrog-like shape clinging to his neck!

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant’ssilence.

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away indistant echo, then silence unbroken.

Wrangle’s race was run.

CHAPTER XVIII.
OLDRING’S KNELL

Some forty hours or more later Venters created a commotion in Cottonwoods byriding down the main street on Black Star and leading Bells and Night. He hadcome upon Bells grazing near the body of a dead rustler, the only incident ofhis quick ride into the village.

Nothing was farther from Venters’s mind than bravado. No thought came tohim of the defiance and boldness of riding Jane Withersteen’s racersstraight into the arch-plotter’s stronghold. He wanted men to see thefamous Arabians; he wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing all thesigns of having been driven to their limit; he wanted men to see and to knowthat the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage had not ridden themback. Venters had come for that and for more—he wanted to meet Tull faceto face; if not Tull, then Dyer; if not Dyer, then anyone in the secret ofthese master conspirators. Such was Venters’s passion. The meeting withthe rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, the spilling of blood, therecognition of Jerry Card and the horses, the race, and that last plunge of madWrangle—all these things, fuel on fuel to the smoldering fire, hadkindled and swelled and leaped into living flame. He could have shot Dyer inthe midst of his religious services at the altar; he could have killed Tull infront of wives and babes.

He walked the three racers down the broad, green-bordered village road. Heheard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring. Bitter waters for JaneWithersteen! 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 readin the faces of men the intelligence that Jane Withersteen’s Arabians hadbeen known to have been stolen. Venters reined in and halted beforeDyer’s residence. It was a low, long, stone structure resemblingWithersteen House. The spacious front yard was green and luxuriant with grassand flowers; gravel walks led to the huge porch; a well-trimmed hedge of purplesage separated the yard from the church grounds; birds sang in the trees; waterflowed musically along the walks; and there were glad, careless shouts ofchildren. For Venters the beauty of this home, and the serenity and itsapparent happiness, all turned red and black. For Venters a shade overspreadthe lawn, the flowers, the old vine-clad stone house. In the music of thesinging birds, in the murmur of the running water, he heard an ominous sound.Quiet beauty—sweet music—innocent laughter! By what monstrousabortion of fate did these abide in the shadow of Dyer?

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

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

Venters’s glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced men. Herecognized many riders and villagers, but none of those he had hoped to meet.There was no expression in the faces turned toward him. All of them knew him,most were inimical, but there were few who were not burning with curiosity andwonder in regard to the return of Jane Withersteen’s racers. Yet all weresilent. Here were the familiar characteristics—maskedfeeling—strange secretiveness—expressionless expression of mysteryand hidden power.

“Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?” queried Venters, in a loudvoice.

In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, not so much asdropping eye or twitching lip—nothing but a quiet, stony stare.

“Been under the knife? You’ve a fine knife-wielder here—oneTull, I believe!... Maybe you’ve all had your tongues cut out?”

This passionate sarcasm of Venters brought no response, and the stony calm wasas oil on the fire within him.

“I see some of you pack guns, too!” he added, in biting scorn. Inthe long, tense pause, strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat motionless onBlack Star. “All right,” he went on. “Then let some of youtake this message to Tull. Tell him I’ve seen Jerry Card! ... Tell himJerry Card will never return!”

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

“Hello, Venters!” a familiar voice cried, hoarsely, and he saw aman running toward him. It was the rider Judkins who came up and grippedVenters’s hand. “Venters, I could hev dropped when I seen themhosses. But thet sight ain’t a marker to the looks of you. What’swrong? Hev you gone crazy? You must be crazy to ride in here thisway—with them hosses—talkie’ thet way about Tull en’Jerry Card.”

“Jud, I’m not crazy—only mad clean through,” repliedVenters.

“Wal, now, Bern, I’m glad to hear some of your old self in yourvoice. Fer when you come up you looked like the corpse of a dead rider withfire fer eyes. You hed thet crowd too stiff fer throwin’ guns. Come,we’ve got to hev a talk. Let’s go up the lane. We ain’t muchsafe here.”

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

“Let’s hear from you first,” said Judkins. “You fetchedback them hosses. Thet isthe trick. An’, of course, you got Jerrythe same as you got Horne.”

“Horne!”

“Sure. He was found dead yesterday all chewed by coyotes, en’he’d been shot plumb center.”

“Where was he found?”

“At the split down the trail—you know where Oldring’s cattletrail runs off north from the trail to the pass.”

“That’s where I met Jerry and the rustlers. What was Horne doingwith them? I thought Horne was an honest cattle-man.”

“Lord—Bern, don’t ask me thet! I’m all muddled nowtryin’ to figure things.”

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

“I knowed it! I knowed all along that Wrangle was the best hoss!”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 cliffwith Jerry. An’ thet was good-by to the grandest hoss an’ riderever on the sage!... But, Bern, after you got the hosses why’d you wantto bolt right in Tull’s face?”

“I want him to know. An’ if I can get to himI’ll—”

“You can’t get near Tull,” interrupted Judkins. “Thetvigilante bunch hev taken to bein’ bodyguard for Tull an’ Dyer,too.”

“Hasn’t Lassiter made a break yet?” inquired Venters,curiously.

“Naw!” replied Judkins, scornfully. “Jane turned his head.He’s mad in love over her—follers her like a dog. He ain’t nomore Lassiter! He’s lost his nerve, he doesn’t look like the samefeller. It’s village talk. Everybody knows it. He hasn’t thrown agun, an’ he won’t!”

“Jud, I’ll bet he does,” replied Venters, earnestly.“Remember what I say. This Lassiter is something more than a gun-man.Jud, he’s big—he’s great!... I feel that in him. God helpTull and Dyer when Lassiter does go after them. For horses and riders and stonewalls won’t save them.”

“Wal, hev it your way, Bern. I hope you’re right. Nat’rullyI’ve been some sore on Lassiter fer gittin’ soft. But I ain’tdenyin’ his nerve, or whatever’s great in him thet sort ofparalyzes people. No later ’n this mornin’ I seen himsaunterin’ down the lane, quiet an’ slow. An’ like his gunshe comes black—black, thet’s Lassiter. Wal, the crowd on thecorner never batted an eye, en’ I’ll gamble my hoss thet therewasn’t one who hed a heartbeat till Lassiter got by. He went inSnell’s saloon, an’ as there wasn’t no gun play I had to goin, too. An’ there, darn my pictures, if Lassiter wasn’tstandin’ to the bar, drinking en’ talkin’ withOldrin’.”

“Oldring!” whispered Venters. His voice, as all fire andpulse within him, seemed to freeze.

“Let go my arm!” exclaimed Judkins. “Thet’s my bad arm.Sure it was Oldrin’. What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway?Venters, I tell you somethin’s wrong. You’re whiter ’n asheet. You can’t be scaredof the rustler. I don’t believeyou’ve got a scare in you. Wal, now, jest let me talk. You know I like totalk, an’ if I’m slow I allus git there sometime. As I said,Lassiter was talkie’ chummy with Oldrin’. There wasn’t nohard feelin’s. An’ the gang wasn’t payin’ nopertic’lar attention. But like a cat watchin’ a mouse I hed my eyeson them two fellers. It was strange to me, thet confab. I’m gittin’to think a lot, fer a feller who doesn’t know much. There’s beensome queer deals lately an’ this seemed to me the queerest. These menstood to the bar alone, an’ so close their big gun-hilts butted together.I seen Oldrin’ was some surprised at first, an’ Lassiter was coolas ice. They talked, an’ presently at somethin’ Lassiter said therustler bawled out a curse, an’ then he jest fell up against the bar,an’ sagged there. The gang in the saloon looked around an’ laughed,an’ thet’s about all. Finally Oldrin’ turned, and it was easyto see somethin’ hed shook him. Yes, sir, thet big rustler—you knowhe’s as broad as he is long, an’ the powerfulest build of aman—yes, sir, the nerve had been taken out of him. Then, after a little,he began to talk an’ said a lot to Lassiter, an’ by an’ by itdidn’t take much of an eye to see thet Lassiter was gittin’ hithard. I never seen him anyway but cooler ’n ice—till then. Heseemed to be hit harder ’n Oldrin’, only he didn’t roar outthet way. He jest kind of sunk in, an’ looked an’ looked, an’he didn’t see a livin’ soul in thet saloon. Then he sort of cometo, an’ shakin’ hands—mind you, shakin’ handswith Oldrin’—he went out. I couldn’t help thinkin’ howeasy even a boy could hev dropped the great gun-man then!... Wal, the rustlerstood at the bar fer a long time, en’ he was seein’ things far off,too; then he come to an’ roared fer whisky, an’ gulped a drink thetwas big enough to drown me.”

“Is Oldring here now?” whispered Venters. He could not speak abovea whisper. Judkins’s story had been meaningless to him.

“He’s at Snell’s yet. Bern, I hevn’t told you yet thetthe rustlers hev been raisin’ hell. They shot up Stone Bridge an’Glaze, an’ fer three days they’ve been here drinkin’an’ gamblin’ an’ throwin’ of gold. These rustlers hev apile of gold. If it was gold dust or nugget gold I’d hev reason to think,but it’s new coin gold, as if it had jest come from the United Statestreasury. An’ the coin’s genuine. Thet’s all been proved. Thetruth is Oldrin’s on a rampage. A while back he lost his Masked Rider,an’ they say he’s wild about thet. I’m wonderin’ ifLassiter could hev told the rustler anythin’ about thet little masked,hard-ridin’ devil. Ride! He was most as good as Jerry Card. An’,Bern, I’ve been wonderin’ if you know—”

“Judkins, you’re a good fellow,” interrupted Venters.“Some day I’ll tell you a story. I’ve no time now. Take thehorses to Jane.”

Judkins stared, and then, muttering to himself, he mounted Bells, and staredagain at Venters, and then, leading the other horses, he rode into the groveand disappeared.

Once, long before, on the night Venters had carried Bess through the cañon andup into Surprise Valley, he had experienced the strangeness of facultiessingularly, tinglingly acute. And now the same sensation recurred. But it wasdifferent in that he felt cold, frozen, mechanical incapable of free thought,and all about him seemed unreal, aloof, remote. He hid his rifle in the sage,marking its exact location with extreme care. Then he faced down the lane andstrode toward the center of the village. Perceptions flashed upon him, thefaint, cold touch of the breeze, a cold, silvery tinkle of flowing water, acold sun shining out of a cold sky, song of birds and laugh of children, coldlydistant. Cold and intangible were all things in earth and heaven. Colder andtighter stretched the skin over his face; colder and harder grew the polishedbutts of his guns; colder and steadier became his hands as he wiped the clammysweat from his face or reached low to his gun-sheaths. Men meeting him in thewalk gave him wide berth. In front of Bevin’s store a crowd melted apartfor his passage, and their faces and whispers were faces and whispers of adream. He turned a corner to meet Tull face to face, eye to eye. As once beforehe had seen this man pale to a ghastly, livid white so again he saw the change.Tull stopped in his tracks, with right hand raised and shaking. Suddenly itdropped, and he seemed to glide aside, to pass out of Venters’s sight.Next he saw many horses with bridles down—all clean-limbed, dark bays orblacks—rustlers’ horses! Loud voices and boisterous laughter,rattle of dice and scrape of chair and clink of gold, burst in mingled din froman open doorway. He stepped inside.

With the sight of smoke-hazed room and drinking, cursing, gambling,dark-visaged men, reality once more dawned upon Venters.

His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon the drinkers at thebar. Dark-clothed, dark-faced men they all were, burned by the sun, bow-leggedas were most riders of the sage, but neither lean nor gaunt. ThenVenters’s gaze passed to the tables, and swiftly it swept over thehard-featured gamesters, to alight upon the huge, shaggy, black head of therustler chief.

“Oldring!” he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split abell in his ears.

It stilled the din.

That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Oldring’s chair ashe rose; and then, while he passed, a great gloomy figure, again the throngedroom stilled in silence yet deeper.

“Oldring, a word with you!” continued Venters.

“Ho! What’s this?” boomed Oldring, in frowning scrutiny.

“Come outside, alone. A word for you—from your MaskedRider!”

Oldring kicked a chair out of his way and lunged forward with a stamp of heavyboot that jarred the floor. He waved down his muttering, rising men.

Venters backed out of the door and waited, hearing, as no sound had ever beforestruck into his soul, the rapid, heavy steps of the rustler.

Oldring appeared, and Venters had one glimpse of his great breadth and bulk,his gold-buckled belt with hanging guns, his high-top boots with gold spurs. Inthat moment Venters had a strange, unintelligible curiosity to see Oldringalive. The rustler’s broad brow, his large black eyes, his sweepingbeard, as dark as the wing of a raven, his enormous width of shoulder and depthof chest, his whole splendid presence so wonderfully charged with vitality andforce and strength, seemed to afford Venters an unutterable fiendish joybecause for that magnificent manhood and life he meant cold and sudden death.

“Oldring, Bess is alive! But she’s dead to you—dead to thelife you made her lead—dead as you will be in one second!”

Swift as lightning Venters’s glance dropped from Oldring’s rollingeyes to his hands. One of them, the right, swept out, then toward hisgun—and Venters shot him through the heart.

and Venters shot him through the heart

Slowly Oldring sank to his knees, and the hand, dragging at the gun, fell away.Venters’s strangely acute faculties grasped the meaning of that limp arm,of the swaying hulk, of the gasp and heave, of the quivering beard. But wasthat awful spirit in the black eyes only one of vitality?

“Man—why—didn’t—you—wait?Bess—was—” Oldring’s whisper died under his beard,and with a heavy lurch he fell forward.

Bounding swiftly away, Venters fled around the corner, across the street, and,leaping a hedge, he ran through yard, orchard, and garden to the sage. Here,under cover of the tall brush, he turned west and ran on to the place where hehad hidden his rifle. Securing that, he again set out into a run, and, circlingthrough the sage, came up behind Jane Withersteen’s stable and corrals.With laboring, dripping chest, and pain as of a knife thrust in his side, hestopped to regain his breath, and while resting his eyes roved around in searchof a horse. Doors and windows of the stable were open wide and had a desertedlook. One dejected, lonely burro stood in the near corral. Strange indeed wasthe silence brooding over the once happy, noisy home of JaneWithersteen’s pets.

He went into the corral, exercising care to leave no tracks, and led the burroto the watering-trough. Venters, though not thirsty, drank till he could drinkno more. Then, leading the burro over hard ground, he struck into the sage anddown the slope.

He strode swiftly, turning from time to time to scan the slope for riders. Hishead just topped the level of sage-brush, and the burro could not have beenseen at all. Slowly the green of Cottonwoods sank behind the slope, and at lasta wavering line of purple sage met the blue of sky.

To avoid being seen, to get away, to hide his trail—these were the soleideas in his mind as he headed for Deception Pass, and he directed all hisacuteness of eye and ear, and the keenness of a rider’s judgment fordistance and ground, to stern accomplishment of the task. He kept to the sagefar to the left of the trail leading into the Pass. He walked ten miles andlooked back a thousand times. Always the graceful, purple wave of sage remainedwide and lonely, a clear, undotted waste. Coming to a stretch of rocky ground,he took advantage of it to cross the trail and then continued down on theright. At length he persuaded himself that he would be able to see ridersmounted on horses before they could see him on the little burro, and he rodebareback.

Hour by hour the tireless burro kept to his faithful, steady trot. The sun sankand the long shadows lengthened down the slope. Moving veils of purple twilightcrept out of the hollows and, mustering and forming on the levels, soon mergedand shaded into night. Venters guided the burro nearer to the trail, so that hecould see its white line from the ridges, and rode on through the hours.

Once down in the Pass without leaving a trail, he would hold himself safe forthe time being. When late in the night he reached the break in the sage, hesent the burro down ahead of him, and started an avalanche that all but buriedthe animal at the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he had amoment’s elation, for he had hidden his tracks. Once more he mounted theburro and rode on. The hour was the blackest of the night when he made thethicket which inclosed his old camp. Here he turned the burro loose in thegrass near the spring, and then lay down on his old bed of leaves.

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and throb of themuscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of emotion at last burst itsbounds, and the hour that saw his release from immediate action was one thatconfounded him in the reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understandingwhy. He caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of soul. The firethat had blistered him and the cold which had frozen him now united in onetorturing possession of his mind and heart, and like a fiery steed withice-shod feet, ranged his being, ran rioting through his blood, trampling theresurging good, dragging ever at the evil.

Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened? He hadleft the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It seemed that he had gone to kill aman—Oldring! The name riveted his consciousness upon the one man of allmen upon earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Ventersrecalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Oldring.He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood, a handsomegiant with purple-black and sweeping beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze offalcon eyes. He heard himself repeating: “Oldring, Bess is alive! Butshe’s dead to you,” and he felt himself jerk, and his earsthrobbed to the thunder of a gun, and he saw the giant sink slowly to hisknees. Was that only the vitality of him—that awful light in theeyes—only the hard-dying life of a tremendously powerful brute? A brokenwhisper, strange as death: “Man—why—didn’t—youwait! Bess—was—” And Oldring plunged face forward, dead.

“I killed him,” cried Venters, in remembering shock. “But itwasn’t that. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!”

Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the tumult andstress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a man shot through theheart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity nor fear of men nor fear of death.It had been no passionate glinting spirit of a fearless foe, willing shot forshot, life for life, but lacking physical power. Distinctly recalled now, neverto be forgotten, Venters saw in Oldring’s magnificent eyes the rolling ofgreat, glad surprise—softness—love! Then came a shadow and theterrible superhuman striving of his spirit to speak. Oldring shot through theheart, had fought and forced back death, not for a moment in which to shoot orcurse, but to whisper strange words.

What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters waited? For what?That was no plea for life. It was regret that there was not a moment of lifeleft in which to speak. Bess was—Herein lay renewed torture for Venters.What had Bess been to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked fromits grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had loved and hehad forgotten; and now, out of the mystery of a dying man’s whisper roseagain that perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Bess had loved thatsplendid, black-crowned giant—by her own confession she had loved him;and in Venters’s soul again flamed up the jealous hell. Then into theclamoring hell burst the shot that had killed Oldring, and it rang in a wildfiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to the memory of thelove and light in Oldring’s eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So thechanging, swaying emotions fluctuated in Venters’s heart.

This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial struggle of hislife. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a gloomy, almost heartbroken man,but victor over evil passions. He could not change the past; and, even if hehad not loved Bess with all his soul, he had grown into a man who would notchange the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he must knowthe truth, know the worst, stifle all these insistent doubts and subtle hopesand jealous fancies, and kill the past by knowing truly what Bess had been toOldring. For that matter he knew—he had always known, but he must hear itspoken. Then, when they had safely gotten out of that wild country to take up anew and an absorbing life, she would forget, she would be happy, and throughthat, in the years to come, he could not but find life worth living.

All day he rode slowly and cautiously up the Pass, taking time to peer aroundcorners, to pick out hard ground and grassy patches, and to make sure there wasno one in pursuit. In the night sometime he came to the smooth, scrawled rocksdividing the valley, and here set the burro at liberty. He walked beyond,climbed the slope and the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to the point ofexhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave and fell asleep.

In the morning, when he descended the trail, he found the sun was pouring agolden stream of light through the arch of the great stone bridge. SurpriseValley, like a valley of dreams, lay mystically soft and beautiful, awakeningto the golden flood which was rolling away its slumberous bands of mist,brightening its walled faces.

While yet far off he discerned Bess moving under the silver spruces, and soonthe barking of the dogs told him that they had seen him. He heard themocking-birds singing in the trees, and then the twittering of the quail. Ringand Whitie came bounding toward him, and behind them ran Bess, her handsoutstretched.

“Bern! You’re back! You’re back!” she cried, in joythat rang of her loneliness.

“Yes, I’m back,” he said, as she rushed to meet him.

She had reached out for him when suddenly, as she saw him closely, somethingchecked her, and as quickly all her joy fled, and with it her color, leavingher pale and trembling.

“Oh! What’s happened?”

“A good deal has happened, Bess. I don’t need to tell you what. AndI’m played out. Worn out in mind more than body.”

“Dear—you look strange to me!” faltered Bess.

“Never mind that. I’m all right. There’s nothing for you tobe scared about. Things are going to turn out just as we have planned. As soonas I’m rested we’ll make a break to get out of the country. Onlynow, right now, I must know the truth about you.”

“Truth about me?” echoed Bess, shrinkingly. She seemed to becasting back into her mind for a forgotten key. Venters himself, as he saw her,received a pang.

“Yes—the truth. Bess, don’t misunderstand. I haven’tchanged that way. I love you still. I’ll love you more afterward. Lifewill be just as sweet—sweeter to us. We’ll be—be married assoon as ever we can. We’ll be happy—but there’s a devil inme. A perverse, jealous devil! Then I’ve queer fancies. I forgot for along time. Now all those fiendish little whispers of doubt and faith and fearand hope come torturing me again. I’ve got to kill them with thetruth.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” she replied,frankly.

“Then by Heaven! we’ll have it over and done with!...Bess—did Oldring love you?”

“Certainly he did.”

“Did—did you love him?”

“Of course. I told you so.”

“How can you tell it so lightly?” cried Venters, passionately.“Haven’t you any sense of—of—” He choked backspeech. He felt the rush of pain and passion. He seized her in rude, stronghands and drew her close. He looked straight into her dark-blue eyes. They wereshadowing with the old wistful light, but they were as clear as the limpidwater of the spring. They were earnest, solemn in unutterable love and faithand abnegation. Venters shivered. He knew he was looking into her soul. He knewshe could not lie in that moment; but that she might tell the truth, looking athim with those eyes, almost killed his belief in purity.

“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 hisfeeling—then creeping blankness.

“What—was it—you said?” he asked, in a kind of dullwonder.

“I am his daughter.”

“Oldring’s daughter?” queried Venters, with life gathering inhis 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 youwere—a—so—so ashamed.”

“It is my shame,” she said, with voice deep and full, and now thescarlet fired her cheek. “I told you—I’mnothing—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—youprayed—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 absoluteunconsciousness 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 againsthis breast. She must not see his face in that moment. And he held her while helooked out across the valley. In his dim and blinded sight, in the blur ofgolden light and moving mist, he saw Oldring. She was the rustler’snameless daughter. Oldring had loved her. He had so guarded her, so kept herfrom 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 wonderfultruth. Not only was she not bad, but good, pure, innocent above all innocencein the world—the innocence of lonely girlhood.

He saw Oldring’s magnificent eyes, inquisitive, searching, softening. Hesaw them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love, then suddenly strain interrible effort of will. He heard Oldring whisper and saw him sway like a logand fall. Then a million bellowing, thundering voices—gunshots ofconscience, thunderbolts of remorse—dinned horribly in his ears. He hadkilled Bess’s father. Then a rushing wind filled his ears like a moan ofwind in the cliffs, a knell indeed—Oldring’s knell.

He dropped to his knees and hid his face against Bess, and grasped her with thehands of a drowning man.

“My God!... My God!... Oh, Bess!... Forgive me! Never mind whatI’ve done—what I’ve thought. But forgive me. I’ll giveyou my life. I’ll live for you. I’ll love you. Oh, I do love you asno man ever loved a woman. I want you to know—to remember that I fought afight for you—however blind I was. I thought—I thought—nevermind what I thought—but I loved you—I asked you to marry me. Letthat—let me have that to hug to my heart. Oh, Bess, I was driven! And Imight 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 nothingto forgive. There’s no mystery except your love for me. You have comeback to me!”

And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms and pressed it closely to herthrobbing breast.

CHAPTER XIX.
FAY

At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiter’s knee.

“Does oo love me?” she asked.

Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured herin earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject. Fay lookedthoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men or searching for asupreme test to prove this cavalier.

“Does oo love my new muvver?” she asked, with bewilderingsuddenness.

Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stirof her pulse and warmth in her cheek.

It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sitting in theshade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope. Little Fay’s briefspell of unhappy longing for her mother—the childish, mysticgloom—had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughterand glee. She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy andloveliness. She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For JaneWithersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possessioninfinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Jane divined thatlittle Fay had become a religion.

“Does oo love my new muvver?” repeated Fay.

Lassiter’s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.

“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 firsthe had been unable to answer.

“Fay—Fay, don’t ask questions like that,” said Jane.

“Why?”

“Because,” replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing tomeet the child’s gaze. It seemed to her that Fay’s violet eyeslooked through her with piercing wisdom.

“Oo love him, don’t oo?”

“Dear child—run and play,” said Jane, “but don’tgo too far. Don’t go from this little hill.”

Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been granted her forweeks.

“Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?” askedLassiter.

“Are they?”

“I reckon so. Little Fay there—she sees things as they appear onthe face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An’ an Indian an’ adog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is alwaysright.”

“Well, what does Fay see?” asked Jane.

“I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay’s mind when shesees 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 away, though you’re the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say isthis. Fay has taken you’re pretendin’ to—to care for me forthe thing it looks on the face. An’ her little formin’ mind asksquestions. An’ the answers she gets are different from the looks ofthings. So she’ll grow up gradually takin’ on that falseness,an’ be like the rest of the women, an’ men, too. An’ thetruth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin’ to love mewhen 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 lifeI’ve loved the truth, and I’ve prided myself upon being truthful.Maybe that was only egotism. I’m learning much, my friend. Some of thoseblinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And—and as to caring for you, Ithink I care a great deal. How much, how little, I couldn’t say. My heartis almost broken, Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. Ican still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attemptserious 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 numbfeeling 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’msenseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shallrise out of this stupor. I’m waiting the hour.”

“It’ll soon come, Jane,” replied Lassiter, soberly.“Then I’m afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an’ foryears 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 afiner woman. I’m waitin’, too. An’ I’mwonderin’—I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of allhuman reason?”

“Lassiter!... My dear friend!... It’s impossible for us tomarry!”

“Why—as Fay says?” inquired Lassiter, with gentlepersistence.

“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 ofMormon birth. I’m being broken. But I’m still a Mormon woman. Andyou—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! Youcan’t change the one habit—the purpose of your life. For you stillpack those black guns! You still nurse your passion for blood.”

A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face.

“No.”

“Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you—don’t you lie tome. I’ve great respect for you. I believe you’re softened towardmost, 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 believeyou’ve changed.”

For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid it with the heavy,swing 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 smallerman. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, conscious of only one motive—refusal tosee this man called craven by his enemies—she rose, and with blunderingfingers buckled the belt round his waist where it belonged.

“Lassiter, Iam the coward.”

“Come with me out of Utah—where I can put away my guns an’ bea man,” he said. “I reckon I’ll prove it to you then! Come!You’ve got Black Star back, an’ Night an’ Bells. Let’stake the racers an’ little Fay, en’ race out of Utah. The hossesan’ the child are all you have left. Come!”

“No, no, Lassiter. I’ll never leave Utah. What would I do in theworld with my broken fortunes and my broken heart? I’ll never leave thesepurple slopes I love so well.”

“I reckon I ought to ’ve knowed that. Presently you’ll belivin’ down here in a hovel, en’ presently Jane Withersteen will bea memory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you how a man—anyman—can be better ’n he was. If we left Utah I could prove—Ireckon I could prove this thing you call love. It’s strange, an’hell an’ heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. ’Pears to me thatyou’ve thrown away your big heart on love—love of religionan’ duty an’ churchmen, an’ riders an’ poor familiesan’ poor children! Yet you can’t see what love is—how itchanges a person!... Listen, an’ in tellin’ you Milly Erne’sstory I’ll show you how love changed her.

“Milly an’ me was children when our family moved from Missouri toTexas, an’ we growed up in Texas ways same as if we’d been bornthere. We had been poor, an’ there we prospered. In time the littlevillage where we went became a town, an’ strangers an’ new familieskept movin’ in. Milly was the belle them days. I can see her now, alittle girl no bigger ’n a bird, an’ as pretty. She had the finesteyes, dark blue-black when she was excited, an’ beautiful all the time.You remember Milly’s eyes! An’ she had light-brown hair withstreaks of gold, an’ a mouth that every feller wanted to kiss.

“An’ about the time Milly was the prettiest an’ the sweetest,along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race with the otherfellers for Milly. An’ he won. Milly had always been strong on religion,an’ when she met Frank Erne she went in heart an’ soul for thesalvation of souls. Fact was, Milly, through study of the Bible an’attendin’ church an’ revivals, went a little out of her head. Itdidn’t worry the old folks none, an’ the only worry to me wasMilly’s everlastin’ prayin’ an’ workin’ to savemy soul. She never converted me, but we was the best of comrades, an’ Ireckon no brother an’ sister ever loved each other better. Well, FrankErne an me hit up a great friendship. He was a strappin’ feller, good tolook at, an’ had the most pleasin’ ways. His religion neverbothered me, for he could hunt an’ fish an’ ride an’ be agood 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 Ithought was good enough for Milly. An’ the day they were married I gotdrunk for the only time in my life.

“Soon after that I left home—it seems Milly was the only one whocould keep me home—an’ I went to the bad, as to prosperin’ Isaw some pretty hard life in the Pan Handle, an’ then I went North. Inthem days Kansas an’ Nebraska was as bad, come to think of it, as thesedays 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 couldtrack a hoss or a steer or a man with me. Afore I knowed it two years slippedby, 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, killedalready on his feet. Frank Erne was a ghost of his old self, through withworkin’, through with preachin’, almost through with livin’,an’ Milly was gone!... It was a long time before I got the story. Fatherhad no mind left, an’ Frank Erne was afraidto talk. So I had topick up what’d happened from different people.

“It ’pears that soon after I left home another preacher come to thelittle town. An’ he an’ Frank become rivals. This feller wasdifferent from Frank. He preached some other kind of religion, and he was quickan’ passionate, where Frank was slow an’ mild. He went afterpeople, women specially. In looks he couldn’t compare to Frank Erne, buthe had power over women. He had a voice, an’ he talked an’ talkedan’ preached an’ preached. Milly fell under his influence. Shebecame mightily interested in his religion. Frank had patience with her, as washis way, an’ let her be as interested as she liked. All religions weredevoted to one God, he said, an’ it wouldn’t hurt Milly none tostudy a different point of view. So the new preacher often called on Milly,an’ sometimes in Frank’s absence. Frank was a cattle-man betweenSundays.

“Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn’t getmuch 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 ofgold. He had money, an’ he ’peared a man of mystery, an’ thetown went to buzzin’ when he disappeared about the same time as a youngwoman known to be mightily interested in the new preacher’s religion.Then, presently, along comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, en’ he upan’ spots this preacher as a famous Mormon proselyter. That riled FrankErne as nothin’ ever before, an’ from rivals they come to be bitterenemies. An’ it ended in Frank goin’ to the meetin’-housewhere Milly was listenin’, en’ before her en’ everybody elsehe called that preacher—called him, well, almost as hard as Venterscalled Tull here sometime back. An’ Frank followed up that call with ahosswhippin’, en’ he drove the proselyter out of town.

“People noticed, so ’twas said, that Milly’s sweetdisposition changed. Some said it was because she would soon become a mother,en’ others said she was pinin’ after the new religion. An’there was women who said right out that she was pinin’ after the Mormon.Anyway, one mornin’ Frank rode in from one of his trips, to find Millygone. He had no real near neighbors—livin’ a little out oftown—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’ mantracks. 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 Millyran off with the Mormon. That hastened mother’s death, an’ she diedunforgivin’. Father wasn’t the kind to bow down under disgrace ormisfortune but he had surpassin’ love for Milly, an’ the loss ofher broke him.

“From the minute I heard of Milly’s disappearance I never believedshe went off of her own free will. I knew Milly, an’ I knew shecouldn’thave done that. I stayed at home awhile, tryin’ tomake Frank Erne talk. But if he knowed anythin’ then he wouldn’ttell it. So I set out to find Milly. An’ I tried to get on the trail ofthat proselyter. I knew if I ever struck a town he’d visited thatI’d get a trail. I knew, too, that nothin’ short of hell would stophis proselytin’. An’ I rode from town to town. I had a blind faiththat somethin’ was guidin’ me. An’ as the weeks an’months went by I growed into a strange sort of a man, I guess. Anyway, peoplewere afraid of me. Two years after that, way over in a corner of Texas, Istruck a town where my man had been. He’d jest left. People said he cameto that town withouta woman. I back-trailed my man through Arkansasan’ Mississippi, an’ the old trail got hot again in Texas. I foundthe town where he first went after leavin’ home. An’ here I gottrack of Milly. I found a cabin where she had given birth to her baby. Therewas no way to tell whether she’d been kept a prisoner or not. The fellerwho owned the place was a mean, silent sort of a skunk, an’ as I wasleavin’ I jest took a chance an’ left my mark on him. Then I wenthome again.

“It was to find I hadn’t any home, no more. Father had been dead ayear. Frank Erne still lived in the house where Milly had left him. I stayedwith him awhile, an’ I grew old watchin’ him. His farm had gone toweed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled, his house weathered till itwouldn’t keep out rain nor wind. An’ Frank set on the porch andwhittled sticks, an’ day by day wasted away. There was times when heranted 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 secretfear that I needed to know. An’ when I told him I’d trailed Millyfor near three years an’ had got trace of her, an’ saw whereshe’d had her baby, I thought he would drop dead at my feet. An’when he’d come round more natural-like he begged me to give upthetrail. But he wouldn’t explain. So I let him alone, an’ watched himday en’ 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 heslept. An’ it ’peared he seldom slept. But after bein’patient I got the contents of that drawer an’ found two letters fromMilly. One was a long letter written a few months after her disappearance. Shehad been bound an’ gagged an’ dragged away from her home by threemen, an’ she named them—Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers toher. She was taken to the little town where I found trace of her two yearsafter. But she didn’t send the letter from that town. There she waspenned in. ’Peared that the proselytes, who had, of course, come on thescene, was not runnin’ any risks of losin’ her. She went on to saythat for a time she was out of her head, an’ when she got right again allthat kept her alive was the baby. It was a beautiful baby, she said, an’all she thought an’ dreamed of was somehow to get baby back to itsfather, an’ then she’d thankfully lay down and die. An’ theletter ended abrupt, in the middle of a sentence, en’ it wasn’tsigned.

“The second letter was written more than two years after the first. Itwas from Salt Lake City. It simply said that Milly had heard her brother was onher trail. She asked Frank to tell her brother to give up the search because ifhe didn’t she would suffer in a way too horrible to tell. Shedidn’t beg. She just stated a fact an’ made the simple request.An’ she ended that letter by sayin’ she would soon leave Salt LakeCity with the man she had come to love, en’ would never be heard ofagain.

“I recognized Milly’s handwritin’, an’ I recognized herway of puttin’ things. But that second letter told me of some greatchange in her. Ponderin’ over it, I felt at last she’d either cometo love that feller an’ his religion, or some terrible fear made her liean’ say so. I couldn’t be sure which. But, of course, I meant tofind out. I’ll say here, if I’d known Mormons then as I do nowI’d left Milly to her fate. For mebbe she was right about whatshe’d suffer if I kept on her trail. But I was young an’ wild themdays. First I went to the town where she’d first been taken, an’ Iwent to the place where she’d been kept. I got that skunk who owned theplace, an’ took him out in the woods, an’ made him tell all heknowed. That wasn’t much as to length, but it was pure hell’s-firein substance. This time I left him some incapacitated for any more skunk workshort of hell. Then I hit the trail for Utah.

“That was fourteen years ago. I saw the incomin’ of most of theMormons. It was a wild country an’ a wild time. I rode from town to town,village to village, ranch to ranch, camp to camp. I never stayed long in oneplace. I never had but one idea. I never rested. Four years went by, an’I knowed every trail in northern Utah. I kept on an’ as time went by,an’ I’d begun to grow old in my search, I had firmer, blinder faithin whatever was guidin’ me. Once I read about a feller who sailed theseven seas an’ traveled the world, an’ he had a story to tell,an’ whenever he seen the man to whom he must tell that story he knowedhim on sight. I was like that, only I had a question to ask. An’ always Iknew the man of whom I must ask. So I never really lost the trail, though formany years it was the dimmest trail ever followed by any man.

“Then come a change in my luck. Along in Central Utah I rounded up Hurd,an’ I whispered somethin’ in his ear, an’ watched his face,an’ then throwed a gun against his bowels. An’ he died with histeeth so tight shut I couldn’t have pried them open with a knife. Slackan’ Metzger that same year both heard me whisper the same question,an’ neither would they speak a word when they lay dyin’. Longbefore I’d learned no man of this breed or class—or God knowswhat—would give up any secrets! I had to see in a man’s fear ofdeath the connections with Milly Erne’s fate. An’ as the yearspassed at long intervals I would find such a man.

“So as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah my namepreceded me, an’ I had to meet a people prepared for me, an’ readywith guns. They made me a gun-man. An’ that suited me. In all this timesigns of the proselyter an’ the giant with the blue-ice eyes an’the gold beard seemed to fade dimmer out of the trail. Only twice in ten yearsdid I find a trace of that mysterious man who had visited the proselyter at myhome village. What he had to do with Milly’s fate was beyond all hope forme to learn, unless my guidin’ spirit led me to him! As for the otherman, I knew, as sure as I breathed en’ the stars shone en’ the windblew, that I’d meet him some day.

“Eighteen years I’ve been on the trail. An’ it led me to thelast lonely villages of the Utah border. Eighteen years!... I feel pretty oldnow. I was only twenty when I hit that trail. Well, as I told you, back here aways a Gentile said Jane Withersteen could tell me about Milly Erne an’show me her grave!”

The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombrero round and round,and appeared to be counting the silver ornaments on the band. Jane, leaningtoward him, sat as if petrified, listening intently, waiting to hear more. Shecould have shrieked, but power of tongue and lips were denied her. She saw onlythis sad, gray, passion-worn man, and she heard only the faint rustling of theleaves.

“Well, I came to Cottonwoods,” went on Lassiter, “an’you showed me Milly’s grave. An’ though your teeth have been shuttighter’n them of all the dead men lyin’ back along that trail,jest the same you told me the secret I’ve lived these eighteen years tohear! Jane, I said you’d tell me without ever me askin’. Ididn’t need to ask my question here. The day, you remember, when that fatparty throwed a gun on me in your court, an’—”

“Oh! Hush!” whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands.

“I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyter whoruined Milly Erne!”

For an instant Jane Withersteen’s brain was a whirling chaos and sherecovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like one drowning. And as if bya lightning stroke she sprang from her dull apathy into exquisite torture.

“It’s a lie!Lassiter! No, no!” she moaned. “Iswear—you’re wrong!”

“Stop! You’d perjure yourself! But I’ll spare you that. Youpoor woman! Still blind! Still faithful!... Listen. I know. Let thatsettle it. An’ I give up my purpose!”

“What is it—you say?”

“I give up my purpose. I’ve come to see an’ feel differently.I can’t help poor Milly. An’ I’ve outgrowed revenge.I’ve come to see I can be no judge for men. I can’t kill a man jestfor hate. Hate ain’t the same with me since I loved you and littleFay.”

“Lassiter! You mean you won’t kill him?” Jane whispered.

“No.”

“For my sake?”

“I reckon. I can’t understand, but I’ll respect yourfeelin’s.”

“Because you—oh, because you love me?... Eighteen years! You werethat terrible Lassiter! And now—because you love me?”

“That’s it, Jane.”

“Oh, you’ll make me love you! How can I help but love you? My heartmust be stone. But—oh, Lassiter, wait, wait! Give me time. I’m notwhat I was. Once it was so easy to love. Now it’s easy to hate. Wait! Myfaith in God—someGod—still lives. By it I see happier timesfor you, poor passion-swayed wanderer! For me—a miserable, broken woman.I loved your sister Milly. I willlove you. I can’t have fallen solow—I can’t be so abandoned by God—that I’ve no loveleft to give you. Wait! Let us forget Milly’s sad life. Ah, I knew it asno one else on earth! There’s one thing I shall tell you—if you areat my death-bed, but I can’t speak now.”

“I reckon I don’t want to hear no more,” said Lassiter.

Jane leaned against him, as if some pent-up force had rent its way out, shefell into a paroxysm of weeping. Lassiter held her in silent sympathy. Bydegrees she regained composure, and she was rising, sensible of being relievedof a weighty burden, when a sudden start on Lassiter’s part alarmed her.

“I heard hosses—hosses with muffled hoofs!” he said; and hegot up guardedly.

“Where’s Fay?” asked Jane, hurriedly glancing round the shadyknoll. The bright-haired child, who had appeared to be close all the time, wasnot in sight.

“Fay!” called Jane.

No answering shout of glee. No patter of flying feet. Jane saw Lassiterstiffen.

“Fay—oh—Fay!” Jane almost screamed.

The leaves quivered and rustled; a lonesome cricket chirped in the grass, a beehummed by. The silence of the waning afternoon breathed hateful portent. Itterrified Jane. When had silence been so infernal?

“She’s—only—strayed—out—of earshot,”faltered Jane, looking at Lassiter.

Pale, rigid as a statue, the rider stood, not in listening, searching posture,but in one of doomed certainty. Suddenly he grasped Jane with an iron hand,and, turning his face from her gaze, he strode with her from the knoll.

“See—Fay played here last—a house of stones an’sticks.... An’ here’s a corral of pebbles with leaves forhosses,” said Lassiter, stridently, and pointed to the ground.“Back an’ forth she trailed here.... See, she’s buriedsomethin’—a dead grasshopper—there’s a tombstone...here she went, chasin’ a lizard—see the tiny streaked trail... shepulled bark off this cottonwood... look in the dust of the path—theletters you taught her—she’s drawn pictures of birds en’hosses an’ people.... Look, a cross! Oh, Jane, yourcross!”

Lassiter dragged Jane on, and as if from a book read the meaning of littleFay’s trail. All the way down the knoll, through the shrubbery, round andround a cottonwood, Fay’s vagrant fancy left records of her sweet musingsand innocent play. Long had she lingered round a bird-nest to leave therein thegaudy wing of a butterfly. Long had she played beside the running streamsending adrift vessels freighted with pebbly cargo. Then she had wanderedthrough the deep grass, her tiny feet scarcely turning a fragile blade, and shehad dreamed beside some old faded flowers. Thus her steps led her into thebroad lane. The little dimpled imprints of her bare feet showed clean-cut inthe dust they went a little way down the lane; and then, at a point where theystopped, the great tracks of a man led out from the shrubbery and returned.

CHAPTER XX.
LASSITER’S WAY

Footprints told the story of little Fay’s abduction. In anguish JaneWithersteen turned speechlessly to Lassiter, and, confirming her fears, she sawhim gray-faced, aged all in a moment, stricken as if by a mortal blow.

Then all her life seemed to fall about her in wreck and ruin.

“It’s all over,” she heard her voice whisper.“It’s ended. I’m going—I’m going—”

“Where?” demanded Lassiter, suddenly looming darkly over her.

“To—to those cruel men—”

“Speak names!” thundered Lassiter.

“To Bishop Dyer—to Tull,” went on Jane, shocked intoobedience.

“Well—what for?”

“I want little Fay. I can’t live without her. They’ve stolenher as they stole Milly Erne’s child. I must have little Fay. I want onlyher. I give up. I’ll go and tell Bishop Dyer—I’m broken.I’ll tell him I’m ready for the yoke—only give me backFay—and—and I’ll marry Tull!”

“Never!” hissed Lassiter.

His long arm leaped at her. Almost running, he dragged her under thecottonwoods, across the court, into the huge hall of Withersteen House, and heshut the door with a force that jarred the heavy walls. Black Star and Nightand Bells, since their return, had been locked in this hall, and now theystamped on the stone floor.

Lassiter released Jane and like a dizzy man swayed from her with a hoarse cryand leaned shaking against a table where he kept his rider’saccoutrements. He began to fumble in his saddlebags. His action brought aclinking, metallic sound—the rattling of gun-cartridges. His fingerstrembled as he slipped cartridges into an extra belt. But as he buckled it overthe one he habitually wore his hands became steady. This second belt containedtwo guns, smaller than the black ones swinging low, and he slipped them roundso that his coat hid them. Then he fell to swift action. Jane Withersteenwatched him, fascinated but uncomprehending and she saw him rapidly saddleBlack Star and Night. Then he drew her into the light of the huge windows,standing over her, gripping her arm with fingers like cold steel.

“Yes, Jane, it’s ended—but you’re not goin’ toDyer!... I’m goin’ instead!”

Looking at him—he was so terrible of aspect—she could notcomprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyesthat would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange,ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the gentle Lassiter? What was this presencein the hall, about him, about her—this cold, invisible presence?

“Yes, it’s ended, Jane,” he was saying, so awfully quiet andcool and implacable, “an’ I’m goin’ to make a littlecall. I’ll lock you in here, an’ when I get back have thesaddle-bags full of meat an bread. An’ be ready to ride!”

“Lassiter!” cried Jane.

Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately she triedagain, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged in torment, and shesucceeded, and then she knew.

“No—no—no!” she wailed. “You said you’dforegone your vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer.”

“If you want to talk to me about him—leave off the Bishop. Idon’t understand that name, or its use.”

“Oh, hadn’t you foregone your vengeance on—on Dyer?”

“Yes.”

“But—your actions—your words—your guns—yourterrible looks!... They don’t seem foregoing vengeance?”

“Jane, now it’s justice.”

“You’ll—kill him?”

“If God lets me live another hour! If not God—then the devil whodrives me!”

“You’ll kill him—for yourself—for your vengefulhate?”

“No!”

“For Milly Erne’s sake?”

“No.”

“For little Fay’s?”

“No!”

“Oh—for whose?”

“For yours!”

“His blood on my soul!” whispered Jane, and she fell to her knees.This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit of years—thereligious passion of her life—leaped from lethargy, and the long monthsof gradual drifting to doubt were as if they had never been. “If youspill his blood it’ll be on my soul—and on my father’s.Listen.” And she clasped his knees, and clung there as he tried to raiseher. “Listen. Am I nothing to you?”

“Woman—don’t trifle at words! I love you! An’I’ll soon prove it.”

“I’ll give myself to you—I’ll ride away withyou—marry you, if only you’ll spare him?”

His answer was a cold, ringing, terrible laugh.

“Lassiter—I’ll love you. Spare him!”

“No.”

She sprang up in despairing, breaking spirit, and encircled his neck with herarms, and held him in an embrace that he strove vainly to loosen.“Lassiter, would you kill me? I’m fighting my last fight for theprinciples of my youth—love of religion, love of father. You don’tknow—you can’t guess the truth, and I can’t speak ill.I’m losing all. I’m changing. All I’ve gone through isnothing to this hour. Pity me—help me in my weakness. You’re strongagain—oh, so cruelly, coldly strong! You’re killing me. I seeyou—feel you as some other Lassiter! My master, be merciful—sparehim!”

His answer was a ruthless smile.

She clung the closer to him, and leaned her panting breast on him, and liftedher face to his. “Lassiter, I do love you!It’s leaped outof my agony. It comes suddenly with a terrible blow of truth. You are a man! Inever knew it till now. Some wonderful change came to me when you buckled onthese guns and showed that gray, awful face. I loved you then. All my lifeI’ve loved, but never as now. No woman can love like a broken woman. Ifit were not for one thing—just one thing—and yet! Ican’tspeak it—I’d glory in your manhood—thelion in you that means to slay for me. Believe me—and spare Dyer. Bemerciful—great as it’s in you to be great.... Oh, listen andbelieve—I have nothing, but I’m a woman—a beautiful woman,Lassiter—a passionate, loving woman—and I love you! Takeme—hide me in some wild place—and love me and mend my broken heart.Spare him and take me away.”

She lifted her face closer and closer to his, until their lips nearly touched,and she hung upon his neck, and with strength almost spent pressed and stillpressed her palpitating body to his.

“Kiss me!” she whispered, blindly.

“No—not at your price!” he answered. His voice had changed orshe had lost clearness of hearing.

“Kiss me!... Are you a man? Kiss me and save me!”

“Jane, you never played fair with me. But now you’reblisterin’ your lips—blackenin’ your soul with lies!”

“By the memory of my mother—by my Bible—no! No, I haveno Bible! But by my hope of heaven I swear I love you!”

Lassiter’s gray lips formed soundless words that meant even her lovecould not avail to bend his will. As if the hold of her arms was that of achild’s he loosened it and stepped away.

“Wait! Don’t go! Oh, hear a last word!... May a more just andmerciful God than the God I was taught to worship judge me—forgiveme—save me! For I can no longer keep silent!... Lassiter, in pleading forDyer I’ve been pleading more for my father. My father was a Mormonmaster, close to the leaders of the church. It was my father who sent Dyer outto proselyte. It was my father who had the blue-ice eye and the beard of gold.It was my father you got trace of in the past years. Truly, Dyer ruined MillyErne—dragged her from her home—to Utah—to Cottonwoods. Butit was for my father!If Milly Erne was ever wife of a Mormon that Mormonwas my father! I never knew—never will know whether or not she was awife. Blind I may be, Lassiter—fanatically faithful to a false religion Imay have been but I know justice, and my father is beyond human justice. Surelyhe is meeting just punishment—somewhere. Always it has appalledme—the thought of your killing Dyer for my father’s sins. So I haveprayed!”

“Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past. This thingI’m about to do ain’t for myself or Milly or Fay. It’s notbecause of anythin’ that ever happened in the past, but for what ishappenin’ right now. It’s for you!... An’ listen.Since I was a boy I’ve never thanked God for anythin’. If there isa God—an’ I’ve come to believe it—I thank Him now forthe years that made me Lassiter!... I can reach down en’ feel these bigguns, en’ know what I can do with them. An’, Jane, only one of themiracles Dyer professes to believe in can save him!”

Again for Jane Withersteen came the spinning of her brain in darkness, and asshe whirled in endless chaos she seemed to be falling at the feet of a luminousfigure—a man—Lassiter—who had saved her from herself, whocould not be changed, who would slay rightfully. Then she slipped into utterblackness.

When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was lying on acouch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow felt damp and cold and wet,some one was chafing her hands; she recognized Judkins, and then saw that hislean, hard face wore the hue and look of excessive agitation.

“Judkins!” Her voice broke weakly.

“Aw, Miss Withersteen, you’re comin’ round fine. Now jest laystill a little. You’re all right; everythin’s all right.”

“Where is—he?”

“Who?”

“Lassiter!”

“You needn’t worry none about him.”

“Where is he? Tell me—instantly.”

“Wal, he’s in the other room patchin’ up a few triflin’bullet holes.”

“Ah!... Bishop’ Dyer?”

“When I seen him last—a matter of half an hour ago, he was on hisknees. He was some busy, buthe wasn’t prayin’!”

“How strangely you talk! I’ll sit up. I’m—well, strongagain. Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?”

“Wal, beggin’ your pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyerwas on his knees an’ notprayin’. You remember his big,broad hands? You’ve seen ’em raised in blessin’ over old graymen an’ little curly-headed children like—like Fay Larkin! Come tothink of thet, I disremember ever hearin’ of his liftin’ his bighands in blessin’ over a woman. Wal, when I seen himlast—jest a little while ago—he was on his knees, notprayin’, as I remarked—an’ he was pressin’ his bighands over some bigger wounds.”

“Man, you drive me mad! Did Lassiter kill Dyer?”

“Yes.”

“Did he kill Tull?”

“No. Tull’s out of the village with most of his riders. He’sexpected back before evenin’. Lassiter will hev to git away before Tullen’ his riders come in. It’s sure death fer him here. An’wuss fer you, too, Miss Withersteen. There’ll be some of anuprisin’ when Tull gits back.”

“I shall ride away with Lassiter. Judkins, tell me all you saw—allyou know about this killing.” She realized, without wonder or amaze, howJudkins’s one word, affirming the death of Dyer—that thecatastrophe had fallen—had completed the change whereby she had beenmolded or beaten or broken into another woman. She felt calm, slightly cold,strong as she had not been strong since the first shadow fell upon her.

“I jest saw about all of it, Miss Withersteen, an’ I’ll beglad to tell you if you’ll only hev patience with me,” saidJudkins, earnestly. “You see, I’ve been pecooliarly interested,an’ nat’rully I’m some excited. An’ I talk a lot thetmebbe ain’t necessary, but I can’t help thet.

“I was at the meetin’-house where Dyer was holdin’ court. Youknow he allus acts as magistrate an’ judge when Tull’s away.An’ the trial was fer tryin’ what’s left of my boyriders—thet helped me hold your cattle—fer a lot of hatched-upthings the boys never did. We’re used to thet, an’ the boyswouldn’t hev minded bein’ locked up fer a while, or hevin’ todig ditches, or whatever the judge laid down. You see, I divided the gold yougive me among all my boys, an’ they all hid it, en’ they all feelrich. Howsomever, court was adjourned before the judge passed sentence. Yes,ma’m, court was adjourned some strange an’ quick, much as iflightnin’ hed struck the meetin’-house.

“I hed trouble attendin’ the trial, but I got in. There was a goodmany people there, all my boys, an’ Judge Dyer with his several clerks.Also he hed with him the five riders who’ve been guardin’ himpretty close of late. They was Carter, Wright, Jengessen, an’ two newriders from Stone Bridge. I didn’t hear their names, but I heard they washandy men with guns an’ they looked more like rustlers than riders.Anyway, there they was, the five all in a row.

“Judge Dyer was tellin’ Willie Kern, one of my best an’steadiest boys—Dyer was tellin’ him how there was a ditch openednear Willie’s home lettin’ water through his lot, where ithadn’t ought to go. An’ Willie was tryin’ to git a word in toprove he wasn’t at home all the day it happened—which was true, asI know—but Willie couldn’t git a word in, an’ then Judge Dyerwent on layin’ down the law. An’ all to onct he happened to lookdown the long room. An’ if ever any man turned to stone he was thet man.

“Nat’rully I looked back to see what hed acted so powerful strangeon the judge. An’ there, half-way up the room, in the middle of the wideaisle, stood Lassiter! All white an’ black he looked, an’ Ican’t think of anythin’ he resembled, onless it’s death.Venters made thet same room some still an’ chilly when he called Tull;but this was different. I give my word, Miss Withersteen, thet I went cold tomy very marrow. I don’t know why. But Lassiter had a way about himthet’s awful. He spoke a word—a name—I couldn’tunderstand it, though he spoke clear as a bell. I was too excited, mebbe. JudgeDyer must hev understood it, an’ a lot more thet was mystery to me, forhe pitched forrard out of his chair right onto the platform.

“Then them five riders, Dyer’s bodyguards, they jumped up,an’ two of them thet I found out afterward were the strangers from StoneBridge, they piled right out of a winder, so quick you couldn’t catchyour breath. It was plain they wasn’t Mormons.

“Jengessen, Carter, an’ Wright eyed Lassiter, for what must hevbeen a second an’ seemed like an hour, an’ they went whiteen’ strung. But they didn’t weaken nor lose their nerve.

“I hed a good look at Lassiter. He stood sort of stiff, bendin’ alittle, an’ both his arms were crooked an’ his hands looked like ahawk’s claws. But there ain’t no tellin’ how his eyes looked.I know this, though, an’ thet is his eyes could read the mind of any manabout to throw a gun. An’ in watchin’ him, of course, Icouldn’t see the three men go fer their guns. An’ though I waslookin’ right at Lassiter—lookin’ hard—I couldn’tsee how he drawed. He was quicker’n eyesight—thet’s all. ButI seen the red spurtin’ of his guns, en’ heard his shots jest thevery littlest instant before I heard the shots of the riders. An’ when Iturned, Wright an’ Carter was down, en’ Jengessen, who’stough like a steer, was pullin’ the trigger of a wabblin’ gun. Butit was plain he was shot through, plumb center. An’ sudden he fell with acrash, an’ his gun clattered on the floor.

“Then there was a hell of a silence. Nobody breathed. Sartin Ididn’t, anyway. I saw Lassiter slip a smokin’ gun back in a belt.But he hadn’t throwed either of the big black guns, an’ I thoughtthet strange. An’ all this was happenin’ quick—youcan’t imagine how quick.

“There come a scrapin’ on the floor an’ Dyer got up, his facelike lead. I wanted to watch Lassiter, but Dyer’s face, onct I seen itlike thet, glued my eyes. I seen him go fer his gun—why, I could hev donebetter, quicker—an’ then there was a thunderin’ shot fromLassiter, an’ it hit Dyer’s right arm, an’ his gun went offas it dropped. He looked at Lassiter like a cornered sage-wolf, an’ sortof howled, an’ reached down fer his gun. He’d jest picked it offthe floor an’ was raisin’ it when another thunderin’ shotalmost tore thet arm off—so it seemed to me. The gun dropped againan’ he went down on his knees, kind of flounderin’ after it. It wassome strange an’ terrible to see his awful earnestness. Why would such aman cling so to life? Anyway, he got the gun with left hand an’ wasraisin’ it, pullin’ trigger in his madness, when the thirdthunderin’ shot hit his left arm, an’ he dropped the gun again. Butthet left arm wasn’t useless yet, fer he grabbed up the gun, an’with a shakin’ aim thet would hev been pitiful to me—in any otherman—he began to shoot. One wild bullet struck a man twenty feet fromLassiter. An’ it killed thet man, as I seen afterward. Then come a bunchof thunderin’ shots—nine I calkilated after, fer they come so quickI couldn’t count them—an’ I knew Lassiter hed turned theblack guns loose on Dyer.

“I’m tellin’ you straight, Miss Withersteen, fer I want youto know. Afterward you’ll git over it. I’ve seen somesoul-rackin’ scenes on this Utah border, but this was the awfulest. Iremember I closed my eyes, an’ fer a minute I thought of the strangestthings, out of place there, such as you’d never dream would come to mind.I saw the sage, an’ runnin’ hosses—an’ thet’s thebeautfulest sight to me—an’ I saw dim things in the dark, an’there was a kind of hummin’ in my ears. An’ I rememberdistinctly—fer it was what made all these things whirl out of my mindan’ opened my eyes—I remember distinctly it was the smell ofgunpowder.

“The court had about adjourned fer thet judge. He was on his knees,en’ he wasn’t prayin’. He was gaspin’ an’tryin’ to press his big, floppin’, crippled hands over his body.Lassiter had sent all those last thunderin’ shots through his body. Thetwas Lassiter’s way.

“An’ Lassiter spoke, en’ if I ever forgit his wordsI’ll never forgit the sound of his voice.

“‘Proselyter, I reckon you’d better call quick on thetGod who reveals Hisself to you on earth, because He won’t bevisitin’ the place you’re goin’ to!’

“An’ then I seen Dyer look at his big, hangin’ hands thetwasn’t big enough fer the last work he set them to. An’ he lookedup at Lassiter. An’ then he stared horrible at somethin’ thetwasn’t Lassiter, nor anyone there, nor the room, nor the branches ofpurple sage peepin’ into the winder. Whatever he seen, it was with thelook of a man who discoverssomethin’ too late. Thet’s aterrible look!... An’ with a horrible understandin’cry heslid forrard on his face.”

Judkins paused in his narrative, breathing heavily while he wiped hisperspiring brow.

“Thet’s about all,” he concluded. “Lassiter left themeetin’-house an’ I hurried to catch up with him. He wasbleedin’ from three gunshots, none of them much to bother him. An’we come right up here. I found you layin’ in the hall, an’ I hed towork some over you.”

Jane Withersteen offered up no prayer for Dyer’s soul.

Lassiter’s step sounded in the hall—the familiar soft,silver-clinking step—and she heard it with thrilling new emotions inwhich was a vague joy in her very fear of him. The door opened, and she sawhim, the old Lassiter, slow, easy, gentle, cool, yet not exactly the sameLassiter. She rose, and for a moment her eyes blurred and swam in tears.

“Are you—all—all right?” she asked, tremulously.

“I reckon.”

“Lassiter, I’ll ride away with you. Hide me till danger ispast—till we are forgotten—then take me where you will. Your peopleshall be my people, and your God my God!”

He kissed her hand with the quaint grace and courtesy that came to him in raremoments.

“Black Star an’ Night are ready,” he said, simply.

His quiet mention of the black racers spurred Jane to action. Hurrying to herroom, she changed to her rider’s suit, packed her jewelry, and the goldthat was left, and all the woman’s apparel for which there was space inthe saddle-bags, and then returned to the hall. Black Star stamped hisiron-shod hoofs and tossed his beautiful head, and eyed her with knowing eyes.

“Judkins, I give Bells to you,” said Jane. “I hope you willalways keep him and be good to him.”

Judkins mumbled thanks that he could not speak fluently, and his eyes flashed.

Lassiter strapped Jane’s saddle-bags upon Black Star, and led the racersout into the court.

“Judkins, you ride with Jane out into the sage. If you see any riderscomin’ shout quick twice. An’, Jane, don’t look back!I’ll catch up soon. We’ll get to the break into the Pass beforemidnight, an’ then wait until mornin’ to go down.”

Black Star bent his graceful neck and bowed his noble head, and his broadshoulders yielded as he knelt for Jane to mount.

She rode out of the court beside Judkins, through the grove, across the widelane into the sage, and she realized that she was leaving Withersteen Houseforever, and she did not look back. A strange, dreamy, calm peace pervaded hersoul. Her doom had fallen upon her, but, instead of finding life no longerworth living she found it doubly significant, full of sweetness as the westernbreeze, beautiful and unknown as the sage-slope stretching its purple sunsetshadows before her. She became aware of Judkins’s hand touching hers; sheheard him speak a husky good-by; then into the place of Bells shot thedead-black, keen, racy nose of Night, and she knew Lassiter rode beside her.

“Don’t—look—back!” he said, and his voice,too, was not clear.

“Don’t—look—back!”

Facing straight ahead, seeing only the waving, shadowy sage, Jane held out hergauntleted hand, to feel it enclosed in strong clasp. So she rode on without abackward glance at the beautiful grove of Cottonwoods. She did not seem tothink of the past of what she left forever, but of the color and mystery andwildness of the sage-slope leading down to Deception Pass, and of the future.She watched the shadows lengthen down the slope; she felt the cool west windsweeping by from the rear; and she wondered at low, yellow clouds sailingswiftly over her and beyond.

“Don’t look—back!” said Lassiter.

Thick-driving belts of smoke traveled by on the wind, and with it came astrong, pungent odor of burning wood.

Lassiter had fired Withersteen House! But Jane did not look back.

A misty veil obscured the clear, searching gaze she had kept steadfastly uponthe purple slope and the dim lines of cañons. It passed, as passed the rollingclouds of smoke, and she saw the valley deepening into the shades of twilight.Night came on, swift as the fleet racers, and stars peeped out to brighten andgrow, and the huge, windy, eastern heave of sage-level paled under a risingmoon and turned to silver. Blanched in moonlight, the sage yet seemed to holdits hue of purple and was infinitely more wild and lonely. So the night hourswore on, and Jane Withersteen never once looked back.

CHAPTER XXI.
BLACK STAR AND NIGHT

The time had come for Venters and Bess to leave their retreat. They were atgreat pains to choose the few things they would be able to carry with them onthe journey out of Utah.

“Bern, whatever kind of a pack’s this, anyhow?” questionedBess, rising from her work with reddened face.

Venters, absorbed in his own task, did not look up at all, and in reply said hehad brought so much from Cottonwoods that he did not recollect the half of it.

“A woman packed this!” Bess exclaimed.

He scarcely caught her meaning, but the peculiar tone of her voice caused himinstantly to rise, and he saw Bess on her knees before an open pack which herecognized as the one given him by Jane.

“By George!” he ejaculated, guiltily, and then at sight ofBess’s face he laughed outright.

“A woman packed this,” she repeated, fixing woeful, tragic eyes onhim.

“Well, is that a crime?”

“There—there isa woman, after all!”

“Now Bess—”

“You’ve lied to me!”

Then and there Venters found it imperative to postpone work for the present.All her life Bess had been isolated, but she had inherited certain elements ofthe eternal feminine.

“But there wasa woman and you didlie to me,” shekept repeating, after he had explained.

“What of that? Bess, I’ll get angry at you in a moment. Rememberyou’ve been pent up all your life. I venture to say that if you’dbeen out in the world you’d have had a dozen sweethearts and have toldmany a lie before this.”

“I wouldn’t anything of the kind,” declared Bess,indignantly.

“Well—perhaps not lie. But you’d have had thesweethearts—You couldn’t have helped that—being sopretty.”

This remark appeared to be a very clever and fortunate one; and the work ofselecting and then of stowing all the packs in the cave went on without furtherinterruption.

Venters closed up the opening of the cave with a thatch of willows and aspens,so that not even a bird or a rat could get in to the sacks of grain. And thiswork was in order with the precaution habitually observed by him. He might notbe able to get out of Utah, and have to return to the valley. But he owed it toBess to make the attempt, and in case they were compelled to turn back hewanted to find that fine store of food and grain intact. The outfit ofimplements and utensils he packed away in another cave.

“Bess, we have enough to live here all our lives,” he said once,dreamily.

“Shall I go roll Balancing Rock?” she asked, in light speech, butwith deep-blue fire in her eyes.

“No—no.”

“Ah, you don’t forget the gold and the world,” she sighed.

“Child, you forget the beautiful dresses and the travel—andeverything.”

“Oh, I want to go. But I want to stay!”

“I feel the same way.”

They let the eight calves out of the corral, and kept only two of the burrosVenters had brought from Cottonwoods. These they intended to ride. Bess freedall her pets—the quail and rabbits and foxes.

The last sunset and twilight and night were both the sweetest and saddest theyhad ever spent in Surprise Valley. Morning brought keen exhilaration andexcitement. When Venters had saddled the two burros, strapped on the lightpacks and the two canteens, the sunlight was dispersing the lazy shadows fromthe valley. Taking a last look at the caves and the silver spruces, Venters andBess made a reluctant start, leading the burros. Ring and Whitie looked keenand knowing. Something seemed to drag at Venters’s feet and he noticedBess lagged behind. Never had the climb from terrace to bridge appeared solong.

Not till they reached the opening of the gorge did they stop to rest and takeone last look at the valley. The tremendous arch of stone curved clear andsharp in outline against the morning sky. And through it streaked the goldenshaft. The valley seemed an enchanted circle of glorious veils of gold andwraiths of white and silver haze and dim, blue, moving shade—beautifuland wild and unreal as a dream.

“We—we can—th—think ofit—always—re—remember,” sobbed Bess.

“Hush! Don’t cry. Our valley has only fitted us for a better lifesomewhere. Come!”

They entered the gorge and he closed the willow gate. From rosy, golden morninglight they passed into cool, dense gloom. The burros pattered up the trail withlittle hollow-cracking steps. And the gorge widened to narrow outlet and thegloom lightened to gray. At the divide they halted for another rest.Venters’s keen, remembering gaze searched Balancing Rock, and the longincline, and the cracked toppling walls, but failed to note the slightestchange.

The dogs led the descent; then came Bess leading her burro; then Ventersleading his. Bess kept her eyes bent downward. Venters, however, had anirresistible desire to look upward at Balancing Rock. It had always hauntedhim, and now he wondered if he were really to get through the outlet before thehuge stone thundered down. He fancied that would be a miracle. Every few stepshe answered to the strange, nervous fear and turned to make sure the rock stillstood like a giant statue. And, as he descended, it grew dimmer in his sight.It changed form; it swayed; it nodded darkly; and at last, in his heightenedfancy, he saw it heave and roll. As in a dream when he felt himself falling yetknew he would never fall, so he saw this long-standing thunderbolt of thelittle stone-men plunge down to close forever the outlet to Deception Pass.

And while he was giving way to unaccountable dread imaginations the descent wasaccomplished without mishap.

“I’m glad that’s over,” he said, breathing more freely.“I hope I’m by that hanging rock for good and all. Since almost themoment I first saw it I’ve had an idea that it was waiting for me. Now,when it does fall, if I’m thousands of miles away, I’ll hearit.”

With the first glimpses of the smooth slope leading down to the grotesquecedars and out to the Pass, Venters’s cool nerve returned. One longsurvey to the left, then one to the right, satisfied his caution. Leading theburros down to the spur of rock, he halted at the steep incline.

“Bess, here’s the bad place, the place I told you about, with thecut steps. You start down, leading your burro. Take your time and hold on tohim if you slip. I’ve got a rope on him and a half-hitch on this point ofrock, so I can let him down safely. Coming up here was a killing job. Butit’ll be easy going down.”

Both burros passed down the difficult stairs cut by the cliff-dwellers, and didit without a misstep. After that the descent down the slope and over the mileof scrawled, ripped, and ridged rock required only careful guidance, andVenters got the burros to level ground in a condition that caused him tocongratulate himself.

“Oh, if we only had Wrangle!” exclaimed Venters. “Butwe’re lucky. That’s the worst of our trail passed. We’ve onlymen to fear now. If we get up in the sage we can hide and slip along likecoyotes.”

They mounted and rode west through the valley and entered the cañon. From timeto time Venters walked, leading his burro. When they got by all the cañons andgullies opening into the Pass they went faster and with fewer halts. Ventersdid not confide in Bess the alarming fact that he had seen horses and smokeless than a mile up one of the intersecting cañons. He did not talk at all.And long after he had passed this cañon and felt secure once more in thecertainty that they had been unobserved he never relaxed his watchfulness. Buthe did not walk any more, and he kept the burros at a steady trot. Night fellbefore they reached the last water in the Pass and they made camp by starlight.Venters did not want the burros to stray, so he tied them with long halters inthe grass near the spring. Bess, tired out and silent, laid her head in asaddle and went to sleep between the two dogs. Venters did not close his eyes.The cañon silence appeared full of the low, continuous hum of insects. Helistened until the hum grew into a roar, and then, breaking the spell, oncemore he heard it low and clear. He watched the stars and the moving shadows,and always his glance returned to the girl’s dimly pale face. And heremembered how white and still it had once looked in the starlight. And againstern thought fought his strange fancies. Would all his labor and his love befor naught? Would he lose her, after all? What did the dark shadow around herportend? Did calamity lurk on that long upland trail through the sage? Whyshould his heart swell and throb with nameless fear? He listened to the silenceand told himself that in the broad light of day he could dispel thisleaden-weighted dread.

At the first hint of gray over the eastern rim he awoke Bess, saddled theburros, and began the day’s travel. He wanted to get out of the Passbefore there was any chance of riders coming down. They gained the break as thefirst red rays of the rising sun colored the rim.

For once, so eager was he to get up to level ground, he did not send Ring orWhitie in advance. Encouraging Bess to hurry pulling at his patient, ploddingburro, he climbed the soft, steep trail.

Brighter and brighter grew the light. He mounted the last broken edge of rim tohave the sun-fired, purple sage-slope burst upon him as a glory. Bess panted upto his side, tugging on the halter of her burro.

“We’re up!” he cried, joyously. “There’s not adot on the sage. We’re safe. We’ll not be seen! Oh,Bess—”

Ring growled and sniffed the keen air and bristled. Venters clutched at hisrifle. Whitie sometimes made a mistake, but Ring never. The dull thud of hoofsalmost deprived Venters of power to turn and see from where disasterthreatened. He felt his eyes dilate as he stared at Lassiter leading Black Starand Night out of the sage, with Jane Withersteen, in rider’s costume,close beside them.

For an instant Venters felt himself whirl dizzily in the center of vast circlesof sage. He recovered partially, enough to see Lassiter standing with a gladsmile and Jane riveted in astonishment.

“Why, Bern!” she exclaimed. “How good it is to see you!We’re riding away, you see. The storm burst—and I’m a ruinedwoman!... I thought you were alone.”

Venters, unable to speak for consternation, and bewildered out of all sense ofwhat he ought or ought not to do, simply stared at Jane.

“Son, where are you bound for?” asked Lassiter.

“Not safe—where I was. I’m—we’re going out ofUtah—back East,” he found tongue to say.

“I reckon this meetin’s the luckiest thing that ever happened toyou an’ to me—an’ to Jane—an’ to Bess,”said Lassiter, coolly.

“Bess!” cried Jane, with a sudden leap of blood to her palecheek.

It was entirely beyond Venters to see any luck in that meeting.

Jane Withersteen took one flashing, woman’s glance at Bess’sscarlet face, at her slender, shapely form.

“Venters! is this a girl—a woman?” she questioned, in a voicethat stung.

“Yes.”

“Did you have her in that wonderful valley?”

“Yes, but Jane—”

“All the time you were gone?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t tell—”

“Was it for heryou asked me to give you supplies? Was it forherthat you wanted to make your valley a paradise?”

“Oh—Jane—”

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you liar!” And with these passionate words Jane Withersteensuccumbed to fury. For the second time in her life she fell into theungovernable rage that had been her father’s weakness. And it was worsethan his, for she was a jealous woman—jealous even of her friends.

As best he could, he bore the brunt of her anger. It was not only his deceit toher that she visited upon him, but her betrayal by religion, by life itself.

Her passion, like fire at white heat, consumed itself in little time. Herphysical strength failed, and still her spirit attempted to go on inmagnificent denunciation of those who had wronged her. Like a tree cut deepinto its roots, she began to quiver and shake, and her anger weakened intodespair. And her ringing voice sank into a broken, husky whisper. Then, spentand pitiable, upheld by Lassiter’s arm, she turned and hid her face inBlack Star’s mane.

Numb as Venters was when at length Jane Withersteen lifted her head and lookedat him, he yet suffered a pang.

“Jane, the girl is innocent!” he cried.

“Can you expect me to believe that?” she asked, with weary, bittereyes.

“I’m not that kind of a liar. And you know it. If I lied—if Ikept silent when honor should have made me speak, it was to spare you. I cameto Cottonwoods to tell you. But I couldn’t add to your pain. I intendedto tell you I had come to love this girl. But, Jane I hadn’t forgottenhow good you were to me. I haven’t changed at all toward you. I prizeyour friendship as I always have. But, however it may look toyou—don’t be unjust. The girl is innocent. Ask Lassiter.”

“Jane, she’s jest as sweet an’ innocent as little Fay,”said Lassiter. There was a faint smile upon his face and a beautiful light.

Venters saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Withersteen’s torturedsoul wrestled with hate and threw it—with scorn doubt, suspicion, andovercame all.

“Bern, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I craveforgiveness,” she said. “I’m not what I once was. Tellme—who is this girl?”

“Jane, she is Oldring’s daughter, and his Masked Rider. Lassiterwill tell you how I shot her for a rustler, saved her life—all the story.It’s a strange story, Jane, as wild as the sage. But it’strue—true as her innocence. That you must believe.”

“Oldring’s Masked Rider! Oldring’s daughter!” exclaimedJane. “And she’s innocent! You ask me to believe much. If this girlis—is what you say, how could she be going away with the man who killedher father?”

“Why did you tell that?” cried Venters, passionately.

Jane’s question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her eyes suddenlydarkened and dilated. She stepped toward Venters and held up both hands as ifto ward off a blow.

“Did—did you kill Oldring?”

“I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I never dreamed hewas your father. I thought he’d wronged you. I killed him when I wasmadly jealous.”

For a moment Bess was shocked into silence.

“But he was my father!” she broke out, at last. “And now Imust go back—I can’t go with you. It’s all over—thatbeautiful dream. Oh, I knewit couldn’t come true. You can’ttake me now.”

“If you forgive me, Bess, it’ll all come right in the end!”implored Venters.

“It can’t be right. I’ll go back. After all, I loved him. Hewas good to me. I can’t forget that.”

“If you go back to Oldring’s men I’ll follow you, and thenthey’ll kill me,” said Venters, hoarsely.

“Oh no, Bern, you’ll not come. Let me go. It’s best for youto forget me. I’ve brought you only pain and dishonor.”

She did not weep. But the sweet bloom and life died out of her face. She lookedhaggard and sad, all at once stunted; and her hands dropped listlessly; and herhead drooped in slow, final acceptance of a hopeless fate.

“Jane, look there!” cried Venters, in despairing grief. “Needyou have told her? Where was all your kindness of heart? This girl has had awretched, lonely life. And I’d found a way to make her happy.You’ve killed it. You’ve killed something sweet and pure andhopeful, just as sure as you breathe.”

“Oh, Bern! It was a slip. I never thought—I never thought!”replied Jane. “How could I tell she didn’t know?”

Lassiter suddenly moved forward, and with the beautiful light on his face nowstrangely luminous, he looked at Jane and Venters and then let his soft, brightgaze rest on Bess.

“Well, I reckon you’ve all had your say, an’ now it’sLassiter’s turn. Why, I was jest praying for this meetin’. Bess,jest look here.”

Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, and then outspreadhis great hand to disclose a shiny, battered gold locket.

“Open it,” he said, with a singularly rich voice.

Bess complied, but listlessly.

“Jane—Venters—come closer,” went on Lassiter.“Take a look at the picture. Don’t you know the woman?”

Jane, after one glance, drew back.

“Milly Erne!” she cried, wonderingly.

Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognized in thefaded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne.

“Yes, that’s Milly,” said Lassiter, softly. “Bess, didyou ever see her face—look hard—with all your heart an’soul?”

“The eyes seem to haunt me,” whispered Bess. “Oh, Ican’t remember—they’re eyes of mydreams—but—but—”

Lassiter’s strong arm went round her and he bent his head.

“Child, I thought you’d remember her eyes. They’re the samebeautiful eyes you’d see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring.They’re your mother’s eyes. You are Milly Erne’s child. Yourname is Elizabeth Erne. You’re not Oldring’s daughter. You’rethe daughter of Frank Erne, a man once my best friend. Look! Here’s hispicture beside Milly’s. He was handsome, an’ as fine an’gallant a Southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. Youcome of the best of blood, lass, and blood tells.”

Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the locket to her bosom,and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes.

“It—can’t—be—true!”

“Thank God, lass, it istrue,” replied Lassiter. “Janean’ Bern here—they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you.They’re so knocked out they can’t tell you, that’sall.”

“Who are you?” whispered Bess.

“I reckon I’m Milly’s brother an’ your uncle!... UncleJim! Ain’t that fine?”

“Oh, I can’t believe—Don’t raise me! Bern, let mekneel. I see truth in your face—in Miss Withersteen’s. But let mehear it all—all on my knees. Tell me howit’s true!”

“Well, Elizabeth, listen,” said Lassiter. “Before you wasborn your father made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named Dyer. They was bothministers an’ come to be rivals. Dyer stole your mother away from herhome. She gave birth to you in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she was taken toUtah, from place to place, an’ finally to the last bordersettlement—Cottonwoods. You was about three years old when you was takenaway from Milly. She never knew what had become of you. But she lived a goodwhile hopin’ and prayin’ to have you again. Then she gave upan’ died. An’ I may as well put in here your father died ten yearsago. Well, I spent my time tracin’ Milly, an’ some months back Ilanded in Cottonwoods. An’ jest lately I learned all about you. I had atalk with Oldrin’ an’ told him you was dead, an’ he told mewhat I had so long been wantin’ to know. It was Dyer, of course, whostole you from Milly. Part reason he was sore because Milly refused to give youMormon teachin’, but mostly he still hated Frank Erne so infernally thathe made a deal with Oldrin’ to take you an’ bring you up as aninfamous rustler an’ rustler’s girl. The idea was to break FrankErne’s heart if he ever came to Utah—to show him his daughter witha band of low rustlers. Well—Oldrin’ took you, brought you up fromchildhood, an’ then made you his Masked Rider. He made you infamous. Hekept that part of the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughteran’ never let any but his own men know you was a girl. I heard him saythat with my own ears, an’ I saw his big eyes grow dim. He told me how hehad guarded you always, kept you locked up in his absence, was always at yourside or near you on those rides that made you famous on the sage. He said hean’ an old rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read an’write. They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought up thevilest of the vile! An’ Oldrin’ brought you up the innocentest ofthe innocent. He said you didn’t know what vileness was. I can hear hisbig voice tremble now as he said it. He told me how the men—rustlersan’ outlaws—who from time to time tried to approach youfamiliarly—he told me how he shot them dead. I’m tellin’ youthis ’specially because you’ve showed such shame—sayin’you was nameless an’ all that. Nothin’ on earth can be wronger thanthat idea of yours. An’ the truth of it is here. Oldrin’ swore tome that if Dyer died, releasin’ the contract, he intended to hunt up yourfather an’ give you back to him. It seems Oldrin’ wasn’t allbad, en’ he sure loved you.”

Venters leaned forward in passionate remorse.

“Oh, Bess! I know Lassiter speaks the truth. For when I shot Oldring hedropped to his knees and fought with unearthly power to speak. And he said:‘Man—why—didn’t—you—wait? Besswas—’ Then he fell dead. And I’ve been haunted by his lookand words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing for Oldring to do! It allseems impossible. But, dear, you really are not what you thought.”

“Elizabeth Erne!” cried Jane Withersteen. “I loved yourmother and I see her in you!”

What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in the tone, look, andgesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for Bess. With little tremblings of allher slender body she rocked to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulnessof her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was realizinghappiness. And as the process of thought was slow, so were the variations ofher expression. Her eyes reflected the transformation of her soul. Dark,brooding, hopeless belief—clouds of gloom—drifted, paled, vanishedin glorious light. An exquisite rose flush—a glow—shone from herface as she slowly began to rise from her knees. A spirit uplifted her. Allthat she had held as base dropped from her.

Venters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he divined something ofwhat Lassiter’s revelation meant to Bess, but he knew he could onlyfaintly understand. That moment when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritualtransfiguration was the most beautiful moment of his life. She stood withparted, quivering lips, with hands tightly clasping the locket to her heavingbreast. A new conscious pride of worth dignified the old wild, free grace andpoise.

“Uncle Jim!” she said, tremulously, with a different smile from anyVenters had ever seen on her face.

Lassiter took her into his arms.

“I reckon. It’s powerful fine to hear that,” repliedLassiter, unsteadily.

Venters, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away, and found himselflooking at Jane Withersteen. He had almost forgotten her presence. Tendernessand sympathy were fast hiding traces of her agitation. Venters read hermind—felt the reaction of her noble heart—saw the joy she wasbeginning to feel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded, choked byhis emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what she would do presently; shewould make some magnificent amend for her anger; she would give somemanifestation of her love; probably all in a moment, as she had loved MillyErne, so would she love Elizabeth Erne.

“’Pears to me, folks, that we’d better talk a little seriousnow,” remarked Lassiter, at length. “Time flies.”

“You’re right,” replied Venters, instantly. “I’dforgotten time—place—danger. Lassiter, you’re riding away.Jane’s leaving Withersteen House?”

“Forever,” replied Jane.

“I fired Withersteen House,” said Lassiter.

“Dyer?” questioned Venters, sharply.

“I reckon where Dyer’s gone there won’t be anykidnappin’ of girls.”

“Ah! I knew it. I told Judkins—And Tull?” went on Venters,passionately.

“Tull wasn’t around when I broke loose. By now he’s likely onour trail with his riders.”

“Lassiter, you’re going into the Pass to hide till all this stormblows over?”

“I reckon that’s Jane’s idea. I’m thinkin’ thestorm’ll be a powerful long time blowin’ over. I was comin’to join you in Surprise Valley. You’ll go back now with me?”

“No. I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter, Bess found gold in thevalley. We’ve a saddle-bag full of gold. If we can reachSterling—”

“Man! how’re you ever goin’ to do that? Sterlin’ is ahundred miles.”

“My plan is to ride on, keeping sharp lookout. Somewhere up the trailwe’ll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods and then hit the trailagain.”

“It’s a bad plan. You’ll kill the burros in two days.”

“Then we’ll walk.”

“That’s more bad an’ worse. Better go back down the Pass withme.”

“Lassiter, this girl has been hidden all her life in that lonelyplace,” went on Venters. “Oldring’s men are hunting me.We’d not be safe there any longer. Even if we would be I’d takethis chance to get her out. I want to marry her. She shall have some of thepleasures of life—see cities and people. We’vegold—we’ll be rich. Why, life opens sweet for both of us. And, byHeaven! I’ll get her out or lose my life in the attempt!”

“I reckon if you go on with them burros you’ll lose your life allright. Tull will have riders all over this sage. You can’t get out onthem burros. It’s a fool idea. That’s not doin’ best by thegirl. Come with me en’ take chances on the rustlers.”

Lassiter’s cool argument made Venters waver, not in determination to go,but in hope of success.

“Bess, I want you to know. Lassiter says the trip’s almost uselessnow. I’m afraid he’s right. We’ve got about one chance in ahundred to go through. Shall we take it? Shall we go on?”

“We’ll go on,” replied Bess.

“That settles it, Lassiter.”

Lassiter spread wide his hands, as if to signify he could do no more, and hisface clouded.

Venters felt a touch on his elbow. Jane stood beside him with a hand on hisarm. She was smiling. Something radiated from her, and like an electric currentaccelerated the motion of his blood.

“Bern, you’d be right to die rather than not take Elizabeth out ofUtah—out of this wild country. You must do it. You’ll show her thegreat world, with all its wonders. Think how little she has seen! Think whatdelight is in store for her! You have gold, You will be free; you will make herhappy. What a glorious prospect! I share it with you. I’ll think ofyou—dream of you—pray for you.”

“Thank you, Jane,” replied Venters, trying to steady his voice.“It does look bright. Oh, if we were only across that wide, open waste ofsage!”

“Bern, the trip’s as good as made. It’ll be safe—easy.It’ll be a glorious ride,” she said, softly.

Venters stared. Had Jane’s troubles made her insane? Lassiter, too, actedqueerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero round in hands thatactually shook.

“You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of yourlives,” added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she weremusing to herself.

“Jane!” he cried.

“I give you Black Star and Night!”

“Black Star and Night!” he echoed.

“It’s done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros.”

Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did Venters’sclogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to catch Lassiter’sbusy hands.

“No, no! What are you doing?” he demanded, in a kind of fury.“I won’t take her racers. What do you think I am? It’d bemonstrous. Lassiter! stop it, I say!... You’ve got her to save.You’ve miles and miles to go. Tull is trailing you. There are rustlers inthe Pass. Give me back that saddle-bag!”

“Son—cool down,” returned Lassiter, in a voice he might haveused to a child. But the grip with which he tore away Venters’s graspinghands was that of a giant. “Listen—you fool boy! Jane’s sizedup the situation. The burros’ll do for us. We’ll sneak alongan’ hide. I’ll take your dogs an’ your rifle. Why, it’sthe trick. The blacks are yours, an’ sure as I can throw a gunyou’re goin’ to ride safe out of the sage.”

“Jane—stop him—please stop him,” gasped Venters.“I’ve lost my strength. I can’t do—anything. This ishell for me! Can’t you see that? I’ve ruined you—it wasthrough me you lost all. You’ve only Black Star and Night left. You lovethese horses. Oh! I know how you must love them now! And—you’retrying to give them to me. To help me out of Utah! To save the girl Ilove!”

“That will be my glory.”

Then in the white, rapt face, in the unfathomable eyes, Venters saw JaneWithersteen in a supreme moment. This moment was one wherein she reached up tothe height for which her noble soul had ever yearned. He, after disrupting thecalm tenor of her peace, after bringing down on her head the implacablehostility of her churchmen, after teaching her a bitter lesson of life—hewas to be her salvation. And he turned away again, this time shaken to the coreof his soul. Jane Withersteen was the incarnation of selflessness. Heexperienced wonder and terror, exquisite pain and rapture. What were all theshocks life had dealt him compared to the thought of such loyal and generousfriendship?

And instantly, as if by some divine insight, he knew himself in theremaking—tried, found wanting; but stronger, better, surer—and hewheeled to Jane Withersteen, eager, joyous, passionate, wild, exalted. He bentto her; he left tears and kisses on her hands.

“Jane, I—I can’t find words—now,” he said.“I’m beyond words. Only—I understand. And I’ll take theblacks.”

“Don’t be losin’ no more time,” cut in Lassiter.“I ain’t certain, but I think I seen a speck up the sage-slope.Mebbe I was mistaken. But, anyway, we must all be movin’. I’veshortened the stirrups on Black Star. Put Bess on him.”

Jane Withersteen held out her arms.

“Elizabeth Erne!” she cried, and Bess flew to her.

How inconceivably strange and beautiful it was for Venters to see Bess claspedto Jane Withersteen’s breast!

Then he leaped astride Night.

“Venters, ride straight on up the slope,” Lassiter was saying,“’an if you don’t meet any riders keep on till you’re afew miles from the village, then cut off in the sage an’ go round to thetrail. But you’ll most likely meet riders with Tull. Jest keep right ontill you’re jest out of gunshot an’ then make your cut-off into thesage. They’ll ride after you, but it won’t be no use. You can ride,an’ Bess can ride. When you’re out of reach turn on round to thewest, an’ hit the trail somewhere. Save the hosses all you can, butdon’t be afraid. Black Star and Night are good for a hundred miles beforesundown, if you have to push them. You can get to Sterlin’ by night ifyou want. But better make it along about to-morrow mornin’. When you getthrough the notch on the Glaze trail, swing to the right. You’ll be ableto see both Glaze an’ Stone Bridge. Keep away from them villages. Youwon’t run no risk of meetin’ any of Oldrin’s rustlers fromSterlin’ on. You’ll find water in them deep hollows north of theNotch. There’s an old trail there, not much used, en’ it leads toSterlin’. That’s your trail. An’ one thing more. If Tullpushes you—or keeps on persistent-like, for a few miles—jest letthe blacks out an’ lose him an’ his riders.”

“Lassiter, may we meet again!” said Venters, in a deep voice.

“Son, it ain’t likely—it ain’t likely. Well, BessOldrin’—Masked Rider—Elizabeth Erne—now you climb onBlack Star. I’ve heard you could ride. Well, every rider loves a goodhorse. An’, lass, there never was but one that could beat BlackStar.”

“Ah, Lassiter, there never was any horse that could beat BlackStar,” said Jane, with the old pride.

“I often wondered—mebbe Venters rode out that race when he broughtback the blacks. Son, was Wrangle the best hoss?”

“No, Lassiter,” replied Venters. For this lie he had his reward inJane’s quick smile.

“Well, well, my hoss-sense ain’t always right. An’ hereI’m talkin’ a lot, wastin’ time. It ain’t so easy tofind an’ lose a pretty niece all in one hour!Elizabeth—good-by!”

“Oh, Uncle Jim!... Good-by!”

“Elizabeth Erne, be happy! Good-by,” said Jane.

“Good-by—oh—good-by!” In lithe, supple action Bessswung up to Black Star’s saddle.

“Jane Withersteen!... Good-by!” called Venters hoarsely.

“Bern—Bess—riders of the purple sage—good-by!”

CHAPTER XXII.
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward along thewhite, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard a mournful howl fromRing, but Whitie was silent. The blacks settled into their fleet, long-stridinggallop. The wind sweetly fanned Venters’s hot face. From the summit ofthe first low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiter waved his hand; Janewaved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in his stirrups and holding highhis sombrero. Then the dip of the ridge hid them. From the height of the nexthe turned once more. Lassiter, Jane, and the burros had disappeared. They hadgone down into the Pass. Venters felt a sensation of irreparable loss.

“Bern—look!” called Bess, pointing up the long slope.

A small, dark, moving dot split the line where purple sage met blue sky. Thatdot was a band of riders.

“Pull the black, Bess.”

They slowed from gallop to canter, then to trot. The fresh and eager horses didnot like the check.

“Bern, Black Star has great eyesight.”

“I wonder if they’re Tull’s riders. They might be rustlers.But it’s all the same to us.”

The black dot grew to a dark patch moving under low dust clouds. It grew allthe time, though very slowly. There were long periods when it was in plainsight, and intervals when it dropped behind the sage. The blacks trotted forhalf an hour, for another half-hour, and still the moving patch appeared tostay on the horizon line. Gradually, however, as time passed, it began toenlarge, to creep down the slope, to encroach upon the intervening distance.

“Bess, what do you make them out?” asked Venters. “Idon’t think they’re rustlers.”

“They’re sage-riders,” replied Bess. “I see a whitehorse and several grays. Rustlers seldom ride any horses but bays andblacks.”

“That white horse is Tull’s. Pull the black, Bess. I’ll getdown and cinch up. We’re in for some riding. Are you afraid?”

“Not now,” answered the girl, smiling.

“You needn’t be. Bess, you don’t weigh enough to make BlackStar know you’re on him. I won’t be able to stay with you.You’ll leave Tull and his riders as if they were standing still.”

“How about you?”

“Never fear. If I can’t stay with you I can still laugh atTull.”

“Look, Bern! They’ve stopped on that ridge. They see us.”

“Yes. But we’re too far yet for them to make out who we are.They’ll recognize the blacks first. We’ve passed most of the ridgesand the thickest sage. Now, when I give the word, let Black Star go andride!”

Venters calculated that a mile or more still intervened between them and theriders. They were approaching at a swift canter. Soon Venters recognizedTull’s white horse, and concluded that the riders had likewise recognizedBlack Star and Night. But it would be impossible for Tull yet to see that theblacks were not ridden by Lassiter and Jane. Venters noted that Tull and theline of horsemen, perhaps ten or twelve in number, stopped several times andevidently looked hard down the slope. It must have been a puzzling circumstancefor Tull. Venters laughed grimly at the thought of what Tull’s rage wouldbe when he finally discovered the trick. Venters meant to sheer out into thesage before Tull could possibly be sure who rode the blacks.

The gap closed to a distance of half a mile. Tull halted. His riders came upand formed a dark group around him. Venters thought he saw him wave his armsand was certain of it when the riders dashed into the sage, to right and leftof the trail. Tull had anticipated just the move held in mind by Venters.

“Now Bess!” shouted Venters. “Strike north. Go round thoseriders and turn west.”

Black Star sailed over the low sage, and in a few leaps got into his stride andwas running. Venters spurred Night after him. It was hard going in the sage.The horses could run as well there, but keen eyesight and judgment mustconstantly be used by the riders in choosing ground. And continuous swervingfrom aisle to aisle between the brush, and leaping little washes and mounds ofthe pack-rats, and breaking through sage, made rough riding. When Venters hadturned into a long aisle he had time to look up at Tull’s riders. Theywere now strung out into an extended line riding northeast. And, as Venters andBess were holding due north, this meant, if the horses of Tull and his ridershad the speed and the staying power, they would head the blacks and turn themback down the slope. Tull’s men were not saving their mounts; they weredriving them desperately. Venters feared only an accident to Black Star orNight, and skilful riding would mitigate possibility of that. One glance aheadserved to show him that Bess could pick a course through the sage as well ashe. She looked neither back nor at the running riders, and bent forward overBlack Star’s neck and studied the ground ahead.

It struck Venters, presently, after he had glanced up from time to time, thatBess was drawing away from him as he had expected. He had, however, onlythought of the light weight Black Star was carrying and of his superior speed;he saw now that the black was being ridden as never before, except when JerryCard lost the race to Wrangle. How easily, gracefully, naturally, Bess sat hersaddle! She could ride! Suddenly Venters remembered she had said she couldride. But he had not dreamed she was capable of such superb horsemanship. Thenall at once, flashing over him, thrilling him, came the recollection that Besswas Oldring’s Masked Rider.

He forgot Tull—the running riders—the race. He let Night have afree rein and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing he would keep toBlack Star’s course, knowing that he had been chosen by the best ridernow on the upland sage. For Jerry Card was dead. And fame had rivaled him withonly one rider, and that was the slender girl who now swung so easily withBlack Star’s stride. Venters had abhorred her notoriety, but now he tookpassionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power over a horse. And hedelved into his memory, recalling famous rides which he had heard related inthe villages and round the camp-fires. Oldring’s Masked Rider! Many timesthis strange rider, at once well known and unknown, had escaped pursuers bymatchless riding. He had to run the gantlet of vigilantes down the main streetof Stone Bridge, leaving dead horses and dead rustlers behind. He had jumpedhis horse over the Gerber Wash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields ofGlaze from the wild sage. He had been surrounded north of Sterling; and he hadbroken through the line. How often had been told the story of day stampedes, ofnight raids, of pursuit, and then how the Masked Rider, swift as the wind, wasgone in the sage! A fleet, dark horse—a slender, dark form—a blackmask—a driving run down the slope—a dot on the purple sage—ashadowy, muffled steed disappearing in the night!

And this Masked Rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth Erne!

The sweet sage wind rushed in Venters’s face and sang a song in his ears.He heard the dull, rapid beat of Night’s hoofs; he saw Black Star drawingaway, farther and farther. He realized both horses were swinging to the west.Then gunshots in the rear reminded him of Tull. Venters looked back. Far to theside, dropping behind, trooped the riders. They were shooting. Venters saw nopuffs or dust, heard no whistling bullets. He was out of range. When he lookedback again Tull’s riders had given up pursuit. The best they could do, nodoubt, had been to get near enough to recognize who really rode the blacks.Venters saw Tull drooping in his saddle.

Then Venters pulled Night out of his running stride. Those few miles hadscarcely warmed the black, but Venters wished to save him. Bess turned, and,though she was far away, Venters caught the white glint of her waving hand. Heheld Night to a trot and rode on, seeing Bess and Black Star, and the slopingupward stretch of sage, and from time to time the receding black riders behind.Soon they disappeared behind a ridge, and he turned no more. They would go backto Lassiter’s trail and follow it, and follow in vain. So Venters rodeon, with the wind growing sweeter to taste and smell, and the purple sagericher and the sky bluer in his sight; and the song in his ears ringing. By andby Bess halted to wait for him, and he knew she had come to the trail. When hereached her it was to smile at sight of her standing with arms round BlackStar’s neck.

“Oh, Bern! I love him!” she cried. “He’s beautiful; heknows; and how he can run! I’ve had fast horses. But Black Star!...Wrangle never beat him!”

“I’m wondering if I didn’t dream that. Bess, the blacks aregrand. What it must have cost Jane—ah!—well, when we get out ofthis wild country with Star and Night, back to my old home in Illinois,we’ll buy a beautiful farm with meadows and springs and cool shade. Therewe’ll turn the horses free—free to roam and browse anddrink—never to feel a spur again—never to be ridden!”

“I would like that,” said Bess.

They rested. Then, mounting, they rode side by side up the white trail. The sunrose higher behind them. Far to the left a low line of green marked the site ofCottonwoods. Venters looked once and looked no more. Bess gazed only straightahead. They put the blacks to the long, swinging rider’s canter, and attimes pulled them to a trot, and occasionally to a walk. The hours passed, themiles slipped behind, and the wall of rock loomed in the fore. The Notch openedwide. It was a rugged, stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Ventersand Bess ran the blacks through it. An old trail led off to the right, takingthe line of the wall, and this Venters knew to be the trail mentioned byLassiter.

The little hamlet, Glaze, a white and green patch in the vast waste of purple,lay miles down a slope much like the Cottonwoods slope, only this descended tothe west. And miles farther west a faint green spot marked the location ofStone Bridge. All the rest of that world was seemingly smooth, undulating sage,with no ragged lines of cañons to accentuate its wildness.

“Bess, we’re safe—we’re free!” said Venters.“We’re alone on the sage. We’re half way to Sterling.”

“Ah! I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Withersteen.”

“Never fear, Bess. He’ll outwit Tull. He’ll get away and hideher safely. He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I don’t thinkhe’ll go so far.”

“Bern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?”

“No. But, dear, listen. Well go back some day, after years—tenyears. Then we’ll be forgotten. And our valley will be just as we leftit.”

“What if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the Pass?”

“I’ve thought of that. I’ll pack in ropes and ropes. And ifthe outlet’s closed we’ll climb up the cliffs and over them to thevalley and go down on rope ladders. It could be done. I know just where to makethe climb, and I’ll never forget.”

“Oh yes, let us go back!”

“It’s something sweet to look forward to. Bess, it’s like allthe future looks to me.”

“Call me—Elizabeth,” she said, shyly.

“Elizabeth Erne! It’s a beautiful name. But I’ll never forgetBess. Do you know—have you thought that very soon—by this timeto-morrow—you will be Elizabeth Venters?”

So they rode on down the old trail. And the sun sloped to the west, and agolden sheen lay on the sage. The hours sped now; the afternoon waned. Oftenthey rested the horses. The glisten of a pool of water in a hollow caughtVenters’s eye, and here he unsaddled the blacks and let them roll anddrink and browse. When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sun was low, acrimson ball, and the valley seemed veiled in purple fire and smoke. It wasthat short time when the sun appeared to rest before setting, and silence, likea cloak of invisible life, lay heavy on all that shimmering world of sage.

When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sun was low.

They watched the sun begin to bury its red curve under the dark horizon.

“We’ll ride on till late,” he said. “Then you can sleepa little, while I watch and graze the horses. And we’ll ride intoSterling early to-morrow. We’ll be married!... We’ll be in time tocatch the stage. We’ll tie Black Star and Night behind—andthen—for a country not wild and terrible like this!”

“Oh, Bern!... But look! The sun is setting on the sage—the lasttime for us till we dare come again to the Utah border. Ten years! Oh, Bern,look, so you will never forget!”

Slumbering, fading purple fire burned over the undulating sage ridges. Longstreaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed the far western slope. Drifting,golden veils mingled with low, purple shadows. Colors and shades changed inslow, wondrous transformation.

Suddenly Venters was startled by a low, rumbling roar—so low that it waslike the roar in a sea-shell.

“Bess, did you hear anything?” he whispered.

“No.”

“Listen!... Maybe I only imagined—Ah!”

Out of the east or north from remote distance, breathed an infinitely low,continuously long sound—deep, weird, detonating, thundering,deadening—dying.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK

Through tear-blurred sight Jane Withersteen watched Venters and Elizabeth Erneand the black racers disappear over the ridge of sage.

“They’re gone!” said Lassiter. “An’ they’resafe now. An’ there’ll never be a day of their comin’ happylives but what they’ll remember Jane Withersteenan’—an’ Uncle Jim!... I reckon, Jane, we’d better be onour way.”

The burros obediently wheeled and started down the break with little cautioussteps, but Lassiter had to leash the whining dogs and lead them. Jane feltherself bound in a feeling that was neither listlessness nor indifference, yetwhich rendered her incapable of interest. She was still strong in body, butemotionally tired. That hour at the entrance to Deception Pass had been theclimax of her suffering—the flood of her wrath—the last of hersacrifice—the supremity of her love—and the attainment of peace.She thought that if she had little Fay she would not ask any more of life.

Like an automaton she followed Lassiter down the steep trail of dust and bitsof weathered stone; and when the little slides moved with her or piled aroundher knees she experienced no alarm. Vague relief came to her in the sense ofbeing enclosed between dark stone walls, deep hidden from the glare of sun,from the glistening sage. Lassiter lengthened the stirrup straps on one of theburros and bade her mount and ride close to him. She was to keep the burro fromcracking his little hard hoofs on stones. Then she was riding on between dark,gleaming walls. There were quiet and rest and coolness in this cañon. Shenoted indifferently that they passed close under shady, bulging shelves ofcliff, through patches of grass and sage and thicket and groves of slendertrees, and over white, pebbly washes, and around masses of broken rock. Theburros trotted tirelessly; the dogs, once more free, pattered tirelessly; andLassiter led on with never a stop, and at every open place he looked back. Theshade under the walls gave place to sunlight. And presently they came to adense thicket of slender trees, through which they passed to rich, green grassand water. Here Lassiter rested the burros for a little while, but he wasrestless, uneasy, silent, always listening, peering under the trees. She dullyreflected that enemies were behind them—before them; still the thoughtawakened no dread or concern or interest.

At his bidding she mounted and rode on close to the heels of his burro. Thecañon narrowed; the walls lifted their rugged rims higher; and the sun shonedown hot from the center of the blue stream of sky above. Lassiter traveledslower, with more exceeding care as to the ground he chose, and he keptspeaking low to the dogs. They were now hunting-dogs—keen, alert,suspicious, sniffing the warm breeze. The monotony of the yellow walls broke inchange of color and smooth surface, and the rugged outline of rims grew craggy.Splits appeared in deep breaks, and gorges running at right angles, and thenthe Pass opened wide at a junction of intersecting cañons.

Lassiter dismounted, led his burro, called the dogs close, and proceeded atsnail pace through dark masses of rock and dense thickets under the left wall.Long he watched and listened before venturing to cross the mouths of sidecañons. At length he halted, fled his burro, lifted a warning hand to Jane,and then slipped away among the boulders, and, followed by the stealthy dogs,disappeared from sight. The time he remained absent was neither short nor longto Jane Withersteen.

When he reached her side again he was pale, and his lips were set in a hardline, and his gray eyes glittered coldly. Bidding her dismount, he led theburros into a covert of stones and cedars, and tied them.

“Jane, I’ve run into the fellers I’ve been lookin’ for,an’ I’m goin’ after them,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“I reckon I won’t take time to tell you.”

“Couldn’t we slip by without being seen?”

“Likely enough. But that ain’t my game. An’ I’d like toknow, in case I don’t come back, what you’ll do.”

“What can I do?”

“I reckon you can go back to Tull. Or stay in the Pass an’ be takenoff by rustlers. Which’ll you do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think very well. But I believeI’d rather be taken off by rustlers.”

Lassiter sat down, put his head in his hands, and remained for a few moments inwhat appeared to be deep and painful thought. When he lifted his face it washaggard, lined, cold as sculptured marble.

“I’ll go. I only mentioned that chance of my not comin’ back.I’m pretty sure to come.”

“Need you risk so much? Must you fight more? Haven’t you shedenough blood?”

“I’d like to tell you why I’m goin’,” hecontinued, in coldness he had seldom used to her. She remarked it, but it wasthe same to her as if he had spoken with his old gentle warmth. “But Ireckon I won’t. Only, I’ll say that mercy an’ goodness, suchas is in you, though they’re the grand things in human nature,can’t be lived up to on this Utah border. Life’s hell out here. Youthink—or you used to think—that your religion made this lifeheaven. Mebbe them scales on your eyes has dropped now. Jane, I wouldn’thave you no different, an’ that’s why I’m going to try tohide you somewhere in this Pass. I’d like to hide many more women, forI’ve come to see there are more like you among your people. An’I’d like you to see jest how hard an’ cruel this border life is.It’s bloody. You’d think churches an’ churchmen would make itbetter. They make it worse. You give names to things—bishops, elders,ministers, Mormonism, duty, faith, glory. You dream—or you’redriven mad. I’m a man, an’ I know. I name fanatics, followers,blind women, oppressors, thieves, ranchers, rustlers, riders. An’ wehave—what you’ve lived through these last months. It can’t behelped. But it can’t last always. An’ remember this—some daythe border’ll be better, cleaner, for the ways of men likeLassiter!”

She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely and steadfastly,and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocks and trees. Ring andWhitie, not being bidden to follow, remained with Jane. She felt extremeweariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of her body. And she sat down inthe shade and tried to think. She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, thedrooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once themeanest flower, a color, the flight of the bee, or any living thing had givenher deepest joy. Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust,probably to his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in hersorrow.

Suddenly from the mouth of the cañon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharpreport of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly high yell ofanguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped, in grim imitation. Dullrevolver shots—hoarse yells—pound of hoofs—shrill neighs ofhorses—commingling of echoes—and again silence! Lassiter must bebusily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanchingtightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had alwaysbeen bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the worldflashed through her mind—Greek and Roman wars, dark, mediæval times, thecrimes in the name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhere—shooting,stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppression,fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom—for these, men killedone another.

She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelike foliageat the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care.

More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding ofweathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again the clear,sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry of death. Then riflereports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed overJane’s hiding-place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air. Afterthat, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased under long,thundering fire from heavier guns.

Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ hoofs on thestones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened untilLassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When heappeared he was covered with blood.

“All right, Jane,” he said. “I come back. An’don’t worry.”

With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.

“Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, en’ tie up these places.That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse’n this at over myear. There—you’re doin’ fine! Not a bit nervous—notremblin’. I reckon I ain’t done your courage justice. I’mglad you’re brave jest now—you’ll need to be. Well, I was hidpretty good, enough to keep them from shootin’ me deep, but they wasslingin’ lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells,an’ en I went after them. Mebbe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had touse up every shell in my own gun, an’ they did, too, as I seen. Rustlersan’ Mormons, Jane! An’ now I’m packin’ five bulletholes in my carcass, an’ guns without shells. Hurry, now.”

He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the saddles and let themlie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stonesand cedars to an open where two horses stood.

“Jane, are you strong?” he asked.

“I think so. I’m not tired,” Jane replied.

“I don’t mean that way. Can you bear up?”

“I think I can bear anything.”

“I reckon you look a little cold an’ thick. So I’mpreparin’ you.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. Icouldn’t tell you. I believe you’d have died. But I can tell younow—if you’ll bear up under a shock?”

“Go on, my friend.”

“I’ve got little Fay!Alive—bad hurt—butshe’ll live!”

Jane Withersteen’s dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiter’s deep,quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life.

“Here,” he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass.

Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By that long,beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fay’sloveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she wasnot dead—her heart beat—and Jane Withersteen gathered strength andlived again.

“You see I jest had to go after Fay,” Lassiter was saying, as heknelt to bathe her little pale face. “But I reckon I don’t want nomore choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in thatbunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, that’s why they wereholding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, en’ was hard put to it tofigure out a way to get her. An’ I wanted hosses, too. I had to takechances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with littleFay, an’ when I shot him, of course she dropped. She’s stunnedan’ bruised—she fell right on her head. Jane, she’scomin’ to! She ain’t bad hurt!”

Fay’s long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazedover. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine withintelligence—bewilderment—memory—and sudden wonderful joy.

“Muvver—Jane!” she whispered.

“Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping thechild to her.

“Now, we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grimcoolness. “Jane, look down the Pass!”

Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filingout of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which,even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.

“Tull!” she almost screamed.

“I reckon. But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands.They’re ridin’ tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. Hewouldn’t forget that. An’ we’ve fresh hosses.”

Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girths andcinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.

“Lift little Fay up,” he said.

With shaking arms Jane complied.

“Get back your nerve, woman! This’s life or death now. Mind that.Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hoss’sgoin’ en’ ride!”

Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, tocling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed her soul. Lassiterled the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into anarrow cañon where the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls.The wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and sage andgrass moved under her. Lassiter’s bandaged, blood-stained face turned toher; he shouted encouragement; he looked back down the Pass; he spurred hishorse. Jane clung on, spurring likewise. And the horses settled from hard,furious gallop into a long-striding, driving run. She had never ridden atanything like that pace; desperately she tried to get the swing of the horse,to be of some help to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guidehim into it. But she failed of everything except to keep her seat the saddle,and to spur and spur. At times she closed her eyes unable to bear sight ofFay’s golden curls streaming in the wind. She could not pray; she couldnot rail; she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of good, of use in theworld, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiter’s ride with little Fay tosafety. She would have tried to turn the iron-jawed brute she rode, she wouldhave given herself to that relentless, dark-browed Tull. But she knew Lassiterwould turn with her, so she rode on and on.

Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could not tell.Lassiter’s horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams.Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time to save them, andwent on dripping, heaving, staggering.

“Oh, Lassiter, we must run—we must run!”

He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown from his head, and bloodtrickled down his face. He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of theride, of his burden. Yet how cool and gay he looked—how intrepid!

The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Hours sped ordragged. Time was an instant—an eternity. Jane Withersteen felt hellpursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall from her horse.

“Oh, Lassiter! Is he coming?”

The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fay’s goldenhair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; the walls gleamed; the sageglistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the walls shaded, the sagepaled. The horses walked—trotted—galloped—ran—to fallagain to walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The cañon turned,brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again the sun,lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, scrawled stoneappeared to block the Pass.

“Bear up, Jane, bear up!” called Lassiter. “It’s ourgame, if you don’t weaken.”

“Lassiter! Go on—alone!Save little Fay!”

“Only with you!”

“Oh!—I’m a coward—a miserable coward! I can’tfight or think or hope or pray! I’m lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is hecoming? I’ll not—hold out—”

“Keep your breath, woman, an’ ride not for yourself or for me, butfor Fay!”

A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter’s horse to a walk.

“He’s done,” said the rider.

“Oh, no—no!” moaned Jane.

“Look back, Jane, look back. Three—four miles we’ve comeacross this valley, en’ no Tull yet in sight. Only a few moremiles!”

Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gap in thewall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horse in the lead.Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold,horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiter’slimping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last atFay’s golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, shegained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiterpromised. And, as she gazed, Lassiter’s horse stumbled and fell.

He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle.

“Jane, take the child,” he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane claspedher arms suddenly strong. “They’re gainin’,” went onLassiter, as he watched the pursuing riders. “But we’ll beat’em yet.”

Turning with Jane’s bridle in his hand, he was about to start when he sawthe saddle-bag on the fallen horse.

“I’ve jest about got time,” he muttered, and with swiftfingers that did not blunder or fumble he loosened the bag and threw it overhis shoulder. Then he started to run, leading Jane’s horse, and he ran,and trotted, and walked, and ran again. Close ahead now Jane saw a rise of barerock. Lassiter reached it, searched along the base, and, finding a low place,dragged the weary horse up and over round, smooth stone. Looking backward, Janesaw Tull’s white horse not a mile distant, with riders strung out in along line behind him. Looking forward, she saw more valley to the right, and tothe left a towering cliff. Lassiter pulled the horse and kept on.

Little Fay lay in her arms with wide-open eyes—eyes which were stillshadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. The golden curls blewacross Jane’s lips; the little hands feebly clasped her arm; a ghost of atroubled, trustful smile hovered round the sweet lips. And Jane Withersteenawoke to the spirit of a lioness.

Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward cedar trees of twistedand bleached appearance. Among these he halted.

“Jane, give me the girl en’ get down,” he said. As if itwrenched him he unbuckled the empty black guns with a strange air of finality.He then received Fay in his arms and stood a moment looking backward.Tull’s white horse mounted the ridge of round stone, and several bays orblacks followed. “I wonder what he’ll think when he sees them emptyguns. Jane, bring your saddle-bag and climb after me.”

A glistening, wonderful bare slope, with little holes, swelled up and up tolose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely watched her steps andclimbed behind Lassiter. He moved slowly. Perhaps he was only husbanding hisstrength. But she saw drops of blood on the stone, and then she knew. Theyclimbed and climbed without looking back. Her breast labored; she began to feelas if little points of fiery steel were penetrating her side into her lungs.She heard the panting of Lassiter and the quicker panting of the dogs.

“Wait—here,” he said.

Before her rose a bulge of stone, nicked with little cut steps, and above thata corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that a vast, ponderous cliff.

The dogs pattered up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter mounted the stepswith Fay, and he swayed like a drunken man, and he too disappeared. Butinstantly he returned alone, and half ran, half slipped down to her.

Then from below pealed up hoarse shouts of angry men. Tull and several of hisriders had reached the spot where Lassiter had parted with his guns.

“You’ll need that breath—mebbe!” said Lassiter, facingdownward, with glittering eyes.

“Now, Jane, the last pull,” he went on. “Walk up them littlesteps. I’ll follow an’ steady you. Don’t think. Jest go.Little Fay’s above. Her eyes are open. She jest said to me,‘Where’s muvver Jane?’”

Without a fear or a tremor or a slip or a touch of Lassiter’s hand JaneWithersteen walked up that ladder of cut steps.

He pushed her round the corner of the wall. Fay lay, with wide staring eyes, inthe shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs waited. Lassiter picked up the child andturned into a dark cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazedat a wonderfully smooth and steep incline leading up between ruined,splintered, toppling walls. A red haze from the setting sun filled thispassage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured steps, and blood dripped from himto make splotches on the white stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, butwas compelled, for she found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to drag herdown; she gasped for breath, she thought her heart was bursting. Slower, sloweryet the rider climbed, whistling as he breathed. The incline widened. Hugepinnacles and monuments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunsethaze shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane did not look high, butshe felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. She felt that it was afearful, menacing place. And she climbed on in heartrending effort. And shefell beside Lassiter and Fay at the top of the incline in a narrow, smoothdivide.

He staggered to his feet—staggered to a huge, leaning rock that rested ona small pedestal. He put his hand on it—the hand that had been shotthrough—and Jane saw blood drip from the ragged hole. Then he fell.

“Jane—I—can’t—do—it!” he whispered.

“What?”

“Roll the—stone!... All my—life I’ve loved—toroll stones—en’ now I—can’t!”

“What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone?”

“I planned to—fetch you here—to roll this stone. See!It’ll smash the crags—loosen the walls—close theoutlet!”

As Jane Withersteen gazed down that long incline, walled in by crumblingcliffs, awaiting only the slightest jar to make them fall asunder, she saw Tullappear at the bottom and begin to climb. A rider followedhim—another—and another.

“See! Tull! The riders!”

“Yes—they’ll get us—now.”

“Why? Haven’t you strength left to roll the stone?”

“Jane—it ain’t that—I’ve lost my nerve!”

“You!... Lassiter!”

“I wanted to roll it—meant to—but I—can’t.Venters’s valley is down behind here. We could—live there. But if Iroll the stone—we’re shut in for always. I don’t dare.I’m thinkin’ of you!”

“Lassiter! Roll the stone!” she cried.

He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed the bloody hand onthe Balancing Rock. Jane Withersteen gazed from him down the passageway. Tullwas climbing. Almost, she thought, she saw his dark, relentless face. Behindhim more riders climbed. What did they mean for Fay—forLassiter—for herself?

“Roll the stone!... Lassiter, I love you!”

Under all his deathly pallor, and the blood, and the iron of seared cheek andlined brow, worked a great change. He placed both hands on the rock and thenleaned his shoulder there and braced his powerful body.

“ROLL THE STONE!”

It stirred, it groaned, it grated, it moved, and with a slow grinding, as ofwrathful relief, began to lean. It had waited ages to fall, and now was slow instarting. Then, as if suddenly instinct with life, it leaped hurtlingly down toalight on the steep incline, to bound more swiftly into the air, to gathermomentum, to plunge into the lofty leaning crag below. The crag thundered intoatoms. A wave of air—a splitting shock! Dust shrouded the sunset red ofshaking rims; dust shrouded Tull as he fell on his knees with uplifted arms.Shafts and monuments and sections of wall fell majestically.

From the depths there rose a long-drawn rumbling roar. The outlet to DeceptionPass closed forever.

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