 CHAPTER XVII RANGLE'S RACE RUN The plan, eventually decided upon by the lovers, was for ventures to go to the village, secure a horse in some kind of a disguise for Bess, or at least less striking 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 the long and perilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the event of his inability to fetch back a horse for her, they intended to make the giant sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle-blankets, and ventures' guns were to compose the light outfit with which they would make the start. "'I love this beautiful place,' said Bess. "'It's hard to think of leaving it.' "'Hard? Well, I should think so,' replied Ventures. "'Maybe in years.' But he did not complete in words his thought that might be possible to return after many years of absence and change. Once again Bess bade Ventures farewell under the shadow of balancing rock, and this time it was with whispered hope and tenderness and passionate trust. Long after he had left her, all down through the outlet to the pass, the clinging clasp of her arms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new and exquisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly and thrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadly called herself nameless and nothing had been marvelously transformed in the moment of his avowal of love. It was something to think over, something to warm his heart. But for the present it had absolutely to be forgotten, so that all his mind could be addressed to the trip so 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 into the valley. Darkness was coming on, and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he reached his old hiding place in the split of canyon wall, and by their aid he slipped through the dense thickets to meet the grassy enclosure. Rangle stood in the center of it with his head up, and he appeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim light. Ventors whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then called. The horse snorted, and plunging away with dull, heavy sound of hoofs, he disappeared in the gloom. Wilder than ever, muttered Ventors. He followed the sorrow into the narrowing split between the walls, and presently had to desist because he could not see a foot in advance. As he went back toward the open, Rangle jumped out of an ebony shadow of cliff and, like a thunderbolt, shot huge and black past him down into the starlit glade. Deciding that all attempts to catch Rangle at night would be useless, Ventors repaired to the shelving rock where he had hidden saddle and blanket, and there went to sleep. The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was light enough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his saddle and went out to rope the sorrow. He espied Rangle at the lower end of the cove and approached him in a perfectly natural manner. When he got near enough, Rangle evidently recognized him, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on into the narrow lane between the walls. This favored Ventors' speedy capture of the horse, so, coiling his noose ready to throw, he hurried on. Rangle let Ventors get to within a hundred feet and then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly getting into his stride, Ventors made a perfect throw with the rope. He had time to brace himself for the shock. Nevertheless, Rangle threw him and dragged him several yards before halting. "'You wild devil,' said Ventors, as he slowly pulled Rangle up. "'Don't you know me?' "'Come now, old fellow, so, so.' Rangle yielded to the lasso and then to Ventors' strong hand. He was as straggly and wild-looking as a horse left to roam free in the sage. He dropped his long ears and stood readily to be saddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly sensitive and quivered at every touch and sound. Ventors led him to the thicket and, bending the close saplings to let him squeeze through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in each direction assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canyon. Then he was in the saddle, riding south. Rangle's long-swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer. His stride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse, and his endurance was equally remarkable. Ventors pulled him in occasionally and walked him up the stretches of rising ground and along the soft washes. Rangle had never yet shown any indication of distress while Ventors rode him. Nevertheless there was now reason to save the horse. Therefore Ventors did not resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. He camped at the last water in the pass. What distance that was to Cottonwood's 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 the forenoon 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 out Lassiter's tracks in the dust, but no others, and dismounting he straightened out Rangle's bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of slope. Rangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage. Remounting Ventors headed up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles when Rangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Ventors heavily against the pommel. What's wrong, old boy? Called Ventors, looking down for a loose shoe or a snake, or a foot lame to buy a picked-up stone. Unrewarded he raised himself from his scrutiny. Rangle stood stiff-head high with his long ears erect. Thus guided Ventors swiftly gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope. If they had seen him it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction. Wonder who they are, exclaimed Ventors. He was not disposed to run. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he reflected that whoever the approaching riders were they could not be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and led Rangle behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal 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, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into life. If those riders were not rustlers, he had forgotten how rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compact and dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual that their horses did not see Rangle. As such failure, Ventors decided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling. They moved at a swift canter, affected more by rustlers than by riders. Ventors grew concerned over the possibility that these horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance to tell what to expect. When they were within 300 yards, he deliberately led Rangle out into the trail. Then he heard shouts and the hard scrape of sliding hooks and saw horses rear and plunge back with upflung heads and flying mains. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply against the black background of riders and horses, and shots rang out. Bullets struck far in front of Ventors and whipped up the dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great for revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to check advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in Ventors. Slipping his arm through the bridle so that Rangle could not get away, Ventors lifted his rifle and pulled the trigger twice. He saw the first horsemen lean sideways and fall. He saw another lurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Rangle, plunging in fright, lifted Ventors and nearly threw him. He jerked the horse down with a powerful hand and leaped into the saddle. Rangle plunged again, dragging his bridle that Ventors 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. The riders faced Ventors, some with red belching guns. He heard a sharper report, and just as Rangle plunged again he caught the whim of a leaden missile that would have hit him but for Rangle's sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold, passed over Ventors. Finally he picked out the one rider with a carbine and killed him. Rangle snorted shrilly and bolted into the sage. Ventors let him run a few rods, then with iron arm checked him. Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the saddle to secure his fallen comrades' carbine. A shot from Ventors, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over him, made him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The crippled rider went one way, the one frustrated in his attempt to get the carbine, rode another. Ventors thought he made out a third rider, carrying a strange appearing bundle and disappearing in the sage. But in the rapidity of action and vision he could not discern what it was. Two riders with three horses swung out to the right. Afraid of the long rifle, a burdensome weapon seldom carried by rustlers or riders, they had been put to route. A ventors discovered that one of the two men last noted was riding Jane Witherstein's horse Bells, the beautiful bay racer she had given to Lasseter. Ventors uttered a savage outcry. Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider and the ease and grace of his seat in the saddle, things so strikingly incongruous, grew more and more familiar in Ventors sight. Jerry Card cried Ventors. It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white-hot wrath inflamed Ventors that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze. It's Jerry Card, he exclaimed instantly. And he's riding black star and leading night. The long kindling stormy fire in Ventors' heart burst into flames. He spurred wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride Ventors slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it was once again full. Hard and his companion were now half a mile or more in advance, riding easily down the slope. Ventors marked the smooth gate, and understood it when wrangle galloped out of the sage into the broad cattle-trail down which Ventors had once tracked Jane Witherstein's red herd. This hard-packed trail, from years of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Ventors saw Jerry Card look back over his shoulder. The other rider did likewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the point where the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop. Wrangle, the race's own, said Ventors grimly. We'll canter with him and gallop with him and run with him. We'll let them set the pace. Ventors knew he bestowed the strongest, swiftest, most tireless horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling Jane Witherstein's devoted assurance that night could run neck and neck with wrangle and black star could show his heels to him, Ventors wished that Jane were there to see the race to recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the giant sorrel. Then Ventors found himself thankful that she was absent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card's death. The first flush, the raging of Ventors wrath, passed to leave him in sullen, almost cold possession of 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. The strength in him then, the thing rife in him that was not hate but something as remorseless, might have been the fiery fruition of a whole lifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped him. Ventors thought out the race shrewdly. The rider-owned bells would probably drop behind and take to the sage. What he did was of little moment to Ventors. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden career, as well as his present flight, and then to catch the blacks, that was all that concerned Ventors. The cattle trail wound from miles and miles down the slope. Ventors saw, with a rider's keen vision, 10, 15, 20 miles of clear purple sage. There were no oncoming riders or rustlers to aid Card. His only chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses and creeping away in the sage to hide. In 10 miles, Wrangel could run black star and knight off their feet, and in 15 he could kill them outright. So Ventors held the sorrel in, letting Card make the running. It was a long race that would save the blacks. In a few miles of that swinging canter, Wrangel had crept appreciably closer to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again, and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put black star to a gallop. Knight and bells on either side of him swept into his stride. Ventors loosened the rain on Wrangel and let him break into a gallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run, but Ventors restrained him, and in the gallop he gained more than in the canter. Bells was fast in that gate, but black star and knight had been trained to run. Slowly Wrangel closed the gap down to a quarter of a mile and crept closer and closer. Jerry Card wheeled once more. Ventors distinctly saw the red flash of his red face. This time he looked long. Ventors laughed. He knew what passed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to make out what horse it happened to be that thus gained on Jane Witherstein's peerless racers. Wrangel had so long been away from the village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten. Besides whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame as the greatest rider of the sage, certain it was that his best point was not far-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangel. After what must have been a searching gaze, he got his comrade to face about. This action gave Ventors amusement. It spoke so surely of the facts that neither Card nor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yet if they kept to the trail and the last thing such men would do would be to leave it, they were both doomed. This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle and he even shaded his eyes from the sun. He too looked long. Then all at once he faced ahead again and bending lower in the saddle began to fling his right arm up and down. That flinging Ventors knew to be the lashing of bells. Jerry also became active and the three racers lengthened out into a run. Now Wrangel cried Ventors, run you big devil, run. Ventors laid the reins on Wrangel's neck and dropped the loop over the pommel. The sorrow needed no guiding on that smooth trail. He was sureer footed in a run than at any other fast gate and his running gave the impression of something devilish. He might now have been actuated by Ventors spirit. Undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of his rider. Ventors bent forward, swinging with the horse and gripped his rifle. His eye measured the distance between him and Jerry Card. In less than two miles of running, bells began to drop behind the blacks and Wrangel began to overhaul him. Ventors anticipated that the rustler was soon taken to the sage. Yet he did not. Not improbably, he reasoned that the powerful sorrow could more easily overtake bells in the heavier going outside of the trail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay between bells and Wrangel. Turning in his saddle, the rustler began to shoot and the bullets beat up little whiffs of dust. Ventors raised his rifle ready to take snapshots and waited for favorable opportunity when bells was out of line with the forward horses. Ventors headed 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's beloved Arabians. No great distance was covered, however, before bells swerved to the left, out of line with black star and knight. Then Ventors, aiming high and waiting for the pause between Wrangel's great strides, began to take snapshots at the rustler. The fleeing rider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he was moving swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting from Wrangel's back was shooting from a thunderbolt and added to that was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effect on bells. Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedingly difficult, Ventors' confidence, like his implacability, saw a speedy and fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixth shot, the rustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off his horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself to a half-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the sage. As Ventors went thundering by, he peered keenly into the sage, but caught no sight of the man. Bells ran a few hundred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangel passed him. Again, Ventors 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 had once more measured the distance between him and Jerry Card. Wrangel had gained, bringing him into rifle range. Ventors was hard put to it now, not to shoot, but thought it better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of a running fuselad, had huddled himself into a little twisted ball on Black Star's neck, now surmising 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 Ventors, this moment was the beginning of the real race. Ventors leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangel's neck, then backwards to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair, trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity, but Wrangel's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute, thought Ventors, and felt in him a love for the horse he had never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be astride the sorrow, to swing with his swing, to see his magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hooks, to ride him in that race and not glory in the ride. So, with his passion to kill, still keen and unabated, Ventors lived out that ride and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of wildness to the dregs. When Wrangel's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Ventors in the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a downward glance to try to see Wrangel's actual stride and saw only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail. He watched the sorrow savage head, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangel was the horse for a race with death. Upon each side, Ventors saw the sage merged into a sailing, colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple breath split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy, steady blast into his face, sickened him 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 from Jerry Card. Wrangel had ceased to gain. The blacks were proving their fleetness. Ventors watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider born in the saddle. It struck Ventors that Card had changed his position or the position of the horses. Presently, Ventors remembered positively that Jerry had been leading night on the right hand side of the trail. The racer was now on the side to the left. No, it was Black Star. But, Ventors argued in a maze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star. Another clearer, keener gaze assured Ventors that Black Star was really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card. He's changed from one to the other, ejaculated Ventors, realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. Changed at full speed. Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before I believe it. Thence forth, while wrangle sped on, Ventors glued his eyes to the little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing pace. From time to time he glanced backward as a wise general 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 at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more wildly than Ventors. For he had been born to the sage and the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the last call, the sudden upflashing instinct of self-preservation would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve and the spirit of that race. Ventors seemed to read Jerry's mind. That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride and wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun flashed red on his face. Turning he drew black star closer and closer toward night till they ran side by side as one horse. Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the stirrups and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon black star. He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was 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. The grace and dexterity and daring of that rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters. For the distance of a mile, Jerry rode black star and then changed back to night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the blacks could avail little more against the sorrel. Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land. Straight away for five miles, the trail stretched and then it disappeared in Hummacky ground. To the right, some few rods, Venters saw a break in the sage and this was the rim of deception pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the pass somewhere north of those ridges and he realized that he must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of five miles. Cruely, he struck his spurs into Wrangel's flanks. A light touch of spur was sufficient to make Wrangel plunge and now with a ringing wild snort he seemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost unseeded Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by 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 desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But Jerry returned the shot and his ball struck dangerously close in the dust at Wrangel's flying feet. Venters held his fire then while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile with black star leaving night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangel 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 to gain rapidly on the other black. Only a hundred yards now stretched between black star and Wrangel. The giant sorrel thundered on and on and on. In every yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils, ringing wet, flying lather and as hot as fire. Savage is ever, strong is ever, fast as ever, but each tremendous stride jarred Venters out of the saddle. Wrangel's power and spirit and momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangel's great race was nearly won and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted purple plane sliding under him. Black star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangel thundered on, on, on. Venters felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap. Flex of foam flew into Venters eyes, burning him, making him see all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed to see, black star suddenly rudderless and with broken gait. Wrangel thundered on to change his pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk and walk to stop, the great sorrel ended his race. Venters looked back. Black star stood rudderless in the trail. Jerry Card had taken 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 had recovered sufficiently to have a care for Wrangel. Rapidly he took off the saddle in bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But he had 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 into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him, Venters removed the saddle in bridle. Black star had been killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the stricken horse. Black star lay flat, covered with bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring and all his beautiful body in convulsions. Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. 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 would linger in the vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Night soon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him down near the others and, unsettling him, let him loose to rest. Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himself not yet spent. Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he was compelled to stay where he was or comparatively near for the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He was now 70 miles from Cottonwoods and he believed close to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and 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 canyon into which the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting canyons and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs, leading toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was deception pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail went down. The descent was gradual along a stone walled trail and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Aldering drove cattle into the pass. There was however no indication at all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Aldering had many holes to his burrow. In searching round in the little hollows, Venters, much to his relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and night followed suit. So long as they were down, Venters intended to make no move. The longer they rested, the better and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go over to where a black star lay expecting to find him dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was recognition even fire in his big black eyes. Venters was overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black star presently labored to his 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 gave the racer a drink. Black star gulped it at one draft as if it were but a drop and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more. Venters now led night down to drink and after a further time, black star also. Then the blacks began to graze. The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough and taking his lasso he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his fill and did not seem the worse for it and might be anything but easy to catch. 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 as simply perverse. In a quandary Venters returned to the other horses hoping much, yet doubting more that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he might be caught. As the afternoon wore away Venters' concern diminished yet he kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was no telling of what Jerry card might be capable. Venters suddenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly however Venters clung to his foreboding of cards 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 canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefs appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene. It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canyon rim near the edge came Wrangle once more in thundering flight. Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His head was high and twisted in a most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Venters described 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 his strange position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters' nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice. Jerry card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of Wrangle's nose. Venters saw it and there flashed over him a memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more than half-horse instinct of Jerry card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rods, Jerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into the canyon. No, Jerry, whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast. It was too small. Yet Venters shot once, twice, the third time, four times, five, all wasted shots in precious seconds. With a deep muttered curse, Venters called Wrangle through the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled and with one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirled downward with a little frog-like shape clinging to his neck. There was a pause which seemed never-ending, a shock and an instant silence. Then uprolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away in distant echo. Then silence unbroken. Wrangle's race was run. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Rotters 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. Writers of the Purple Sage by Zane Gray. Chapter 18, Old Rings Nell. Some 40 hours or more later, Venters created a commotion in Cottonwoods by riding down the main street on Blackstar and leading bells and night. He had come upon bells grazing near the body of a dead rustler, the only incident of his quick ride into the village. Nothing was farther from Venters' mind than Bravado. No thought came to him of the defiance and boldness of riding Jane Witherstein's racers straight into the arch plotter's stronghold. He wanted men to see the famous Arabians. He wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing all the sounds of having been driven to their limit. He wanted men to see and to know that the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage had not ridden them back. Venters had come for that and for more. He wanted to meet tall face to face. If not tall, then dire. If not dire, then anyone in the secret of these master conspirators. Such was Venters' passion. The meeting with the rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, the spilling of blood, the recognition of Jerry Card, and the horses, the race, and that last plunge of mad wrangle, all these things fuel own fuel to this moldering fire had kindled and swelled and leaped into living flame. He could have shot dire in the midst of his religious services at the altar. He could have killed tall in front of wives and babes. He walked the three racers down the broad green-bordered village road. He heard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring. Bitter waters for Jane Witherstein. 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' red in the faces of men, the intelligence that Jane Witherstein's Arabians had been known to have been stolen. Venters reigned in and halted before dire's residents. It was a low, long stone structure resembling Witherstein house. The spacious front yard was green and luxuriant with grass and flowers. Gravel walks led to the huge porch. A well-trimmed hedge of purple sage separated the yard from the church grounds. Birds sang in the trees. The water flowed musically along the walks and there were glad, careless shouts of children. For Venters the beauty of this home and the serenity and its apparent happiness all turned red and black. For Venters a shade overspread the lawn, the flowers, the old vine-clad stone house. In the music of the singing birds in the murmur of the running water he heard an ominous sound. Quiet beauty, sweet music, innocent laughter. By what monstrous abortion of fate did these abide in the shadow of dire? Venters rode on and stopped before Tull's cottage. Women stared at him with white faces and then flew from the porch. Tull himself appeared at the door bent low, craning his neck. His dark face flashed out of sight. The door banged. A heavy bar dropped with a hollow sound. Then Venters shook black star's bridle and sharply trotting led the other horses to the center of the village. Here at the intersecting streets and in front of the stores he halted once more. The usual lounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was not now in evidence. Riders and ranchers and villagers broke up what must have been absorbing conversation. There was a rush of many feet and then the walk was lined with faces. Venters' glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced men. He recognized 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 and wonder in regard to the return of Jane Witherstein's racers. Yet all were silent. Here were their familiar characteristics, masked feeling, strange secretiveness, expressionless expression of mystery and hidden power. Has anybody here seen Jerry Card, queried Venters, and a loud voice? In reply there came not one word, not a nod or shake of head, not so much as dropping eye or twitching lip, nothing but a quiet, stony stare. Been under the knife? You've a fine knife-wielder here, one tall, I believe. Maybe you've all had your tongues cut out? This passionate sarcasm of Venters brought no response and the stony calm was as oil on the fire within him. I see some of you packed guns too, he added in biting scorn. In the long, tense paws strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat motionless on Black Star. All right, he went on. Then let some of you take this message to Tull. Tell him I've seen Jerry Card. Tell him Jerry 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 Witherstein House and turn the racers over to Jane. Hello, Venters. A familiar voice cried, hoarsely, and he saw a man running toward him. It was the rider Judkins who came up and gripped Venters' hand. Venters I could have dropped when I seen them horses, but that sight ain't a marker to the looks of you. What's wrong? Have you gone crazy? You must be crazy to ride in here this way with them horses, talking that way about Tull and Jerry Card. Judd, I'm not crazy. Only Madd cleaned through, replied Venters. Madd, now burn. I'm glad to hear some of your old self in your voice. For when you come up, you look like the corpse of a dead rider with fire for eyes. You had that crowd too stiff for throwing guns. Come, we've got to have a talk. Let's go up the lane. We ain't much safe here. Judkins mounted bells and rode with Venters up to the Cottonwood Grove. Here they dismounted and went among the trees. Let's hear from you first, said Judkins. You fetched back them horses, that is the trick. And of course you got Jerry the same as you got Horn. Horn? Sure, he was found dead yesterday, all chewed by coyotes, and he'd been shot plumb center. Where was he found? At the split down the trail, you know where Old Ring's cattle trail runs off north from the trail to the pass. That's where I met Jerry and the rustlers. What was Horn doing with them? I thought Horn was an honest cattle man. Lord Byrne, don't ask me that. I'm all muddled now trying to figure things. Venters told of the fight and the race with Jerry Card and its tragic conclusion. I noted, I noted all along that Wrangel was the best horse, exclaimed Judkins, with his lean face working and his eyes lighting. That was a race. Lord, I'd like to have seen Wrangel jump the cliff with Jerry. And that was goodbye to the grandest horse and rider ever on the sage. But Byrne, after you got the horses, why'd you want to bolt right in Toll's face? I want him to know, and if I can get to him, I'll, you can't get near Toll, interrupted Judkins. That vigilante bunch of taken to be in bodyguard for Toll and Dyer too. Hasn't Lasseter made a break yet? Inquired Venters, curiously. Naw, replied Judkins scornfully. Jane turned his head. He's mad in love over her, follows her like a dog. He ain't no more Lasseter. He's lost his nerve. He doesn't look like the same feller. It's village talk, everybody knows it. He hasn't thrown a gun and he won't. Judd, I'll bet he does, replied Venters earnestly. Remember what I say. This Lasseter is something more than a gunman. Judd, he's big, he's great. I feel that in him. God help Toll and Dyer when Lasseter does go after them, for horses and riders and stone walls won't save them. Well, have it your way, Byrne. I hope you're right. Naturally, I've been some sore on Lasseter for getting soft, but I ain't denying his nerve or whatever's great in him that sort of paralyzes people. No later than this morning, I seen him sauntering down the lane, quiet and slow, and like his guns, he comes black. Black, that's Lasseter. Well, the crowd on the corner never batted an eye, and I'll gamble my horse that there wasn't one who had a heartbeat till Lasseter got by. He went in Snell's saloon, and as there wasn't no gunplay, I had to go in too. And there darned my pictures if Lasseter wasn't standing to the bar, drinking and talking with Aldrin. Aldrin, whispered Venters. His voice, as all fire and pulse within him, seemed to freeze. Let go my arm, exclaimed Judkins. That's my bad arm. Sure it was Aldrin. What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? Venters, I tell you something's wrong. You're whiter than a sheet. You can't be scared of the rustler. I don't believe you've got a scare in you. Well now, just let me talk. You know I like to talk, and if I'm slow, I'll always get there sometime. As I said, Lasseter was talking chummy with Aldrin. There wasn't no hard feelings, and the gang wasn't paying no particular attention. But like a cat watching a mouse, I had my eyes on them two fellers. It was strange to me, that confab. I'm getting to think a lot for a feller who doesn't know much. There's been some queer deals lately, and this seemed to me the queerest. These men stood to the bar alone, and so close, their big gun hilts flooded together. I seen Aldrin was some surprised at first, and Lasseter was cool as ice. They talked, and presently, at something Lasseter said, the rustler bawled out a curse, and then he just fell up against the bar and sagged there. The gang in the saloon looked around and laughed, and that's about all. Finally Aldrin turned, and it was easy to see something had shook him. Yes sir, that big rustler. You know he's as broad as he is long, and the powerfulest build of a man. Yes sir, the nerve had been taken out of him. Then, after a little, he began to talk and said a lot to Lasseter. And by and by it didn't take much of an eye to see that Lasseter was getting hit hard. I'd never seen him any way but cooler and ice till then. He seemed to be hit harder than Aldrin, only he didn't roar out that way. He just kind of sunk in and looked and looked, and he didn't see a living soul in that saloon. Then he sort of come to and shaken hands, mind you, shaken hands with Aldrin. He went out. Couldn't help thinking how easy even a boy could have dropped the great gunman then. While the rustler stood at the bar for a long time, and he was seeing things far off too, then he come to and roared for whiskey and gulped a drink that was big enough to drown me. Is Aldrin here now? Whispered ventures. He could not speak above a whisper. Judkin's story had been meaningless to him. He's at Snells yet. Byrne, I haven't told you that the rustlers have been raised in hell. They shot up Stonebridge in glaze, and for three days they've been here drinking and gambling and throwing of gold. These rustlers have a pile of gold. If it was gold dust or nugget gold, I'd have reason to think. But it's new coin gold, as if it had just come from the United States Treasury. And the coin's genuine. That's all been proved. The truth is Aldrin's on a rampage. A while back he lost his masked writer, and they say he's wild about that. I'm wondering if Lassiter could have told the rustler anything about that little masked, hard-riding devil. Rod, he was most as good as Jerry Card. And Byrne, I've been wondering if you know. Judkin's, you're a good fellow, interrupted ventures. Someday I'll tell you a story of no time now. Take the horses to Jane. Judkin stared, and then, muttering to himself, he mounted bells and stared again at ventures. And then, leading the other horses, he rode into the grove and disappeared. Once, long before, on the night ventures had carried best through the canyon and up into Surprise Valley, he had experienced the strangeness of faculties singularly, tinglingly acute. And now the same sensation recurred. But it was different 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 and strode toward the center of the village. Perceptions flashed upon him, the faint cold touch of the breeze, a cold, silvery tinkle of flowing water, a cold sun shining out of a cold sky, song of birds and laugh of children, coldly distant. Cold and intangible were all things in earth and heaven. Colder and tighter stretched the skin over his face. Colder and harder grew the polished butts of his guns. Colder and steadier became his hands as he wiped the clammy sweat from his face or reached low to his gun-cheese. Men meeting him in the walk gave him wide berth. In front of Bevan's store, a crowd melted apart for his passage, and their faces and whispers were faces and whispers of a dream. He turned a corner to meet tall, face to face, eye to eye. As once before, he had seen this man pale to a ghastly, livid white, so again he saw the change. Tall stopped in his tracks, with right hand raised and shaking. Suddenly it dropped, and he seemed to glide aside to pass out of Vinter's sight. Next he saw many horses with bridal-stown, all clean-limbed, dark bays or blacks, rustler's horses. Loud voices and boisterous laughter, rattle of dice and scrape of chair and clink of gold burst in mingled din from an open doorway. He stepped inside. With the sight of smoke-hazed room and drinking, cursing, gambling, dark-visaged men, reality once more dawned upon Vinter's. His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon the drinkers at the bar. Dark clothes, dark-faced men they all were, burned by the sun, bow-legged, as were most riders of the sage, but neither lean nor gaunt. Then Vinter's gaze passed to the tables, and swiftly it swept over the hard-featured game-sters into a light upon the huge, shaggy black head of the rustler-chief. Old Ring, he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split a bell in his ears. It stilled the din. That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Old Ring's chair as he rose, and then while he passed, a great gloomy figure, again the thronged room stilled in silence yet deeper. Old Ring, a word with you, continued Vinter's. Ho, what's this? Boomed Old Ring in frowning scrutiny. Come outside alone, a word for you from your masked rider. Old Ring kicked a chair out of his way, and lunged forward with a stamp of heavy boot that jarred the floor. He waved down his muttering, rising men. Vinter's backed out of the door and waited, hearing as no sound had ever before struck into his soul the rapid, heavy steps of the rustler. Old Ring appeared, and Vinter's had one glimpse of his great breadth in bulk, his gold-buckled belt with hanging guns, his high-top boots with gold spurs. In that moment, Vinter's had a strange, unintelligible curiosity to see Old Ring alive. The rustler's broad brow, his large black eyes, his sweeping beard, as dark as the wing of a raven, his enormous width of shoulder and depth of chest, his whole, splendid presence so wonderfully charged with vitality and force and strength, seemed to afford Vinter's an unutterable, fiendish joy, because for that magnificent manhood in life, he meant cold and sudden death. Old Ring, Bess, is alive, but she's dead to you, dead to the life you made her lead, dead as you will be in one second. Swift as lightning, Vinter's glance dropped from Old Ring's rolling eyes to his hands. One of them, the right, swept out, then toward his gun, and Vinter shot him through the heart. Slowly, Old Ring sank to his knees, and the hand, dragging at the gun, fell away. Vinter'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 was that awful spirit in the black eyes only one of vitality? Why didn't you wait? Bess was, Old Ring's whisper died under his beard, and with a heavy lurch he fell forward. Bounding swiftly away, Vinter's fled around the corner, across the street, and leaping ahead, 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 he had hidden his rifle. Securing that, he again sat out into a run, and circling through the sage came up behind Jane Witherstein's stable and corrals. With laboring, dripping chest, and pain as of a knife thrust in his side, he stopped to regain his breath, and while resting his eyes roved around in search of a horse. Doors and windows of the stable were open wide and had a deserted look. One dejected, lonely burrow stood in the near corral. Strange indeed was the silence brooding over the once happy, noisy home of Jane Witherstein's pets. He went into the corral, exercising care to leave no tracks, and led the burrow to the watering trough. Ventures, though not thirsty, drank till he could drink no more. Then, leading the burrow over hard ground, he struck into the sage and down the slope. He strode swiftly, turning from time to time to scan the slope for riders. His head just topped the level of sage brush, and the burrow could not have been seen at all. Slowly, the green of cottonwood sank behind the slope, and at last a wavering line of purple sage met the blue of sky. To avoid being seen, to get away, to hide his trail, these were the sole ideas in his mind as he headed for a deception pass, and he directed all his acuteness of eye and ear and the keenness of a rider's judgment for distance and ground to stern accomplishment of the task. He kept to the sage far to the left of the trail leading into the pass. He walked 10 miles and looked back a thousand times. Always, the graceful purple wave of sage remained wide 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 the right. At length, he persuaded himself that he would be able to see riders mounted on horses before they could see him on the little burrow, and he rode bareback. Hour by hour, the tireless burrow kept to his faithful, steady trot. The sun sank and the long shadows lengthened down the slope. Moving veils of purple twilight crept out of the hollows and mustering and forming on the levels soon merged and shaded into night. Ventures guided the burrow nearer to the trail so that he could 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 for the time being. When late in the night he reached the break in the sage, he sent the burrow down ahead of him and started an avalanche that all but buried the animal at the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he had a moment's elation for he had hidden his tracks. Once more he mounted the burrow and rode on. The hour was the blackest of the night when he made the thicket which enclosed his old camp. Here he turned the burrow loose in the grass 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 the muscles of his body, but a damned up torrent of emotion at last burst its bounds and the hour that saw his release from immediate action was one that confounded him in the reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understanding why. He caught glimpses into himself into unlit darkness of soul. The fire that had blistered him and the cold which had frozen him now united in one torturing possession of his mind and heart and like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet ranged his being, ran rioting through his blood, trampling their resurging good, dragging ever at the evil. Out of this subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened? He had left the valley to go to Cottonwood's. Why? It seemed that he had gone to kill a man, Aldring. The name riveted his consciousness upon the one man of all men upon earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Ventures recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Aldring. He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple black and sweeping beard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself repeating, Aldring, Bess is alive, but she's dead to you. And he felt himself jerk and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun, and he saw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitality of him, that awful light in his eyes? Only the hard-dying life of a tremendously powerful brute? A broken whisper strange as death. Man, why didn't you wait? Bess was. An Aldring plunged face-forward, dead. I killed him, cried Ventures, in remembering shock. But it wasn't that. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper. Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the tumult and stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a man shot through the heart. 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 for shot, life for life, but lacking physical power. Distinctly recalled now, never to be forgotten, Ventures saw in Aldring's magnificent eyes the rolling of great, glad surprise, softness, love. Then came a shadow in the terrible superhuman striving of his spirit to speak. Aldring, shot through the heart, had fought and forced back death, not for a moment in which to shoot or curse, but to whisper strange words. What words for a dying man to whisper? Why had not Ventures waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It was regret that there was not a moment of life left in which to speak. Best was, herein lay renewed torture for Ventures. What had best been to Aldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had loved, and he had forgotten. And now, out of the mystery of a dying man's whisper, rose again that perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Best had loved that splendid, black-crowned giant. By her own confession, she had loved him. An inventor's soul again flamed up the jealous hell. Then into the clamoring hell burst the shot that had killed Aldring, and it rang in a wild, fiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to the memory of the love and light in Aldring's eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So the changing, swaying emotions fluctuated in Ventures' heart. This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial struggle of his life. 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 he had not loved best with all his soul, he had grown into a man who would not change the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he must know the truth, know the worst, stifle all these insistent doubts and subtle hopes and jealous fancies, and kill the past by knowing truly what best had been to Aldring. For that matter he knew, he had always known, but he must hear it spoken. Then when they had safely gotten out of that wild country to take up a new and an absorbing life, she would forget, she would be happy. And through that, 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 around corners, to pick out hard ground in grassy patches, and to make sure there was no one in pursuit. In the night sometime he came to the smooth, scrawled rocks dividing the valley, and here set the burrow at liberty. He walked beyond, climbed the slope in the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to the point of exhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave and fell asleep. In the morning when he descended the trail, he found the sun was pouring a golden stream of light through the arch of the great stone bridge. Surprised valley, like a valley of dreams, lay mystically soft and beautiful, awakening to the golden flood which was rolling away its slumberous bands of mist, brightening its walled faces. While yet far off he discerned best moving under the silver spruces, and soon the barking of the dogs told him that they had seen him. He heard the mockingbird singing in the trees and then the twittering of the quail. Ring and Whitey came bounding toward him, and behind them ran Bess, her hands outstretched. "'Burn, you're back, you're back,' she cried, in joy that wrang 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, something checked her, and as quickly all her joy fled, and with it her color, leaving her pale and trembling. "'Oh, what's happened?' "'A good deal has happened, Bess. "'I don't need to tell you what, and I'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 to be scared about. "'Things are going to turn out just as we have planned. "'As soon as I'm rested, "'we'll make a break to get out of the country, "'only now, right now, I must know the truth about you.' "'Truth about me?' echoed Bess, shrinkingly. "'She seemed to be casting back into her mind "'for a forgotten key. "'Vinters himself, as he saw her, received a pang. "'Yes, the truth. "'Bess, don't misunderstand. "'I haven't changed that way. "'I love you still. "'I'll love you more afterward. "'Life will be just as sweet, sweeter to us. "'We'll be married as soon as ever we can. "'We'll be happy, but there's a devil in me, "'a perverse, jealous devil. "'Then I've queer fancies. "'I forgot for a long time. "'Now all those fiendish little whispers of doubt "'and faith and fear and hope come torturing me again. "'I've got to kill them with the truth.' "'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 Aldring love you?' "'Certainly he 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...?' "'He choked back speech. "'He felt the rush of pain and passion. "'He seized her in rude, strong hands and drew her close. "'He looked straight into her dark blue eyes. "'They were shadowing with the old wistful light, "'but they were as clear as the limpid water of the spring. "'They were earnest, solemn in unutterable love "'and faith and abnegation.' "'Venters shivered. "'He knew he was looking into her soul. "'He knew she could not lie in that moment, "'but that she might tell the truth, "'looking at him with those eyes, "'almost killed his belief in purity.' "'What are... what were you two... "'To Aldring,' he panted fiercely. "'I am his daughter,' she replied instantly. "'Venters slowly let go of her. "'There was a violent break in the force of his feeling, "'then creeping blankness. "'What was it you said?' he asked, "'in a kind of dull wonder. "'I am his daughter.' "'Aldring's daughter?' queried Venters, "'with life gathering in his voice. "'Yes. "'With a passionately awakening start, "'he grasped her hand and drew her close. "'All the time you've been Aldring's daughter? "'Yes, of course, all the time, always. "'But, Bess, you told me, you let me think, "'I made out you are so, so ashamed.' "'It is my shame,' she said, "'with voice deep and full, "'and now the scarlet fired her cheek. "'I told you, I'm nothing, "'nameless, just Bess, Aldring's girl. "'I know, I remember, but I never thought,' "'he went on, hurriedly, huskily. "'That time, when you lay dying, you prayed, "'you, somehow I got the idea you were bad.' "'Bad,' she asked, with a little laugh. "'She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment "'in the absolute unconsciousness of a child. "'Venters gassed in the gathering might of the truth. "'She did not understand his meaning.' "'Bess, Bess,' he clasped her in his arms, "'hiding her eyes against his breast. "'She must not see his face in that moment.' "'And he held her while he looked out across the valley. "'In his dim and blinded sight, "'in the blur of golden light and moving mist, "'he saw Aldring. "'She was the rustler's nameless daughter. "'Aldring had loved her. "'He had so guarded her, so kept her from women "'and men and knowledge of life "'that her mind was as a child's. "'That was part of the secret, part of the mystery. "'That was the wonderful truth. "'Not only was she not bad, but good, pure, "'innocent above all innocence in the world, "'the innocence of lonely girlhood.' "'He saw Aldring's magnificent eyes, "'inquisitive, searching, softening. "'He saw them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love. "'Then suddenly strain in terrible effort of will. "'He heard Aldring whisper, "'and saw him sway like a log and fall. "'Then a million bellowing, thundering voices, "'gunshots of conscience, thunderbolts of remorse, "'denned horribly in his ears. "'He had killed Bess's father. "'Then a rushing wind filled his ears "'like a moan of wind in the cliffs, "'a knell indeed, Aldring's knell. "'He dropped to his knees "'and hid his face against Bess "'and grasped her with the hands of a drowning man. "'My God, my God, oh Bess, forgive me. "'Never mind what I've done, what I've thought. "'But forgive me, I'll give you my life. "'I'll live for you, I'll love you. "'Oh, I do love you as no man ever loved a woman. "'I want you to know to remember "'that I fought a fight for you, however blind I was. "'I thought, I thought, never mind what I thought, "'but I loved you, I asked you to marry me. "'Let that, let me have that to hug to my heart. "'Oh, Bess, I was driven and I might have known. "'I could not rest nor sleep "'till I had this mystery solved. "'God, how things work out. "'Burn, you're weak, trembling. "'You talk wildly,' cried Bess. "'You've overdone your strength. "'There's nothing to forgive. "'There's no mystery except your love for me. "'You have come back to me.' "'And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms "'and pressed it closely to her throbbing breast. "'End of Chapter 18. "'Chapter 19 of Writers 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. "'Writers of the Purple Sage by Zane Gray. "'Chapter 19, Faye. "'At the home of Jane Witherstein, "'little Faye was climbing Lassiter's knee. "'Does U love me?' she asked. "'Lassiter, who was as serious with Faye "'as he was gentle and loving, "'assured her an earnest and elaborate speech "'that he was her devoted subject. "'Faye looked thoughtful and appeared "'to be debating the duplicity of men "'or searching for a supreme test "'to prove this cavalier. "'Does U love my new mother?' she asked, "'with bewildering suddenness. "'Jane Witherstein laughed, and for the first time "'in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse "'and warmth in her cheek. "'It was a still, drowsy summer of afternoon, "'and the three were sitting in the shade "'of the wooded knoll that faced the sage slope. "'Little Faye's brief spell of unhappy longing "'for her mother, the childish mystic gloom, "'had passed, and now, where Faye was, "'there were prattle and laughter and glee. "'She had emerged from sorrow "'to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. "'She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. "'For Jane Witherstein, the child was an answer to prayer, "'a blessing, a possession infinitely more precious "'than all she had lost. "'For Lassiter, Jane divined, "'that little Faye had become a religion. "'Does U love my new mother?' repeated Faye. "'Lassiter's answer to this was a modest "'and sincere affirmative. "'Why don't you marry my new mother and be my father?' "'Of the thousands of questions put by little Faye to Lassiter, "'this was the first he had been unable to answer. "'Faye, Faye, don't ask questions like that,' said Jane. "'Why?' "'Because,' replied Jane, "'and she found it strangely embarrassing "'to meet the child's gaze. "'It seemed to her that Faye's violet eyes "'looked through her with piercing wisdom. "'U love him, don't you?' "'Dear child, run and play,' said Jane. "'But don't go too far. "'Don't go from this little hill.' "'Faye pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom "'that had not been granted her for weeks. "'Jane, why are children more sincere "'than grown-up persons?' asked Lassiter. "'Are they?' "'I reckon so. "'Little Faye there, she sees things "'as they appear on the face. "'An Indian does that, such as a dog. "'And an Indian and a dog are most of the time "'right in what they see. "'Maybe a child is always right. "'Well, what does Faye see?' asked Jane. "'I reckon you know. "'I wonder what goes on in Faye's mind "'when she sees part of the truth "'with the wise eyes of a child "'and wanting to know more "'meets with strange falseness from you. "'Wait, you are false in a way. "'They're the best woman I ever knew. "'What I want to say is this. "'Faye has taken your pretendin' to care for me "'for the thing it looks on the face. "'And her little form in mind asks questions, "'and the answers she gets are different "'from the looks of things. "'So she'll grow up gradually takin' on that falseness "'and be like the rest of the women and men, too. "'And the truth of this falseness to life "'is proved by your appearing to love me "'when you don't. "'Things aren't what they seem.' "'Lassiter, you're right. "'A child should be told the absolute truth. "'But is that possible? "'I haven't been able to do it, "'and all my life I've loved the truth, "'and I've prided myself upon being truthful. "'Maybe that was only egotism. "'I'm learning much, my friend. "'Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. "'And as to caring for you, "'I think I care a great deal. "'How much, how little, I couldn't say. "'My heart is almost broken, Lassiter. "'So now is not a good time to judge of affection. "'I can still play and be merry with Faye. "'I can still dream. "'But when I attempt serious thought, I'm dazed. "'I don't think. "'I don't care any more. "'I don't pray. "'Think of that, my friend. "'But in spite of my numb feeling, "'I believe I'll rise out of all this dark agony, "'a better woman, with greater love of man and God. "'I'm on the rack now. "'I'm senseless to all but pain and growing dead to that. "'Sooner or later, I shall rise out of this stupor. "'I'm waiting the hour.' "'It'll soon come, Jane,' replied Lassiter soberly. "'Then I'm afraid for you. "'Years are terrible things, and for years you've been bound. "'Habit of years is strong as life itself. "'Somehow, though, I believe that you'll come out "'of it all a finer woman. "'I'm waiting, too. "'And I'm wondering, I reckon, Jane, "'that marriage between us is out of all human reason. "'Lassiter, my dear friend, it's impossible for us to marry.' "'Why,' his face says, inquired Lassiter, "'with gentle persistence. "'Why, I never thought why. "'But it's not possible. "'I am Jane, daughter of Witherstein. "'My father would rise out of his grave. "'I'm of Mormon birth. "'I'm being broken, but I'm still a Mormon woman. "'And you, you are Lassiter. "'Maybe I'm not so much Lassiter as I used to be. "'What was it you said? "'Habit of years is strong as life itself. "'You can't change the one habit, the purpose of your life, "'for you still pack those black guns. "'You still nurse 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 to me? "'I've great respect for you. "'I believe you're softened toward most. "'Perhaps all my people accept. "'But when I speak of your purpose, your hate, your guns, "'I have only him in mind. "'I don't believe you've changed.' "'For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge belt "'and laid it with the heavy 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 smaller man. "'Was she Delilah? "'Sweetly, conscious of only one motive, "'refusal to see this man called Craven by his enemies, "'she rose, and with blundering fingers "'buckled the belt round his waist where it belonged. "'Lassiter, I am a coward. "'Come with me out of Utah, "'or I can put away my guns and be a man,' he said. "'I reckon I'll prove it to you then. "'Come, you've got black starback and knight and bells. "'Let's take the racers and little fey "'and race out of Utah. "'The horses and the child are all you have left. "'Come. "'No, no, Lassiter, I'll never leave Utah. "'What would I do in the world with my broken fortunes "'and my broken heart? "'I'll never leave these purple slopes, I love so well. "'I reckon I ought to have known that. "'Presently you'll be living down here in a hovel, "'and presently Jane Witherstein will be a memory. "'Only wanted to have a chance to show you how a man, "'any man, can be better than he was. "'If we left Utah, I could prove, "'I reckon I could prove this thing you call love. "'It's strange in hell and heaven at once, Jane Witherstein. "'Peers to me that you've thrown away "'your big heart on love, "'love of religion and duty and churchmen "'and riders and poor families and poor children. "'Yet you can't see what love is, how it changes a person. "'Listen, and in telling you Millie earned story, "'I'll show you how love changed her. "'Millie and me was children "'when our family moved from Missouri to Texas, "'and we grew up in Texas ways, "'same as if we'd been born there. "'We had been poor and there we prospered. "'In time the little village where we went became a town, "'and strangers and new families kept moving in. "'Millie was the bell them days. "'I can see her now, a little girl no bigger than a bird, "'and is pretty. "'She had the finest eyes, dark blue-black "'when she was excited and beautiful all the time. "'You remember Millie's eyes, "'and she had light brown hair with streaks of gold "'and a mouth that every feller wanted to kiss. "'And about the time Millie was the prettiest "'and the sweetest, along came a young minister "'who began to ride some of a race "'with the other fellers for Millie, and he won. "'Millie had always been strong on religion "'and when she met Frank Urn she went in heart and soul "'for the salvation of souls. "'Fact was, Millie, through study of the Bible "'and attendant church and revivals, "'went a little out of her head. "'It didn't worry the old folks none, "'and the only worry to me was Millie's everlasting praying "'and working to save my soul. "'She never converted me, but we was the best of comrades, "'and I reckon no brother and sister "'ever loved each other better. "'Well, Frank Urn and me hit up a great friendship. "'He was a strapping feller, good to look at, "'and had the most pleasing ways. "'His religion never bothered me, "'for he could hunt and fish and ride and be a good feller. "'After Buffalo once he came pretty near to save in my life. "'We got to be thick as brothers, "'and he was the only man I ever seen "'who I thought was good enough for Millie. "'And the day they were married I got drunk "'for the only time in my life. "'Soon after that I left home. "'It seems Millie was the only one who could keep me home, "'and I went to the bad. "'As to Prosperin I saw some pretty hard life "'in the panhandle, and then I went north. "'In them days Kansas and Nebraska was as bad, "'come to think of it, as these days "'right here on the border of Utah. "'I got to be pretty handy with guns, "'and there wasn't many riders as could beat me riding. "'And I can say all modest like "'that I've never seen the white man "'who could track a horse or a steer or a man with me. "'Afore I noted two years slipped by, "'and all at once I got homesick "'and purled a bridle south. "'Things at home had changed. "'I never got over that homecoming. "'Mother was dead and in her grave. "'Father was a silent broken man, "'killed already on his feet. "'Frank Earn was a ghost of his old self, "'through with working, through with preaching, "'almost through with living, "'and Millie was gone. "'It was a long time before I got the story. "'Father had no mind left, "'and Frank Earn was afraid to talk. "'So I had to pick up what had happened "'from different people. "'It appears that soon after I left home, "'another preacher come to the little town, "'and he and Frank become rivals. "'This fellow was different from Frank. "'He preached some other kind of religion, "'and he was quick and passionate, "'where Frank was slow and mild. "'He went after people, women especially. "'In looks he couldn't compare to Frank Earn, "'but he had power over women. "'He had a voice, and he talked and talked, "'and preached and preached. "'Millie fell under his influence. "'She became mightily interested in his religion. "'Frank had patience with her, as was his way, "'and let her be as interested as she liked. "'All religions were devoted to one God,' he said, "'and it wouldn't hurt Millie none "'to study a different point of view. "'So the new preacher often called on Millie, "'and sometimes in Frank's absence. "'Frank was a cattleman between Sundays. "'A long about this time an incident come off "'that I couldn't get much light on. "'A stranger come to town, and was seen with the preacher. "'This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice "'and a beard of gold. "'He had money, and he peered a man of mystery, "'and the town went to buzzin' when he disappeared "'about the same time as a young woman known "'to be mightily interested in the new preacher's religion. "'Then presently along comes a man from "'somewhere in Illinois, and he up and spots "'this preacher as a famous Mormon proselyter. "'That riled Frank Urn is nothin' ever before, "'and from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. "'And it ended in Frank goin' to the meetin' house "'where Millie was listenin', and before her "'and everybody else he called that preacher, "'called him, well, almost as hard as "'Vinters called Tull here some time back. "'And Frank followed up that call with a housewippin, "'and he drove the proselyter out of town. "'People noticed, so to a said, "'that Millie's sweet disposition changed. "'Some said it was because she would soon become a mother, "'and others said she was pinin' after the new religion. "'And there was women who said right out "'that she was pinin' after the Mormon. "'Anyway, one morning Frank rode in "'from one of his trips to find Millie gone. "'He had no real near neighbors, "'livin' a little out of town, "'but those who was nearest said a wagon "'had gone by in the night, "'and they thought it stopped at her door. "'Well, tracks always tell, "'and there was the wagon-tracks and horse-tracks "'and man-tracks. "'The news spread like wildfire "'that Millie had run off from her husband. "'Everybody but Frank believed it, "'and wasn't slow in tellin' why she run off. "'Mother had always hated that strange streak of Millie's, "'taken up with the new religion as she had, "'and she believed Millie ran off with the Mormon. "'That hastened mother's death, "'and she died unforgiven. "'Father wasn't the kind to bow down "'under disgrace or misfortune, "'but he had surpassed in love for Millie, "'and the loss of her broke him. "'From the minute I heard of Millie's disappearance, "'I never believed she went off of her own free will. "'I knew Millie, and I knew she couldn't have done that. "'I stayed at home awhile, "'trying to make Frank earn talk, "'but if he know'd anything, then he wouldn't tell it. "'So I set out to find Millie, "'and I tried to get on the trail of that prosoliter. "'I knew if I ever struck a town "'he'd visited that I'd get a trail. "'I knew, too, that nothin' short of hell "'would stop his prosoliten. "'And I rode from town to town. "'I had a blind faith that somethin' was guiding me. "'And as the weeks and months went by, "'I groad into a strange sort of a man, I guess. "'Anyway, people were afraid of me. "'Two years after that, way over in a corner of Texas, "'I struck a town where my man had been. "'He'd just left. "'People said he came to that town without a woman. "'I back-trailed my man through Arkansas and Mississippi, "'and the old trail got hot again in Texas. "'I found the town where he first went after leaving home. "'And here I got track of Millie. "'I found a cabin where she had given birth to her baby. "'There was no way to tell whether she'd been "'kept a prisoner or not. "'The feller who owned the place "'was a mean, silent sort of a skunk. "'And as I was leaving, I just took a chance "'and left my mark on him. "'Then I went home again. "'It was defined I hadn't any home no more. "'Father had been dead a year. "'Frank earned still lived in the house "'where Millie had left him. "'I stayed with him a while, and I grew old watching him. "'His farm had gone to weed. "'His cattle had strayed or been rustled. "'His house weathered till it wouldn't keep out rain nor wind. "'And Frank sat on the porch and whittled sticks "'and day by day wasted away. "'There was times when he ranted about like a crazy man. "'But mostly he was always sitting and staring "'with eyes that made a man curse. "'I figured Frank had a secret fear that I needed to know. "'And when I told him I'd trailed Millie for near three years "'and had got trace of her and saw where she'd had her baby, "'I thought he would drop dead at my feet. "'And when he'd come round more natural like, "'he begged me to give up the trail, but he wouldn't explain. "'So I let him alone and watched him day and night. "'And I found there was one thing still precious to him, "'and it was a little drawer where he kept his papers. "'This was in the room where he slept. "'And it peered he seldom slept. "'But after being patient, I got the contents of that drawer "'and found two letters from Millie. "'One was a long letter written a few months "'after her disappearance. "'She had been bound and gagged "'and dragged away from her home by three men, "'and she named them Herd Metzger Slack. "'They were strangers to her. "'She was taken to the little town "'where I found trace of her two years after. "'But she didn't send the letter from that town. "'There she was pinned in. "'Peered that the prosolite, who had, of course, "'come on the scene, was not running any risks of losing her. "'She went on to say that for a time she was out of her head, "'and when she got right again, "'all that kept her alive was the baby. "'It was a beautiful baby,' she said, "'and all she thought and dreamed of was somehow "'to get baby back to its father. "'And then she'd thankfully lay down and die. "'And the letter ended abrupt in the middle of a sentence, "'and it wasn't signed.' "'The second letter was written more than two years "'after the first. "'It was from Salt Lake City. "'It simply said that Millie had heard her brother "'was on her trail. "'She asked Frank to tell her brother to give up the search "'because if he didn't, she would suffer in a way "'too horrible to tell. "'She didn't beg. "'She just stated a fact and made the simple request. "'And she ended that letter by saying she would soon "'leave Salt Lake City with the man she had come to love "'and would never be heard of again.' "'I recognized Millie's handwriting, "'and I recognized her way of putting things. "'But that second letter told me of some great change in her. "'Pondering over it, I felt at last she'd either come "'to love that fellow and his religion, "'or some terrible fear made her lie and say so. "'I couldn't be sure which. "'But of course, I meant to find out. "'I'll say here, if I'd known Mormons then "'as I do now, I'd left Millie to her fate, "'for maybe she was right about what she'd suffer "'if I kept on her trail. "'But I was young and wild them days. "'First I went to the town where she'd first been taken, "'and I went to the place where she'd been kept. "'I got that skunk who owned the place "'and took him out in the woods "'and made him tell all he knowed. "'There wasn't much as to length, "'but it was pure hell's fire and substance. "'This time I left him some incapacitated "'for any more skunk work, short of hell. "'Then I hit the trail for Utah. "'That was fourteen years ago. "'I saw the incoming of most of the Mormons. "'It was a wild country and a wild time. "'I rode from town to town, village to village, "'ranch to ranch, camp to camp. "'I never stayed long in one place. "'I never had but one idea. "'I never rested. "'Four years went by "'and I knowed every trail in northern Utah. "'I kept on and as time went by "'and I'd begun to grow old in my search, "'I had firmer, blinder faith "'in whatever was guiding me. "'Once I read about a fellow who sailed the Seven Seas "'and traveled the world and he had a story to tell "'and whenever he seen the man to whom he must tell that story, "'he knowed him on sight. "'I was like that, only I had a question to ask. "'And always I knew the man of whom I must ask. "'So I never really lost the trail, "'though for many 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 herd "'and I whispered something in his ear and watched his face "'and then throwed a gun against his bowels. "'And he died with his teeth so tight shut "'I couldn't have pried them open with a knife. "'Slack and Metzger that same year "'both heard me whisper the same question "'and neither would they speak a word when they lay dying. "'Long before I'd learned no man of this breed or class "'or God knows what would give up any secrets. "'I had to see in a man's fear of death "'and connections with milli-earns fate. "'And as the years passed at long intervals "'I would find such a man. "'So as I drifted on the long trail "'down into southern Utah my name proceeded me "'and I had to meet a people prepared for me "'and ready with guns. "'They made me a gunman and that suited me. "'And all this time signs of the proselyter "'and the giant with the blue ice eyes "'and the gold beard seemed to fade dimmer out of the trail. "'Only twice in ten years did I find a trace "'of that mysterious man who had visited "'the proselyter at my home village. "'What he had to do with milli's fate "'was beyond all hope for me to learn "'unless my God and spirit led me to him. "'As for the other man, I knew as sure as I breathed "'and the stars shone and the wind blew "'that I'd meet him some day. "'Eighteen years I've been on the trail "'and it led me to the last lonely villages "'of the Utah border. "'Eighteen years. "'I feel pretty old now. "'I'll be twenty when I hit that trail.' "'Well, as I told you, back here a ways a Gentile said "'Jane Withersdine could tell me about Millie-Earn "'and 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, leaning toward him, sat as if petrified, "'listening intently, waiting to hear more. "'She could have shrieked, but power of tongue "'and lips were denied her. "'She saw only this sad, gray, passion-worn man "'and she heard only the faint rustling of the leaves. "'Well, I came to Cottonwood's,' went on Lassiter, "'and you showed me Millie's grave. "'And though your teeth have been shut, "'titer than them of all the dead men "'line back along that trail, "'just the same you told me the secret "'I've lived these eighteen years to hear. "'Jane, I said you'd tell me without ever me asking. "'I didn't need to ask my question here. "'The day you remember when that fat party "'throwed a gun on me in your court and... "'Oh, hush,' whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands. "'I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, "'was the prosoliter who ruined Millie-Ern. "'For an instant Jane Witherstein's brain "'was a whirling chaos, "'and she recovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter "'like one drowning. "'And as if by a lightning-stroke, "'she sprang from her dull apathy "'into exquisite torture. "'It's a lie, Lassiter. "'No, no,' she moaned. "'I swear you're wrong. "'Stop, you'd perjure yourself, "'but I'll spare you that. "'You poor woman, still blind, still faithful. "'Listen, I know. "'Let that settle it, and I give up my purpose. "'What is it you say?' "'I give up my purpose. "'I've come to see and feel differently. "'I can't help poor Millie, "'and I've outgrown revenge. "'I've come to see I can be no judge for men. "'I can't kill a man just for hate. "'Hate ain't the same with me, "'since I loved you and little Faye. "'Lassiter, you mean you won't kill him?' "'Jane whispered. "'No. "'For my sake? "'I reckon, I can't understand, "'but I'll respect your feelings. "'Because you, oh, because you love me? "'Eighteen years, you were that 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 heart must be stone. "'But, oh, Lassiter, wait, wait, give me time. "'I'm not what I was. "'Once it was so easy to love, "'now it's easy to hate. "'Wait. "'My faith in God, some God, still lives. "'By it, I see happier times for you, "'poor, passion-suede wanderer. "'For me, a miserable, broken woman. "'I loved your sister, Millie. "'I will love you. "'I can't have fallen so low, "'I can't be so abandoned by God "'that I've no love left to give you. "'Wait. "'Let us forget Millie's sad life. "'Ah, I knew it is no one else on earth. "'There's one thing I shall tell you, "'if you're at my deathbed, "'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, "'she fell into a paroxysm of weeping. "'Lassiter held her in silent sympathy. "'By degrees she regained composure, "'and she was rising, "'sensible of being relieved of a weighty burden, "'when a sudden start on Lassiter's part alarmed her. "'I heard hosses, hosses with muffled hoofs,' he said, "'and he got up guardedly.' "'Where's Faye?' asked Jane, "'hurriedly glancing round the shady gnaw. "'The bright-haired child, "'who had appeared to be close all the time, "'was not in sight.' "'Faye!' called Jane. "'No answering shout of glee, "'no patter of flying feet.' "'Jane saw Lassiter stiffen. "'Faye, oh, Faye!' "'Jane almost screamed. "'The leaves quivered and rustled, "'alone some cricket chirped in the grass, "'a bee hummed by. "'The silence of the waning afternoon "'breathed hateful portent. "'It terrified Jane. "'When had silence been so infernal?' "'She's only straight out of earshot,' "'faultered 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 gnaw. "'See, Faye played here last, "'a house of stones and sticks. "'Here's a corral of pebbles with leaves for haulses,' "'said Lassiter stridently and pointed to the ground. "'Back and forth she trailed here. "'See, she's buried something, a dead grasshopper. "'There's a tombstone.' "'Here she went, chasing the lizard. "'See, the tiny, streaked trail? "'She pulled bark off this cottonwood. "'Look in the dust of the path, the letters you taught her. "'She's drawn pictures of birds and haulses and people.' "'Look across. "'Oh, Jane, you're cross.' "'Lassiter dragged Jane on, "'and as if from a book read the meaning of Little Faye's trail. "'All the way down the gnaw, "'through the shrubbery, round and round to cottonwood, "'Faye's vagrant fancy left records "'of her sweet musings and innocent play. "'Long had she lingered round a bird nest "'to leave therein the gaudy wing of a butterfly. "'Long had she played beside the running stream, "'sending adrift vessels freighted with pebbly cargo. "'Then she had wandered through the deep grass, "'her tiny feet scarcely turning a fragile blade, "'and she had dreamed beside some old faded flowers. "'Thus her steps led her into the broad lane. "'The little dimpled imprints of her bare feet "'showed clean cut in the dust. "'They went a little way down the lane, "'and then, at a point where they stopped, "'the great treks of a man led out from the shrubbery "'and returned." End of chapter 19