 CHAPTER 20. LASTATOR'S WAY Footprints told the story of little Faes' abduction. In anguish Jane Witherstein turned speechlessly to Lasseter, and confirming her fears, she saw him grey-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 Lasseter, suddenly looming darkly over her. To those cruel men. Speak names, thundered Lasseter. To Bishop Dyer, to Tull, went on Jane, shocked into obedience. Well, what for? I want little Faes. I can't live without her. They've stolen her as they stole Millie Earnes' child. I must have little Faes. I won't only her. 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 back Faes and I'll marry Tull. Never, hissed Lasseter. His long arm leaped at her. Almost running, he dragged her under the cotton woods, across the court, into the huge hall of Witherstein House, and he shut the door with a force that jarred the heavy walls. Black star and knight and bells, since their return, had been locked in this hall, and now they stamped on the stone floor. Lasseter released Jane, and like a dizzy man, swayed from her with a horse cry and leaned shaking against a table where he kept his rider's accoutrements. He began to fumble in his saddlebags. His action brought a clinking metallic sound, the rattling of gun cartridges. His fingers trembled as he slipped cartridges into an extra belt. But as he buckled it over the one he habitually wore, his hands became steady. This second belt contained two guns, smaller than the black one swinging low, and he slipped them round so that his coat hid them. Then he fell to swift action. Jane Witherstein watched him, fascinated but uncomprehending, and she saw him rapidly saddle black star and knight. 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 going to die here. I'm going instead. Looking at him, he was so terrible of aspect she could not comprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyes that would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the gentle Lasseter? What was this presence in the hall about him, about her, this cold, invisible presence? Yes, it's ended, Jane, he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool and implacable. And I'm going to make a little call. I'll lock you in here, and when I get back have the saddlebags full of meat and bread, and be ready to ride. Lasseter, cried Jane. Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain. Desperately she tried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged in torment, and she succeeded. And then she knew. No, no, no, she wailed. You said you'd foregone your vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer. If you want to talk to me about him, leave off the bishop. I don't understand that name or its use. Oh, hadn't you foregone your vengeance on Dyer? Yes. But your actions, your words, your guns, your terrible 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 who drives me. You'll kill him for yourself, for your vengeful hate? No. For Millie earned sake? No. For a little phase? 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, the religious passion of her life, leaped from lethargy and the long months of gradual drifting to doubt were as if they had never been. If you spill 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 raise her. Listen, am I nothing to you? Woman, don't trifle at words. I love you, and I'll soon prove it. I'll give myself to you. I'll ride away with you, 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 her arms, and held him in an embrace that he strove vainly to loosen. Lassiter, would you kill me? I'm fighting my last fight for the principles of my youth, love of religion, love of father. You don't know. You can't guess the truth, and I can't speak ill. I'm losing all. I'm changing. All I've gone through is nothing to this hour. Pity me. Help me in my weakness. You are strong again. Oh, so cruelly, coldly strong. You're killing me. I see you, feel you, as some other Lassiter. My master, be merciful, spare him. His answer was a ruthless smile. She clung the closer to him, and leaned her panting breast on him, and lifted her face to his. Lassiter, I do love you. It's leaped out of my agony. It comes suddenly with a terrible blow of truth. You are a man. I never knew it till now. Some wonderful change came to me when you buckled on these guns and showed that gray, awful face. I loved you then. All my life I've loved, but never it's now. No woman can love like a broken woman. If it were not for one thing, just one thing. And yet I can't speak it. I'd glory in your manhood, the lion in you that means to slay for me. Believe me and spare dire. Be merciful, great, as it's in you to be great. Oh, listen and believe. I have nothing, but I'm a woman, a beautiful woman, Lassiter. A passionate, loving woman. And I love you. Take me, 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 still pressed her palpitating body to his. Kiss me, she whispered blindly. No, not at your price, he answered. His voice had changed, or she 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're blistering your lips, blackening your soul with lies. By the memory of my mother, by my Bible, no. No, I have no Bible, but by my hope of heaven I swear I love you. Lassiter's gray lips formed soundless words that meant even her love could not avail to bend his will. As if the hold of her arms was that of a child's, he loosened it and stepped away. Wait, don't go. Oh, hear a last word. May a more just and merciful God than the God I was taught to worship judge me, forgive me, save me. For I can no longer keep silent. Lassiter, in pleading for dire, I've been pleading more for my father. My father was a Mormon master close to the leaders of the church. It was my father who sent dire out to prosolite. 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, dire-ruined Milly Earn dragged her from her home to Utah, to Cottonwoods. But it was for my father. If Milly Earn was ever wife of a Mormon, that Mormon was my father. I never knew, never will know whether or not she was a wife. Blind I may be, Lassiter, fanatically faithful to a false religion I may have been, but I know justice, and my father is beyond human justice. Surely he is meeting just punishment somewhere. Always it is appalled me the thought of your killing dire for my father's sins. So I have prayed. Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past. This thing I'm about to do ain't for myself or Milly or Faye. It's not because of anything that's happened in the past, but for what is happening right now. It's for you. And listen, since I was a boy I've never thanked God for anything. If there is a God, and I've come to believe it, I thank Him now for the years that made me Lassiter. I can reach down and feel these big guns, and know what I can do with them. And Jane, only one of the Miracle's dire professes to believe in, can save him. Again for Jane Witherstein came the spinning of her brain and darkness, and as she whirled in endless chaos she seemed to be falling at the feet of a luminous figure, a man, Lassiter, who had saved her from herself, who could not be changed, who would slay rightfully. Then she slipped into utter blackness. When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was lying on a couch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow felt damp and cold and wet, someone was chafing her hands. She recognized Judkins, and then saw that his lean, hard face wore the hue and look of excessive agitation. Judkins, her voice broke weakly. All, Ms. Witherstein, you're coming round fine. Now just lay still a little. You're all right. Everything's all right. Where is he? Who? Lassiter. You needn't worry none about him. Where is he? Tell me instantly. Well, he's in the other room, patching up a few trifling bullet holes. Ah! Bishop Dyer? When I seen him last, a matter of half an hour ago, he was on his knees. He was some busy, but he wasn't praying. How strangely you talk. I'll sit up. I'm well, strong again. Tell me. Dyer on his knees? What was he doing? Well, begon your pardon for blunt talk, Ms. Witherstein. Dyer was on his knees and not praying. You remember his big, broad hands? You've seen him raised in blessing over old gray men and little curly-headed children like Faye Larkin. Come to think of that, I just remember ever hearing of his lifting his big hands in blessing over a woman. Well, when I seen him last, just a little while ago, he was on his knees, not praying, as I remarked, and he was pressing his big hands over some bigger wounds. Man, you drive me mad. Did Lassiter kill Dyer? Yes. Did he kill Tall? No. Tall's out of the village with most of his rodders. He's expected back before evening. Lassiter will have to get away before Tall and his rodders come in. It's sure death for him here. And woos for you, too, Ms. Witherstein. There'll be some of an uprising when Tall gets back. I shall ride away with Lassiter. Judkins, tell me all you saw, all you know about this killing. She realized, without wonder or amaze, how Judkins' one word, affirming the death of Dyer, that the catastrophe had fallen, had completed the change whereby she had been molded 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 just saw about all of it, Ms. Witherstein, and I'll be glad to tell you if you'll only have patience with me, said Judkins, earnestly. You see, I've been peculiarly interested, and naturally I'm some excited, and I talk a lot that maybe ain't necessary, but I can't help that. I was at the meeting-house where Dyer was holding court. You know he always acts as magistrate and judge when Tall's away. And the trial was for trying what's left of my boy-rodders that helped me hold your cattle, for a lot of hatched-up things the boys never did. We're used to that, and the boys wouldn't have minded being locked up for a while or having to dig ditches or whatever the judge laid down. You see, I divided the gold you give me among all my boys, and they all hid it, and they all feel rich. How some ever court was adjourned before the judge passed sentence. Yes, ma'am, court was adjourned, some strange and quick, much as if lightning had struck the meeting-house. I had trouble attending the trial, but I got in. There was a good many people there, all my boys, and Judge Dyer with his several clerks. Also he had with him the five-rodders who'd been guarding him pretty close of late. They was Carter, Wright, Jengison, and two new-rodders from Stonebridge. I didn't hear their names, but I heard they was handymen with guns, and they looked more like rustlers than rodders. Anyway there they was, the five all in a row. Judge Dyer was telling Willie Kern, one of my best and hideous boys, Dyer was telling him how there was a ditch opened near Willie's home letting water through his lot where it hadn't ought to go. And Willie was trying to get a word in to prove he wasn't at home all the day it happened, which was true, as I know. But Willie couldn't get a word in, and then Judge Dyer went on laying down the law. And all to once he happened to look down the long room. And if ever any man turned to stone, he was that man. Eventually I looked back to see what had acted so powerful strange on the judge. And there, half way up the room, in the middle of the wide aisle, stood Lassiter. All white and black he looked, and I can't think of anything he resembled unless it's death. Ventures made that same room some still in Chile when he called tall, but this was different. I give my word, Miss Witherstein, that I went cold to my very marrow. I don't know why. But Lassiter had a way about him that's awful. He spoke a word, a name. I couldn't understand it, though he spoke clear as a bell. I was too excited, maybe. Judge Dyer must have understood it, and a lot more that was mystery to me, for he pitched forward out of his chair right onto the platform. Then them five riders, Dyer's bodyguards, they jumped up, and two of them that I found out afterwards were the strangers from Stone Bridge. They piled right out of a window, so quick you couldn't catch your breath. It was plain they wasn't Mormons. Jengison, Carter, and Wright eyed Lassiter for what must have been a second and seemed like an hour, and they went white and strung, but they didn't weaken nor lose their nerve. I had a good look at Lassiter. He stood sort of stiff, bendin' a little, and both his arms were cooked, and his hands looked like a hawk's claws. But there ain't no tellin' how his eyes looked. I know this, though, and that is his eyes could read the mind of any man about to throw a gun. And in watching him, of course, I couldn't see the three men go for their guns. And though I was lookin' right at Lassiter, lookin' hard, I couldn't see how he drawled. He was quicker than eyesight, that's all. But I seen the red spurtin' of his guns, and heard his shots just the very littlest instant before I heard the shots of the riders. And when I turned, Wright and Carter was down, and Jengison, who's tough like a steer, was pullin' the trigger of a woblin' gun. But it was plain he was shot through plumb center, and sudden he fell with a crash and his gun clattered on the floor. Then there was a hell of a silence. Nobody breathed. Certain I didn't, anyway. I saw Lassiter slip the smokin' gun back in a belt. But he hadn't throw'd either of the big black guns, and I thought that's strange. And all this was happenin' quick, you can't imagine how quick. There came a scrapin' on the floor, and Dyer got up, his face like lead. I wanted to watch Lassiter, but Dyer's face, once I seen it like that, glued my eyes. I seen him go for his gun, while I could've done better, quicker. And then there was a thunderin' shot from Lassiter, and it hit Dyer's right arm, and his gun went off as it dropped. He looked at Lassiter like a cornered sage-wolf, and sort of howled, and reached down for his gun. He'd just picked it off the floor and was raisin' it when another thunderin' shot almost tore that arm off, so it seemed to me. The gun dropped again, and he went down on his knees, kind of flounderin' after it. It was some strange and terrible to see his awful earnestness. Why would such a man cling so to life? Anyway, he got the gun with left hand, and was raisin' it, pullin' triggerin' his madness, when the third thunderin' shot hit his left arm, and he dropped the gun again. But that left arm wasn't useless yet, for he grabbed up the gun, and with a shaken aim that would have been pitiful to me in any other man, he began to shoot. One wild bullet struck a man twenty feet from Lassiter, and it killed that man as I seen afterwards. Then came a bunch of thunderin' shots. Nine I calculated after, for they come so quick I couldn't count them, and I knew Lassiter had turned the black gun's loose on Dyer. I'm tellin' ya straight, Miss Witherstein, for I want you to know. Afterward you'll get over it. I seen some soul-rackin' scenes on this Utah border, but this was the awfulest. I remember I closed my eyes, and for a minute I thought of the strangest things, out of place there, such as you'd never dream would come to mind. I saw the sage, and runnin' horses, and that's the beautifulest sight to me. And I saw dim things in the dark, and there was a kind of hummin' in my ears. And I remembered distinctly, for it was what made all these things whirl out of my mind, and opened my eyes. I remembered distinctly it was the smell of gunpowder. The court had about a journey for that judge. He was on his knees and he wasn't prayin'. He was gaspin' and tryin' to press his big floppin' crippled hands over his body. Lassiter had sent all those last thunderin' shots through his body. That was Lassiter's way. And Lassiter spoke, and if I ever forget his words I'll never forget the sound of his voice. Prosoliter, I reckon you'd better call quick on that God who reveals himself to you on earth, because he won't be visitin' the place you're goin' to. And then I seen Dyer look at his big, hangin' hands that wasn't big enough for the last work he set them to. And he looked up at Lassiter. And then he stared horrible at something that wasn't Lassiter nor any one there, nor the room, nor the branches of purple sage peepin' into the window. Before he seen it was with the look of a man who discovered something too late. That's a terrible look. And with a horrible understanding cry he slid forward on his face. Judkins paused in his narrative, breathing heavily while he wiped his perspiring brow. That's about all, he concluded. Lassiter left the meetin' house, and I hurried to catch up with him. He was bleedin' from three gunshots, none of them much to bother him. And we come right up here. I found you layin' in the hall, and I had to work some over you. Jane Witherstein 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 in which was a vague joy in her very fear of him. The door opened and she saw him, the old Lassiter, slow, easy, mental, cool, yet not exactly the same Lassiter. 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 is passed, till we are forgotten. Then take me where you will. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. He kissed her hand with the quaint grace and courtesy that came to him in rare moments. Blackstar and Knight are ready, he said, simply. His quiet mention of the black racers spurred Jane to action. Hurrying to her room she changed to her rider's suit, packed her jewelry and the gold that was left, and all the woman's apparel for which there was space in the saddlebags, and then returned to the hall. Blackstar stamped his iron-shot hoofs and tossed his beautiful head and eyed her with knowing eyes. Judkins, I give bells to you, said Jane. I hope you will always keep him and be good to him. Judkins mumbled thanks that he could not speak fluently and his eyes flashed. Lassiter strapped Jane's saddlebags upon Blackstar and led the racers out into the court. Judkins, you ride with Jane out into the sage. If you see any riders coming, shout quick twice. And Jane, don't look back. I'll catch up soon. We'll get to the break into the pass before midnight and then wait until morning to go down. Blackstar bent his graceful neck and bowed his noble head and his broad shoulders yielded as he knelt for Jane to mount. She rode out of the court beside Judkins through the grove across the wide lane into the sage, and she realized that she was leaving Witherstein House forever, and she did not look back. A strange, dreamy, calm peace pervaded her soul. Her doom had fallen upon her, but instead of finding life no longer worth living, she found it doubly significant, full of sweetness as the western breeze, beautiful and unknown as the sage-slope stretching its purple sunset shadows before her. She became aware of Judkins' hand touching hers. She heard him speak a husky goodbye. Then into the place of bells shot the dead black, keen, racy nose of night, and she knew Lasseter rode beside her. Don't look back, he said, and his voice, too, was not clear. Facing straight ahead, seeing only the waving, shadowy sage, Jane held out her gauntlet at hand to feel it enclosed in strong clasp. So she rode on without a backward glance at the beautiful grove of cotton-woods. She did not seem to think of the past of what she left forever, but of the color and mystery and wildness 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 wind sweeping by from the rear, and she wondered at low yellow clouds sailing swiftly over her and beyond. Don't look back, said Lasseter. Thick driving belts of smoke traveled by on the wind, and with it came a strong, pungent odor of burning wood. Lasseter had fired withersteen house, but Jane did not look back. A misty veil obscured the clear searching gaze she had kept steadfastly upon the purple slope and the dim lines of canyons. It passed, as passed the rolling clouds 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 and grow, and the huge, windy, eastern heave of sage-level paled under a rising moon and turned to silver. Blanched in moonlight, the sage yet seemed to hold its hue of purple and was infinitely more wild and lonely. So the night-hours wore on, and Jane Witherstein never once looked back. CHAPTER XXI. BLACK STAR AND NIGHT. The time had come for Vinter's and Bess to leave their retreat. They were at great pains to choose the few things they would be able to carry with them on the journey out of Utah. Bern, whatever kind of a-packs this anyhow, questioned Bess, rising from her work with reddened face. Vinter's, absorbed in his own task, did not look up at all, and in reply said he had brought so much from Cottonwood's that he did not recollect the half of it. A woman packed this, Bess exclaimed. He scarcely called her meaning, but the peculiar tone of her voice cost him instantly to rise, and he saw Bess on her knees before an open pack which he recognized as the one given him by Jane. By George, he ejaculated, guiltily, and then at sight of Bess's face he laughed outright. A woman packed this, she repeated, fixing woeful, tragic eyes on him. Well, is that a crime? There is a woman, after all. Now, Bess, you've lied to me. Then and there, Vinter's founded imperative to postpone work for the present. All her life Bess had been isolated, but she had inherited certain elements of the eternal feminine. But there was a woman, and you did lie to me, she kept repeating, after he had explained. What of that? Bess, I'll get angry at you in a moment. Remember you've been pent up all your life. I venture to say that if you'd been out in the world you'd have had a dozen sweethearts and have told many a lie before this. I wouldn't anything of the kind, declared Bess indignantly. Well, perhaps not lie, but you'd have had the sweethearts. You couldn't have helped that, being so pretty. This remark appeared to be a very clever and fortunate one, and the work of selecting and then of stowing all the packs in the cave went on without further interruption. Vinter's 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 into the sacks of grain. And this work was in order with the precaution habitually observed by him. He might not be able to get out of Utah and have to return to the valley. But he owed it to Bess to make the attempt, and in case they were compelled to turn back, he wanted to find that fine store of food and grain intact. The outfit of implements 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, but with deep blue fire in her eyes. No, no. Ah, you don't forget the gold in the world, she sighed. Child, you forget the beautiful dresses and the travel and everything. 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 burrows Vinters had brought from Cottonwoods. These they intended to ride. Bess freed all her pets, the quail and rabbits and foxes. The last sunset and twilight and night were both the sweetest and saddest they had ever spent in Surprise Valley. Everything brought keen exhilaration and excitement. When Vinters had saddled the two burrows, strapped on the light packs in the two canteens, the sunlight was dispersing the lazy shadows from the valley. Taking a last look at the caves and the silver spruces, Vinters and Bess made a reluctant start leading the burrows. Ring and Whitey looked keen and knowing. Something seemed to drag at Vinters' feet, and he noticed Bess lagged behind. Vinters had the climb from Terrace to Bridge appeared so long. Not till they reached the opening of the gorge did they stop to rest and take one last look at the valley. The tremendous arch of stone curved clear and sharp in outline against the morning sky, and through it streaked the golden shaft. The valley seemed an enchanted circle of glorious veils of gold and wraiths of white and silver haze and dim blue moving shade, purple and wild and unreal as a dream. We—we can—think of it—always remember, sobbed Bess. Hush! Don't cry. Our valley has only fitted us for a better life somewhere. Come. They entered the gorge and he closed the willow gate. From rosy golden morning light they passed into cool dense gloom. The burrows pattered up the trail with little hollow cracking steps, and the gorge widened to narrow outlet and the gloom lightened to gray. At the divide they halted for another rest. Vinters' keen, remembering gaze searched Balancing Rock and the long incline and the cracked toppling walls, but failed to note the slightest change. The dogs led the descent, then came Bess leading her burrow, then Vinters leading his. Bess kept her eyes bent downward. Vinters, however, had an irresistible desire to look upward at Balancing Rock. It had always haunted him, and now he wondered if he were really to get through the outlet before the huge stone thundered down. He fancied that would be a miracle. Every few steps he answered to the strange, nervous fear and turned to make sure the rock still stood 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 heightened fancy he saw it heave and roll. As in a dream when he felt himself falling, yet knew he would never fall, so he saw this long-standing thunderbolt of the little stone men plunge down to close forever the outlet to deception pass. And while he was giving way to unaccountable dread imaginations the descent was accomplished 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 the moment 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 hear it. With the first glimpses of the smooth slope leading down to the grotesque cedars and out to the pass, Venter's cool nerve returned. One long survey to the left, then one to the right, satisfied his caution. Leading the burrows 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 the cut steps. You start down leading your burrow. Take your time and hold on to him if you slip. I've got a rope on him and a half hitch on this point of rock, so I can let him down safely. Coming up here was a killing job, but it'll be easy going down. Both burrows passed down the difficult stairs cut by the cliff dwellers and did it without a misstep. After that the descent down the slope and over the mile of scrawled, ripped and ridged rock required only careful guidance and Venter's got the burrows to level ground in a condition that caused him to congratulate himself. Oh, if we only had wrangle, exclaimed Venter's, but we're lucky, that's the worst of our trail past. We've only men to fear now. If we get up in the sage we can hide and slip along like coyotes. They mounted and rode west through the valley and entered the canyon. From time to time Venter's walked leading his burrow. When they got by all the canyons and gullies opening into the pass, they went faster and with fewer halts. Venter's did not confide in death the alarming fact that he had seen horses and smoke less than a mile up one of the intersecting canyons. He did not talk at all. And long after he had passed this canyon and felt secure once more in the certainty that they had been unobserved he never relaxed his watchfulness. But he did not walk any more and he kept the burrows at a steady trot. Night fell before they reached the last water in the pass and they made camp by starlight. Venter's did not want the burrows to stray so he tied them with long halters in the grass near the spring. Bess, tired out in silent, laid her head in a saddle and went to sleep between the two dogs. Venter's did not close his eyes. The canyon silence appeared full of the low, continuous hum of insects. He listened until the hum grew into a roar and then, breaking the spell, once more 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 he remembered how white and still it had once looked in the starlight. And again stern thought fought his strange fancies. Would all his labor and his love be for naught? Did he lose her, after all? What did the dark shadow around her portend? Did calamity lurk on that long upland trail through this age? Why should his heart swell and throb with nameless fear? He listened to the silence and told himself that in the broad light of day he could dispel this leaden-weighted dread. At the first hint of gray over the eastern rim he awoke Bess, saddled the burrows, and began the day's travel. He wanted to get out of the pass before there was any chance of riders coming down. They gained the break as the first 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 or whitey in advance. Encouraging Bess to hurry, pulling at his patient plodding burrow, he climbed the soft, steep trail. Brighter and brighter grew the light. He mounted the last broken edge of rim to have the sun-fired purple sage slope burst upon him as a glory. Bess painted up to his side, tugging on the halter of her burrow. "'We're up,' he cried joyously. There's not a dot on the sage. We're safe. We'll not be seen. Oh, Bess!' Ring growled and sniffed the keen air and bristled. Ventures clutched at his rifle. Whitey sometimes made a mistake, but ring never. The dull thud of hoofs almost deprived the ventures of power to turn and see from where disaster threatened. He felt his eyes dilate as he stared at Lassiter leading black star and knight out of the sage, with Jane Witherstein and Roder's costume close beside them. For an instant ventures felt himself whirled dizzily in the center of vast circles of sage. He recovered partially enough to see Lassiter standing with a glad smile and Jane riveted in astonishment. "'Why, burn!' she exclaimed. How good it is to see you! We're riding away, you see. The storm burst, and I'm a ruined woman. I thought you were alone.' Ventures unable to speak for consternation and bewildered out of all sense of what 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 of Utah. Back east,' he found tongue to say. "'I reckon this meeting's the luckiest thing that ever happened to you and to me, and to Jane and to Bess,' said Lassiter Cooley. "'Bess!' cried Jane, with a sudden leap of blood to her pale cheek. It was entirely beyond Ventures to see any luck in that meeting. Jane Witherstein took one flashing woman's glance at Bess's scarlet base at her slender, shapely form. "'Ventures, is this a girl, a woman?' she questioned, in a voice that 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 her you asked me to give you supplies? Was it for her that you wanted to make your valley a paradise?' "'Oh, Jane!' "'Answer me.' "'Yes.' "'Oh, you liar! And with these passionate words Jane Witherstein succumbed to fury. For the second time in her life she fell into the ungovernable rage that had been her father's weakness. And it was worse than 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 to her 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. Her physical strength failed, and still her spirit attempted to go on in magnificent denunciation of those who had wronged her. Like a tree cut deep into its roots she began to quiver and shake, and her anger weakened into despair. And her ringing voice sank into a broken, husky whisper. Then, spent and pitiable, upheld by Lassiter's arm, she turned and hid her face in Black Star's mane. Nam, as Vinter's was, when at length Jane Witherstein lifted her head and looked at him, he yet suffered a pang. Jane, the girl is innocent, he cried. Can you expect me to believe that? she asked, with weary, bitter eyes. I'm not that kind of a liar, and you know it. If I lied, if I kept silent when honor should have made me speak, it was to spare you. I came to Cottonwood's to tell you, but I couldn't add to your pain. I intended to tell you I had come to love this girl. But Jane, I hadn't forgotten how good you were to me. I haven't changed at all towards you. I prize your friendship as I always have. But, however it may look to you, don't be unjust. The girl is innocent. Ask Lassiter. Jane, she's just as sweet and innocent as Little Fay, said Lassiter. There was a faint smile upon his face, and a beautiful light. Vinter saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Witherstein's tortured soul wrestled with hate, and threw it, with scorn, doubt, suspicion, and overcame all. Byrne, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I crave forgiveness, she said. I'm not what I once was. Tell me, who is this girl? Jane, she is Oldering's daughter, and his masked rider. Lassiter will 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's true, true is her innocence, that you must believe. Oldering's masked rider, Oldering's daughter, exclaimed Jane. And she's innocent. You ask me to believe much. If this girl is, is what you say, how could she be going away with the man who killed her father? Why did you tell that? cried Vinter's passionately. Jane's question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her eyes suddenly darkened and dilated. She stepped toward Vinter's and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow. Did, did you kill Oldering? I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I never dreamed he was your father. I thought he'd wronged you. I killed him when I was madly jealous. For a moment Bess was shocked into silence. But he was my father, she broke out at last. And now I must go back. I can't go with you. It's all over, that beautiful dream. Oh, I knew it couldn't come true. You can't take me now. If you forgive me, Bess, it'll all come right in the end, Lord Vinter's. It can't be right. I'll go back. After all, I loved him. He was good to me. I can't forget that. If you go back to Oldering's men, I'll follow you, and then they'll kill me, said Vinter's, hoarsely. Oh, no, Burn, you'll not come. Let me go. It's best for you to 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 looked haggard and sad, all at once stunted, her hands dropped listlessly, and her head drooped in a slow final acceptance of a hopeless fate. Jane, look there, crowd-Vinter's, in despairing grief. Need you have told her? Where was all your kindness of heart? This girl has had a wretched, lonely life, and I'd found a way to make her happy. You've killed it. You've killed something sweet and pure and hopeful, just as sure as you breathe. Oh, Burn, 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 now strangely luminous, he looked at Jane and Vinter's, and then let his soft, bright gaze rest on Bess. Well, I reckon you've all had your say, and now it's Lassiter's turn. Why, I was just praying for this meeting. Bess, just look here. Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, and then outspread his great hand to disclose a shiny, battered gold locket. Open it, he said, with a singularly rich voice. Bess complied but listlessly. Jane, Vinter's, come closer, went on Lassiter. Take a look at the picture. Don't you know the woman? Jane, after one glance, drew back. Millie earned, she cried, wonderingly. Vinter's with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognized in the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Millie Earn. Yes, that's Millie, said Lassiter softly. Bess, did you ever see her face? Look hard, with all your heart and soul. The eyes seemed to haunt me, whispered Bess. Oh, but I can't remember. They're eyes of my dreams, 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 same beautiful eyes you'd see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring. They're your mother's eyes. You are Millie Earn's child. Your name is Elizabeth Earn. You're not Old Ring's daughter. You're the daughter of Frank Earn, a man once my best friend. Look, here's his picture beside Millie's. He was handsome and as fine and gallant a southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. You come 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 is true, replied Lassiter. Jane and Earn here, they both recognize Millie. They see Millie in you. They're so knocked out they can't tell you. That's all. Who are you? whispered Bess. I reckon I'm Millie's brother, and you're Uncle. Uncle Jim, ain't that fine. Oh, I can't believe. Don't raise me. Earn, let me kneel. I see truth in your face in Miss Witherstein's. But let me hear it all, all on my knees. Tell me how it's true. Well, Elizabeth, listen, said Lassiter. Before you was born, your father made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named Dyer. They was both ministers and come to be rivals. Dyer stole your mother away from her home. She gave birth to you in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she was taken to Utah, from place to place, and finally to the last border settlement, Cottonwoods. You was about three years old when you was taken away from Millie. She never knew what had become of you. But she lived a good while hoping and praying to have you again. Then she gave up and died, and I may as well put in here your father died ten years ago. Well, I spent my time tracing Millie, and some months back I landed in Cottonwoods. And just lately I learned all about you. I had a talk with Aldrin and told him you was dead, and he told me what I had so long been wanting to know. It was Dyer, of course, who stole you from Millie. Part reason he was sore because Millie refused to give you Mormon teaching, but mostly he still hated Frank Earn so infernally that he made a deal with Aldrin to take you and bring you up as an infamous rustler and rustler's girl. The idea was to break Frank Earn's heart if he ever came to Utah to show him his daughter with a band of low rustlers. Well, Aldrin took you, brought you up from childhood, and then made you his masked rider. He made you infamous. He kept that part of the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughter and never let anybody's own men know you as a girl. I heard him say that with my own ears, and I saw his big eyes grow dim. He told me how he had guarded you always, kept you locked up in his absence, was always at your side or near you on those rides that made you famous on the stage. He said he and an old rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read and write. They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought up the vilest of the vile, and Aldrin brought you up the innocentest of the innocent. He said you didn't know what vileness was. I can hear his big voice tremble now as he said it. He told me how the men, rustlers and outlaws, who from time to time tried to approach you familiarly. He told me how he shot them dead. I'm telling you this especially because you showed such shame saying you was nameless and all that. Nothing on earth can be wronger than that idea of yours. And the truth of it is here. Aldrin swore to me that if Dyer died, release in the contract, he intended to hunt up your father and give you back to him. It seems Aldrin wasn't all bad, and he sure loved you. Ventors leaned forward in passionate remorse. Oh, Bess, I know Lassiter speaks the truth, for when I shot Aldrin, he dropped to his knees and fought with unearthly power to speak. And he said, Man, why didn't you wait? Bess was. Then he fell dead. And I've been haunted by his look in words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing for Aldrin to do. It all seems impossible. But, Dyer, you really are not what you thought. Elizabeth Urne cried Jane Witherstein. I loved your mother, and I see her in you. What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in the tone, look, and gesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for Bess. With little tremblings of all her slender body she wrought to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was realizing happiness. And as the process of thought was slow, so were the variations of her expression. Her eyes reflected the transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless belief, clouds of gloom, drifted, paled, vanished in glorious light. An exquisite rose flush, a glow, shone from her face as she slowly began to rise from her knees. A spirit uplifted her. All that she had held his base dropped from her. Vinters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he devined something of what Lassiter's revelation meant to Bess, but he knew he could only faintly understand. That moment when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritual transfiguration was the most beautiful moment of his life. She stood with parted, quivering lips, with hands tightly clasping the locket to her heaving breast. A new conscious pride of worth dignified the old wild, free grace and poise. Uncle Jim, she said, tremulously, with a different smile from any Vinters had ever seen on her face. Lassiter took her into his arms. I reckon it's powerful fine to hear that, replied Lassiter unsteadily. Vinters, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away and found himself looking at Jane Witherstein. He had almost forgotten her presence. Tenderness and sympathy were fast hiding traces of her agitation. Vinters read her mind, felt the reaction of her noble heart, saw the joy she was beginning to feel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded, choked by his emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what she would do presently. She would make some magnificent amend for her anger. She would give some manifestation of her love, probably all in a moment if she had loved Millie Earn, so would she love Elizabeth Earn. Appears to me, folks, that we'd better talk a little serious now, remarked Lassiter at length. Time flies. You're right, replied Vinters, instantly. I'd forgotten time, place, danger. Lassiter, you're riding away, Jane's leaving Witherstein House? Forever, replied Jane. I fired Witherstein House, said Lassiter. Dyer? Questioned Vinters, sharply. I reckon where Dyer's gone there won't be any kidnapping of girls. Ah, I knew it. I told Judkins. And Tull? Went on Vinters, passionately. Tull wasn't around when I broke loose. By now he's likely on our trail with his riders. Lassiter, you're going into the past to hide till all this storm blows over? I reckon that's Jane's idea. I'm thinking the storm will be a powerful long time blowing over. I was coming to join you in surprise valley. You'll go back now with me? No, I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter best found gold in the valley. We've a saddlebag full of gold. If we can reach Sterling. Man, how are you ever going to do that? Sterling is a hundred miles. My plan is to ride on, keeping sharp lookout. Somewhere up the trail we'll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods and then hit the trail again. It's a bad plan. You'll kill the burrows in two days. Then we'll walk. That's more bad and worse. Better go back down the pass with me. Lassiter, this girl has been hidden all her life in that lonely place, went on ventures. Oldering's men are hunting me. We'd not be safe there any longer. Even if we would be, I'd take this chance to get her out. I want to marry her. She shall have some of the pleasures of life, see cities and people. We've gold, we'll be rich. Why, life opens sweet for both of us. And by heaven I'll get her out or lose my life in the attempt. I reckon if you go on with them burrows you'll lose your life all right. Tull will have riders all over this sage. You can't get out on them burrows. It's a full idea. That's not doing best by the girl. Come with me and take chances on the rustlers. Lassiter's cool argument made ventures waver. Not in determination to go, but in hope of success. Bess, I want you to know. Lassiter says the trip's almost useless now. I'm afraid he's right. We've got about one chance in a hundred 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 his face clouded. Ventures felt a touch on his elbow. Jane stood beside him with a hand on his arm. She was smiling. Something radiated from her and like an electric current accelerated the motion of his blood. Burn, you'd be right to die rather than not take Elizabeth out of Utah, out of this wild country. You must do it. You'll show her the great world with all its wonders. Think how little she has seen. Think what the light is in store for her. You have gold. You will be free. You will make her happy. What a glorious prospect. I share it with you. I'll think of you, dream of you, pray for you. Thank you, Jane, replied Ventures, trying to steady his voice. It does look bright. Oh, if we were only across that wide open waste of sage. Burn, the trips as good as made. It'll be safe, easy. It'll be a glorious ride, she said softly. Ventures stared. Had Jane's troubles made her insane? Lassiter, too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero round in hands that actually shook. You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of your lives, added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she were musing 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 burrows. Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did Ventures clogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to catch Lassiter's busy 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 be monstrous. 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 in the past. Give me back that saddle bag. Son, cool down. Return, Lassiter, in a voice he might have used to a child. But the grip with which he tore away Ventures' grasping hands was that of a giant. Listen, you fool, boy. Jane's sized up the situation. The burrows will do for us. We'll sneak along and hide. I'll take your dogs and your rifle. Why, it's the trick. The blacks are yours, and sure as I can throw a gun, you're going to ride safe out of the sage. Jane, stop him. Please stop him, gasped Ventures. I've lost my strength. I can't do anything. This is hell for me. Can't you see that? I've ruined you. It was through me you lost all. You've only black star and night left. You love these horses. Oh, I know how you must love them now. And you're trying to give them to me. To help me out of Utah. To save the girl I love. That will be my glory. Then in the white, wrapped face, in the unfathomable eyes Ventures saw Jane Witherstein in a supreme moment. This moment was one wherein she reached up to the height for which her noble soul had ever yearned. He, after disrupting the calm tenor of her peace, after bringing down on her head the implacable hostility of her churchmen, after teaching her a bitter lesson of life, he was to be her salvation. And he turned away again, this time shaken to the core of his soul. Jane Witherstein was the incarnation of selflessness. He experienced wonder and terror, exquisite pain and rapture. What were all the shocks life had dealt him compared to the thought of such loyal and generous friendship? And instantly, as if by some divine insight he knew himself in the remaking, tried, found wanting, but stronger, better, sureer. And he wheeled to Jane Witherstein, eager, joyous, passionate, wild, exalted. He bent to her, he left tears and kisses on her hands. Jane, I can't find words now, he said. I'm beyond words. Only I understand, and I'll take the blacks. Don't be losing no more time, cut in, Lassiter. I ain't certain, but I think I see in a speck up the sage slope. Maybe I was mistaken. But anyway, we must all be moving. I've shortened the stirrups on Blackstar, put Bess on him. Jane Witherstein held out her arms. Elizabeth Urne, she cried, and Bess flew to her. How inconceivably strange and beautiful it was for ventors to see Bess clasped to Jane Witherstein's breast. Then he leaped to stride night. Ventors rode straight on up the slope, Lassiter was saying. And if you don't meet any riders, keep on till you're a few miles from the village, then cut off in the sage and go round to the trail. But you'll most likely meet riders with tall. Just keep right on till you're just out of gunshot, and then make your cut off into the sage. They'll ride after you, but it won't be no use. You can ride, and Bess can ride. When you're out of reach, turn on round to the west and hit the trail somewhere. Save the horses all you can, but don't be afraid. Black star and knight are good for a hundred miles before sundown, if you have to push them. You can get to Stirland by night if you want. But better make it along about tomorrow morning. When you get through the notch on the glazed trail, swing to the right. You'll be able to see both glaze and stone bridge. Keep away from them villages. You won't run no risk of meeting any of Oldrin's rustlers from Stirland own. You'll find water in them deep hollows north of the notch. There's an old trail there, not much used, and it leads to Stirland. That's your trail. And one thing more, if tall pushes you or keeps on persistent like for a few miles, just let the blacks out and lose him and his riders. Lassiter, may we meet again, said Venters, in a deep voice. Son, it ain't likely. It ain't likely. Well, Bess Oldrin, masked rider Elizabethern, now you climb on Blackstar. I've heard you could ride. Well, every rider loves a good horse. And last 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, maybe Venters rode out that race when he brought back the blacks. Son, was Wrangel the best horse? No, Lassiter, replied Venters, for this lie he had his reward in Jane's quick smile. Well, well, my horse sense ain't always right. And here I'm talking a lot, wasting time. It ain't so easy to find and lose a pretty niece all in one hour. Elizabeth, goodbye. Oh, Uncle Jim, goodbye. Elizabethern, be happy, goodbye, said Jane. Goodbye. Oh, goodbye. In lithe supple action Bess swung up to Blackstar's saddle. Jane Witherstein, goodbye, called Venters hoarsely. Burn, Bess, Riders of the Purple Sage, goodbye. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of Riders of the Purple Sage. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Gray. Chapter 22. Riders of the Purple Sage. Blackstar and Knight, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward along the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard a mournful howl from ring, but Whitey was silent. The blacks settled into their fleet long striding gallop. The wind sweetly fanned Venters' hot face. From the summit of the first low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiter waved his hand. Jane waved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in his stirrups and holding high his sombrero. Then the dip of the ridge hid them. From the height of the next he turned once more. Lassiter, Jane, and the burrows had disappeared. They had gone down into the pass. Venters felt a sensation of irreparable loss. Burn, look, called Bess, pointing up the long slope. A small, dark, moving dot split the line where Purple Sage met blue sky. That dot was a band of riders. Pull the black, Bess. They slowed from gallop to canter, then to trot. The fresh and eager horses did not like the check. Burn, black star has great eyesight. I wonder if they're Tulls 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 all the time, though very slowly. There were long periods when it was in plain sight and intervals when it dropped behind the sage. The blacks trotted for half an hour, for another half hour, and still the moving patch appeared to stay on the horizon line. Gradually, however, as time passed, it began to enlarge, to creep down the slope, to encroach upon the intervening distance. Bess, what do you make them out? asked Venters. I don't think they're rustlers. They're sage riders, replied Bess. I see a white horse in several grays. Rustlers seldom ride any horses but bays and blacks. That white horse is Tulls. Pull the black Bess. I'll get down 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 black star 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 at Tull. Look, Byrne. 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 ridges in the thickest sage. Now when I give the word, let black star go and ride. Venters calculated that a mile or more still intervened between them and the riders. They were approaching at a swift canter. Soon Venters recognized Tull's white horse and concluded that the riders had likewise recognized black star and knight. But it would be impossible for Tull yet to see that the blacks were not ridden by Lattiter and Jane. Venters noted that Tull and the line of horsemen, perhaps ten or twelve in number, stopped several times and evidently looked hard down the slope. It must have been a puzzling circumstance for Tull. Venters laughed grimly at the thought of what Tull's rage would be when he finally discovered the trick. Venters meant to shear out into the sage 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 up and formed a dark group around him. Venters thought he saw him wave his arms and was certain of it when the riders dashed into the sage to right and left of the trail. Tull had anticipated just the move held in mind by Venters. Now, Bess, shouted Venters, strike north, go round those riders and turn west. Black star sailed over the low sage and in a few leaps got into his stride and was 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 must constantly be used by the riders in choosing ground and continuous swerving from aisle to aisle between the brush and leaping little washes and mounds of the pack rats and breaking through sage made rough riding. When Venters had turned into a long aisle he had time to look up at Tull's riders. They were now strung out into an extended line riding northeast and as Venters and Bess were holding due north this meant if the horses of Tull and his riders had the speed and the staying power they would head the blacks and turn them back down the slope. Tull's men were not saving their mounts. They were driving them desperately. Venters feared only an accident to black star or night and skillful riding would mitigate possibility of that. One glance ahead served to show him that Bess could pick a course through the sage as well as he. She looked neither back nor at the running riders and bent forward over black star's neck and studied the ground ahead. It struck Venters presently after he had glanced up from time to time that Bess was drawing away from him as he had expected. He had, however, only thought of the lightweight black star was carrying and of his superior speed. He saw now that the black was being ridden as never before except when Jerry Card lost the race to wrangle. How easily, gracefully, naturally Bess sat her saddle. She could ride. Suddenly Venters remembered she had said she could ride but he had not dreamed she was capable of such superb horsemanship. Then all at once flashing over him, thrilling him, came the recollection that Bess was Aldring's masked rider. He forgot, tall, the running riders, the race. He let night have a free reign and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing he would keep to black star's course, knowing that he had been chosen by the best rider now on the upland sage. For Jerry Card was dead and fame had rivaled him with only one rider and that was the slender girl who now swung so easily with black star's stride. Venters had abhorred her notoriety but now he took passionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power over a horse. And he delved into his memory recalling famous rides which he had heard related in the villages and round the campfires. Aldring's masked rider. Many times this strange rider, at once well known and unknown, had escaped pursuers by naturalist riding. He had to run the gauntlet of vigilantes down the main street of Stone Bridge, leaving dead horses and dead rustlers behind. He had jumped his horse over the Gerber Wash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields of glaze from the wild sage. He had been surrounded north of Sterling and he had broken through the line. How often had been told the story of day stampedes, of night raids, of pursuit, and then how the masked rider, swift as the wind, was gone in the sage. A fleet dark horse, a slender dark form, a black mask, a driving run down the slope, a dot on the purple sage, a shadowy muffled steed disappearing in the night. And this masked rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth Earn. The sweet sage wind rushed in Vinter's face and sang a song in his ears. He heard the dull, rapid beat of night's hoofs. He saw a black star drawing away, farther and farther. He realized both horses were swinging to the west. Then gunshots in the rear reminded him of tall. Vinter's looked back. Far to the side, dropping behind, trooped the riders. They were shooting. Vinter saw no puffs of dust, heard no whistling bullets. He was out of range. When he looked back again, tall's riders had given up pursuit. The best they could do, no doubt, had been to get near enough to recognize who really rode the blacks. Vinter saw tall, drooping in his saddle. Then Vinter's pulled night out of his running stride. Those few miles had scarcely warmed the black, but Vinter's wished to save him. Bess turned, and though she was far away, Vinter's caught the white glint of her waving hand. He held night to a trot in Rodon, seeing Bess and black star, and the sloping upward 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 back to Lassiter's trail and follow it, and follow in vain. So Vinter's rode on, with the wind growing sweeter to taste and smell, and the purple sage richer and the sky bluer in his sight, and a song in his ears ringing. By and by Bess halted to wait for him, and he knew she had come to the trail. When he reached her it was to smile at sight of her standing with arms round black star's neck. Oh, Byrne, I love him, she cried. He's beautiful, he knows, 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 are grand. What it must have cost Jane. Ah, well, when we get out of this 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. There we'll turn the horses free, free to roam and browse and drink, never to feel as 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 sun rose higher behind them. Far to the left, a low line of green marked the sight of Cottonwoods. Venters looked once and looked no more. Bess gazed only straight ahead. They put the blacks to the long, swinging riders' canter, and at times pulled them to a trot and occasionally to a walk. The hours passed, the miles slipped behind, and the wall of rock loomed in the fore. The notch opened wide. It was a rugged stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Venters and Bess ran the blacks through it. An old trail led off to the right, taking the line of the wall, and this Venters knew to be the trail mentioned by Lasseter. 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 to the west. And miles farther west, a faint green spot marked the location of Stonebridge. All the rest of that world was seemingly smooth, undulating sage, with no ragged lines of canyons to accentuate its wildness. Bess, we're safe. We're free, said Venters. We're alone on the sage. We're halfway to Sterling. Ah, I wonder how it is with Lasseter and Miss Witherstein. Never fear, Bess. He'll outwit tall. He'll get away and hide her safely. He might climb into surprise valley, but I don't think he'll go so far. Byrne, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley? No, but dear, listen, we'll go back some day after years, ten years. Then we'll be forgotten, and our valley will be just as we left it. What if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the past? I've thought of that. I'll pack in ropes and ropes, and if the outlet's closed, we'll climb up the cliffs and over them to the valley and go down on rope ladders. It could be done. I know just where to make the climb, and I'll never forget. Oh, yes, let us go back. It's something sweet to look forward to. Bess is like all the future looks to me. Call me Elizabeth, she said, shyly. Elizabeth Urne is a beautiful name, but I'll never forget Bess. Do you know, have you thought that very soon, by this time tomorrow, you will be Elizabeth Venters? So they rode on down the old trail, and the sun sloped to the west, and a golden sheen lay on the sage. The hours sped now, the afternoon waned. Often they rested the horses. The glisten of a pool of water in a hollow caught Venters eye, and here he unsettled the blacks and let them roll and drink and browse. When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow, the sun was low, a crimson ball, and the valley seemed veiled in purple fire and smoke. It was that short time when the sun appeared to rest before setting, and silence, like a cloak of invisible life, lay heavy on all that shimmering world of sage. 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 sleep a little while I watch and graze the horses, and we'll ride into sterling early tomorrow. We'll be married. We'll be in time to catch the stage. We'll tie black star and knight behind, and then for a country not wild and terrible like this. Oh, Bern! But look, the sun is setting on the sage. The last time 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. Long streaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed the far western slope. Drifting golden veils mingled with low purple shadows. Colors and shades changed in slow, wondrous transformation. Suddenly ventures was startled by a low, rumbling roar, so low that it was like the roar in a seashell. Best, 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 Witherstein watched the ventures and Elizabeth Urne and the black racers disappear over the ridge of sage. They're gone, said Lassiter, and they're safe now, and there'll never be a day of their come-and-happy lives but what they'll remember Jane Witherstein and Uncle Jim. I reckon Jane we'd better be on our way. The burrows obediently wheeled and started down the break with little cautious steps, but Lassiter had to leash the whining dogs and lead them. Jane felt herself bound in a feeling that was neither listlessness nor indifference, yet which rendered her incapable of interest. She was still strong in body but emotionally tired. That hour at the entrance to deception pass had been the climax of her suffering, the flood of her wrath, the last of her sacrifice, the supremacy of her love, and the attainment of peace. She thought that if she had little faith she would not ask any more of life. Like an automaton she followed Lassiter down the steep trail of dust and bits of weathered stone, and when the little slides moved with her or piled around her knees she experienced no alarm. Vague relief came to her in the sense of being enclosed between dark stone walls, deep hidden from the glare of sun from the glistening sage. Lassiter lengthened the stirrup straps on one of the burrows and bade her mount and ride close to him. She was to keep the burrow from cracking his little hard hoofs on stones. Then she was riding on between dark gleaming walls. There were quiet and rest and coolness in this canyon. She noted indifferently that they passed close under shady bulging shelves of cliff through patches of grass and sage and thicket and groves of slender trees, and over white pebbly washes and around masses of broken rock. The burrows trotted tirelessly. The dogs, once more free, pattered tirelessly, and Lassiter led on with never a stop, and at every open place he looked back. The shade under the walls gave place to sunlight, and presently they came to a dense thicket of slender trees through which they passed to rich green grass and water. Here Lassiter rested the burrows for a little while, but he was restless, uneasy, silent, always listening, peering under the trees. She dully reflected that enemies were behind them, before them. Still the thought awakened no dread or concern or interest. At his bidding she mounted and rode on close to the heels of his burrow. The canyon narrowed, the walls lifted their rugged rims higher, and the sun shone down hot from the center of the blue stream of sky above. Lassiter traveled slower, with more exceeding care as to the ground he chose, and he kept speaking low to the dogs. They were now hunting dogs, keen, alert, suspicious, sniffing the warm breeze. The monotony of the yellow walls broke in change 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 then the pass opened wide at a junction of intersecting canyons. Lassiter dismounted, led his burrow, called the dogs close, and proceeded at snail 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 side canyons. At length he halted, fled his burrow, 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 long to Jane Witherstein. When he reached her side again he was pale, and his lips were set in a hard line, and his gray eyes glittered coldly. Bidding her dismount he led the burrows into a cupboard of stones and cedars, and tied them. Jane, I've run into the fellers I've been looking for, and I'm going 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, and I'd like to know 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 and be taken off by rustlers, which will you do? I don't know, I can't think very well, but I believe I'd rather be taken off by rustlers. Lassiter sat down, put his head in his hands, and remained for a few moments what appeared to be deep and painful thought. When he lifted his face it was haggard, lined, cold as sculptured marble. I'll go. I only mentioned that chance of my not coming back. I'm pretty sure to come. Need you risk so much? Must you fight more? Haven't you shed enough blood? I'd like to tell you why I'm going. He continued, in coldness he had seldom used to her. She remarked it, but it was the same as if he had spoken with his old gentle warmth. But I reckon I won't. Only I'll say that mercy and goodness, such as 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. You think, or you used to think, that your religion made this life heaven. Maybe them scales on your eyes has dropped now. Jane, I wouldn't have you no different, and that's why I'm going to try to hide this past. I'd like to hide many more women, for I've come to see there are more like you among your people. And I'd like you to see just how hard and cruel this border life is. It's bloody. You'd think churches and churchmen would make it better. They make it worse. You give names to things, bishops, elders, ministers, Mormonism, duty, faith, glory. You dream, or you're driven mad. I know. I name fanatics, followers, blind women, oppressors, thieves, ranchers, rustlers, riders. And we have what you've lived through these last months. It can't be helped. But it can't last always. And remember this. Someday the border will be better, cleaner for the ways of ten like Lasseter. 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 and whitey, not being bitten to follow, remained with Jane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of her body. And she sat down in the shade and tried to think. She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burrows, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once the meanest flower, the flight of the bee, or any living thing, had given her deepest joy. Lasseter had gone off, yielding to his incurable bloodlust, probably to his own death. And she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her sorrow. Suddenly from the mouth of the canyon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again Echoes clapped in grim imitation. Dull revolver shots, horse yells, pound of hoofs, shrill nays of horses, commingling of echoes, and again, silence. Lasseter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place, but life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mind, Greek and Roman wars, dark medieval times, the crumbs 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 killed one another. She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate, lace-like foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care. More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding of weathered rock, a horse 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 rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Jane's hiding-place. One struck a stone and whined away in the air. After that, 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 horse's hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened until Lasseter's soft, jingling step approached. When he appeared, he was covered with blood. All right, Jane, he said, I come back, and 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 and tie up these places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient. Worse than this at over my ear. There, you're doing fine. Not nervous, no trembling. I reckon I ain't done your courage, justice. I'm glad you're brave just now, you'll need to be. While I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shooting me deep. But they were slinging lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells, and then I went after them. Maybe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had to use up every shell Jane. And now I'm packing five bullet holes in my carcass and guns without shells. Hurry now." He unstrapped the saddlebags from the burrows, slipped the saddles and let them lie, turned the burrows loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stones and 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 and thick, so I'm preparing you.' "'For what?' "'I didn't tell you why I just had to go after them fellers. I couldn't tell you. I believe you'd have died. But I can tell you now, if you'll bear up under a shock. Go on, my friend. I've got little Fay, alive, bad hurt, but she'll live.' Jane Witherstein's deadlocked feeling, rent by Lasseter'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's loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she was not dead, her heart beat, and Jane Witherstein gathered strength and lived again. "'You see, I just had to go after Fay,' Lasseter was saying, as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. "'But I reckon I don't want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled fellow in that bunch, Jane. Maybe Vinter's crippled him. Anyway, that's why they were holding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, and was hard put to it to figure out a way to get her. And I wanted Hosses, too. I had to take chances. So I crawled close to their camp. One fellow jumped to Hoss with little Fay, and when I shot him, of course, she dropped. She stunned and bruised. She fell right on her head. Jane, she's coming too. She ain't bad hurt.' Fay's long lashes fluttered, her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence, bewilderment, memory, and sudden wonderful joy. "'Mother, Jane!' she whispered. "'Oh, little Fay, little Fay!' cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her. Now we've got to rustle,' said Lasseter, in grim coolness. Jane looked down the pass. Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out 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. "'Tall!' she almost screamed. "'I reckon. But Jane, we've still got the game in our hands. They're riding tired Hosses. Others likely gave them a chase. He wouldn't forget that, and weaved fresh Hosses. Hurriedly he strapped on the saddlebags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped a stride. "'Lift little Fay up,' he said. With shaking arms Jane complied. "'Get back your nerve, woman. This is life or death now. Mind that. Climb up. Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your Hoss is going, and ride.' Somehow Jane mounted, somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, crave and fear possessed her soul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canyon where the rapid clatter of hoofs wrapped sharply from the walls. The wind roared in her ears. The gleaming cliffs swept by. Nail and sage and grass moved under her. Lassiter's bandaged, blood-stained face turned to her. He shouted encouragement. He looked back down the pass. He spurred his horse. Jane clung on, spurring likewise. And the horses settled from hard, furious gallop into a long striding, driving run. She had never ridden at anything like that pace. Desperately she tried to get in the swing of the horse to be of some help to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guide him into it. But she failed of everything except to keep her seat the saddle and to spur and spur. At time she closed her eyes unable to bear sight of Faye's golden curls streaming in the wind. She could not pray, she could not rail, she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiter's ride with little Faye to safety. She would have tried to turn the iron-jawed brute she rode. She would have given herself to that relentless, dark-browed toll. But she knew Lassiter would turn with her, so she rode on and on. Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Witherstein could not tell. Lassiter's horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams. Both horses ran their limit, were allowed to slow down in time to save them, and went 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 blood trickled down his face. He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of the ride 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 or dragged. Time was an instant and eternity. Jane Witherstein felt hell pursuing 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. Faze golden hair floated on the breeze. The sun shone, the walls gleamed, the sage glistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the wall shaded, the sage paled. The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The canyon turned, brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again the sun, lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead, round, scrawled stone appeared to block the pass. Bear up, Jane, bear up, called Lassiter. It's our game if you don't weaken. Lassiter, go on alone, save little Faye. Only with you. Oh, I'm a coward, a miserable coward. I can't fight or think or hope or pray. I'm lost. Oh, Lassiter, look back. Is he coming? I'll not hold out. Keep your breath, woman, and ride not for yourself or for me, but for Faye. 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 come across this valley, and no tall yet in sight. Only a few more miles. Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage and found the narrow gap in the wall 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's limping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last at Faye's golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiter promised. But 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 Faye up. Jane clasped her, arm suddenly strong. Their gainan went on Lassiter as he watched the pursuing riders. But we'll beat him yet. Turning with Jane's bridle in his hand, he was about to start when he saw the saddlebag on the fallen horse. I've just about got time, he muttered, and with swift fingers that did not blunder or fumble, he loosened the bag and threw it over his 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 bare rock. Lassiter reached it, searched along the base, and finding a low place, dragged the weary horse up and over a round, smooth stone. Looking backward, Jane saw a tall white horse not a mile distant, with riders strung out in a long line behind him. Looking forward, she saw a more valley to the right and to the left a towering cliff. Lassiter pulled the horse and kept on. Little Faye lay in her arms with wide open eyes, eyes which were still shadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. The golden curls blew across Jane's lips. The little hands feebly clasped her arm, a ghost of a troubled, trustful smile hovered round the sweet lips. And Jane Witherstein awoke to the spirit of a lioness. Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward cedar trees of twisted and bleached appearance. Among these he halted. Jane, give me the girl and get down, he said. As if it wrenched him, he unbuckled the empty black guns with a strange air of finality. He then received Faye in his arms and stood a moment looking backward. Tall white horse mounted the ridge of round stone, and several bays or blacks followed. I wonder what he'll think when he sees them empty guns. Jane bring your saddlebag and climb after me. A glistening, wonderful, bare slope with little holes swelled up and up to lose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely watched her steps and climbed behind Lassiter. Jane moved slowly. Perhaps he was only husbanding his strength. But she saw drops of blood on the stone, and then she knew. They climbed and climbed without looking back. Her breast labored. She began to feel as 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 that a corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that, a vast, ponderous cliff. The dogs patterned up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter mounted the steps with Faye, and he swayed like a drunken man, and he too disappeared. But instantly he returned alone, and half ran, half slipped down to her. Then from below peeled up horse-shouts of angry men. Well and several of his riders had reached the spot where Lassiter had parted with his guns. "'You'll need that breath, maybe,' said Lassiter, facing downward with glittering eyes. "'Now, Jane, the last pull,' he went on. "'Walk up them little steps. I'll follow and steady you. Don't think. Just go. Little Faye's above. Her eyes are open. She just said to me, "'Where's Mother Jane?' Without a fear or a trimmer or a slip or a touch of Lassiter's hand, Jane Witherstein walked up that ladder of cut steps. He pushed her round the corner of the wall. Faye lay, with wide-staring eyes, in the shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs waited. Lassiter picked up the child and turned into a dark cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazed at a wonderfully smooth and steep incline leading up between ruined, splintered, toppling walls. A red haze from the setting sun filled this passage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured steps, and blood dripped from him to make splotches on the white stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, but was compelled, for she found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to drag her down. She gasped for breath. She thought her heart was bursting. Slower, slower yet the rider climbed, whistling as he breathed. The incline widened. Huge pinnacles and monuments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunset haze shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane did not look high, but she felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. She felt that it was a fearful, menacing place. And she climbed on in heart-rending effort. And she fell beside Lassiter and Faye at the top of the incline in a narrow, smooth divide. He staggered to his feet, staggered to a huge, leaning rock that rested on a small pedestal. He put his hand on it, the hand that had been shot through, 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 to roll stones. And now I can't. What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone? I plan to fetch you here to roll this stone. See? It'll smash the crags, loosen the walls, close the outlet. As Jane Witherstein gazed down that long incline, walled in by crumbling cliffs, awaiting only the slightest jar to make them fall asunder. She saw Tull appear at the bottom and begin to climb. A rider followed him, 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. Venture's valley is down behind here. We could live there. But if I roll the stone, we're shut in for always. I don't dare. I'm thinking of you. Lassiter, roll the stone, she cried. He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed the bloody hand on the balancing rock. Jane Witherstein gazed from him down the passageway. Tull was climbing. Almost she thought she saw his dark, relentless face. Behind him more riders climbed. What did they mean for Faye, for Lassiter, for herself? Roll the stone, Lassiter, I love you. Under all his deathly pallor and the blood and the iron of seared cheek and lined brow worked a great change. He placed both hands on the rock and then leaned his shoulder there and braced his powerful body. Roll the stone. It stirred, it groaned, it graded, it moved, and with a slow grinding as a wrathful relief began to lean. It had waited ages to fall and now was slow in starting. Then as if suddenly instinct with life it leaped hurtingly down to a light on the steep incline to bound more swiftly into the air to gather momentum, to plunge into the lofty, leaning crag below. The crag thundered into atoms. A wave of air, a splitting shock. Dust shrouded the sunset red of shaking 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 deception pass closed forever. End of chapter 23. This concludes Writers of the Purple Sage by Zane Gray.