 CHAPTER VI. THE MILL WHEEL OF STEERS In the meantime, at the ranch, when Judkin's news had sent Vinters on the trail of the rustlers, Jane Witherstein led the injured man to her house, and with skilled fingers dressed the gunshot wound in his arm. "'Judkin's, what do you think happened to my riders?' "'I'd rather not say,' he replied. "'Tell me. Whatever you'll tell me, I'll keep to myself. I'm beginning to worry about more than the loss of a herd of cattle. Vinters hinted of—' "'But tell me, Judkin's.' "'Well, Ms. Witherstein, I think as Vinters thinks, your riders have been called in.' "'Judkin's, by whom?' "'You know who handles the reins of your Mormon riders.' "'Do you dare insinuate that my churchmen have ordered in my riders?' "'I ain't insinuating nothing, Ms. Witherstein,' answered Judkin's, with spirit. "'I know what I'm talking about. I didn't want to tell you.' "'Oh, I can't believe that. I'll not believe it. Would tall leave my herds at the mercy of rustlers and wolves, just because—' "'No, no, it's unbelievable.' "'Yes, that particular thing's unheard of around Cottonwood's. But begon pardon, Ms. Witherstein, there never was any other rich Mormon woman here on the border, let alone one that's taken the bit between her teeth.' "'That was a bold thing for the reserved Judkin's to say, but it did not anger her. "'This rider's crude hint of her spirit gave her a glimpse of what others might think. "'Humility and obedience had been hers always. But had she taken the bit between her teeth?' "'Still, she wavered. "'And then, with quick spurt of warm blood along her veins, "'she thought of Blackstar when he got the bit fast between his iron jaws "'and ran wild in the sage. If she ever started to run, "'Jane smothered the glow and burn within her, ashamed of a passion for freedom "'that opposed her duty. "'Judkin's go to the village,' she said, "'and when you have learned anything definite about my riders, "'please come to me at once.' "'When he had gone, Jane resolutely applied her mind to a number of tasks "'that of late had been neglected. "'Her father had trained her in the management of a hundred employees "'and the working of gardens and fields, "'and to keep record of the movements of cattle and riders. "'And beside the many duties she had added to this work "'was one of extreme delicacy, such as required all her tact and ingenuity. "'It was an unobtrusive, almost secret aid "'which she rendered to the Gentile families of the village. "'Though Jane Witherstein never admitted so to herself, "'it amounted to no less than a system of charity. "'But for her invention of numberless kinds of employment, "'for which there was no actual need, "'these families of Gentiles, who had failed in a Mormon community, "'would have starved. "'In aiding these poor people, Jane thought she deceived her keen churchmen, "'but it was a kind of deceit for which she did not pray to be forgiven. "'Equally as difficult was the task of deceiving the Gentiles, "'for they were as proud as they were poor. "'It had been a great grief to her to discover how these people hated her people, "'and it had been a source of great joy that through her "'they had come to soften in hatred. "'At any time this work called for a clearness of mind "'that precluded anxiety and worry, "'but under the present circumstances it required all her vigor "'and obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon her task. "'Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor "'a patient calmness and power to wait "'that had not been hers earlier in the day. "'She expected Judkins, but he did not appear. "'Her house was always quiet. "'Tonight, however, it seemed unusually so. "'At supper her women served her with a silent assiduity. "'It spoke what their sealed lips could not utter, "'the sympathy of Mormon women. "'Jerd came to her with the key of the great door of the stone stable "'and to make his daily report about the horses. "'One of his daily duties was to give Black Star and Knight "'and the other racers a ten-mile run. "'This day it had been omitted, "'and the boy grew confused in explanations "'that she had not asked for. "'She did inquire if he would return on the morrow "'and, jur'd, in mingled surprise and relief, "'assured her he would always work for her. "'Jane missed the rattle and trot, canter and gallop "'of the incoming routers on the hard trails. "'The grove where she walked, the birds ceased singing, "'the wind sighed through the leaves of the cottonwoods, "'and the running water murmured down its stone-bedded channel. "'The glimmering of the first star was like the peace "'and beauty of the night. "'Her faith welled up in her heart and said "'that all would soon be right in her little world. "'She pictured ventures about his lonely campfire "'sitting between his faithful dogs. "'She prayed for his safety, for the success of his undertaking.' "'Early the next morning one of Jane's women brought in word "'that Judkins wished to speak to her. "'She hurried out, and in her surprise to see him armed "'with rifle and revolver, she forgot her intention "'to inquire about his wound. "'Judkins, those guns! You never carried guns.' "'It's high time, Miss Witherstein,' he replied. "'Will you come into the grove? "'It ain't just exactly safe for me to be seen here.' She walked with him into the shade of the cotton woods. "'What do you mean?' "'Miss Witherstein, I went to my mother's house last night. "'While there, someone knocked, and a man asked for me. "'I went to the door. He wore a mask. "'He said I'd better not ride any more for Jane Witherstein. "'His voice was hoarse and strange, disguised, "'I reckon, like his face. "'He said no more, and ran off in the dark. "'Did you know who he was?' asked Jane in a low voice. "'Yes.' "'Jane did not ask to know. She did not want to know. "'She feared to know. All her calmness fled at a single thought. "'That's why I'm packing guns,' went on Judkins, "'for I'll never quit riding for you, Miss Witherstein, "'till you let me go. "'Judkins, do you want to leave me? "'Do I look that way? Give me a haas, a fast haas, "'and send me out on this age.' "'Oh, thank you, Judkins. "'You're more faithful than my own people. "'I ought not accept your loyalty. "'You might suffer more through it. "'But what in the world can I do? "'My head whirls. "'The wrong to ventors, the stolen herd, "'these masks, threats, this coil in the dark. "'I can't understand. "'But I feel something dark and terrible "'closing in around me.' "'Miss Witherstein is all simple enough,' said Judkins earnestly. "'Now please listen, and beg in your pardon, "'just turn that deaf Mormon ear aside, "'and let me talk clear and plain in the other.' "'I went around to the saloons and the stores "'and the loafin' places yesterday. "'All your riders are in. "'There's talk of a vigilance band "'organized to hunt down rustlers. "'They call themselves the Riders. "'That's the report. That's the reason "'given for your riders leavin' ya. "'Strange that only a few riders "'of other ranchers joined the band. "'And Tall's man, Jerry Card, he's the leader. "'I seen him and his horse. "'He ain't been to Glaze. "'I'm not easy to fool on the looks "'of a horse that's traveled this age. "'Tall and Jerry didn't ride to Glaze. "'Well, I met Blake and Dorn, "'both good friends of mine usually, "'as far as their Mormon lights will let him go. "'But these fellers couldn't fool me "'and they didn't try very hard. "'I asked them straight out like a man "'why they left you like that. "'I didn't forget to mention how you nursed "'Blake's poor old mother when she was sick "'and how good you was to Dorn's kids. "'They looked ashamed, Ms. Witherstein, "'and they just froze up that dark set look "'that makes them strange and different to me. "'But I could tell the difference "'between that first natural twinge of conscience "'and the later look of some secret thing. "'And the difference I caught was that "'they couldn't help themselves. "'They hadn't no say in the matter. "'They looked as if their being unfaithful to you "'was being faithful to a higher duty. "'And there's the secret. "'Why it's as plain as the sight of my gun here. "'Plain, my hurts to wander in the sage, "'to be stolen, Jane Witherstein, a poor woman, "'her head to be brought low and her spirit broken. "'Why, Judkins, it's plain enough. "'Ms. Witherstein, let me get what boys I can gather "'and hold the white herd. "'It's on the slope now, not ten miles out, "'three thousand head and all steers. "'They're wild and likely to stampede "'at the pop of a jackrabbit's ears. "'We'll camp right with them and try to hold them. "'Judkins, I'll reward you some day for your service "'unless all is taken from me. "'Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you "'pick of my horses, except black star and knight. "'But do not shed blood for my cattle, "'nor heedlessly risk your lives.' Jane Witherstein rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room, and there could not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath. She went stone-blind in the fury of a passion that had never before showed its power. Lying upon her bed, sightless, voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame, and she tossed there while her fury burned and burned and finally burned itself out. Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression that would break her but of this new revelation of self. Until the last few days there had been little in her life to rouse passions. Her forefathers had been Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their will. Her father had inherited that temper, and at times, like antelope fleeing before fire on the slope, his people fled from his red rages. Jane Witherstein realized that the spirit of wrath and war had lain dormant in her. She shrank from black depths hitherto unsuspected. The one thing in man or woman that she scorned above all scorn and which she could not forgive was hate. Hate headed a flaming pathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her control, there had been in her a birth of fiery hate, and the man who had dragged her peaceful and loving spirit to this degradation was a minister of God's word, an elder of her church, the counselor of her beloved bishop. The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the old stone house, no longer concerned Jane Witherstein. She faced the foremost thought of her life, what she now considered the mightiest problem, the salvation of her soul. She knelt by her bedside and prayed. She prayed as she had never prayed in all her life, prayed to be forgiven to her sin to be immune from that dark, hot hate, to love tall as her minister, though she could not love him as a man, to do her duty by her church and people and those dependent upon her bounty, to hold reverence of God in womanhood and violet. When Jane Witherstein rose from that storm of wrath and prayer for help, she was serene, calm, sure, a changed woman. She would do her duty as she saw it, live her life as her own truth guided her. She might never be able to marry a man of her choice, but she certainly never would become the wife of Tall. Her churchmen might take her cattle and horses, ranges and fields, her corrals and staples, the house of Witherstein and the water that nourished the village of Cottonwoods, but they could not force her to marry Tall. They could not change her decision or break her spirit. Once resigned to further loss and sure of herself, Jane Witherstein attained a peace of mind that had not been hers for a year. She forgave Tall and felt a melancholy regret over what she knew he considered duty, irrespective of his personal feeling for her. First of all, Tall, as he was a man, wanted her for himself. And secondly, he hoped to save her and her riches for his church. She did not believe that Tall had been actuated solely by his minister's zeal to save her soul. She doubted her interpretation of one of his dark sayings that if she were lost to him she might as well be lost to heaven. Jane Witherstein's common sense took arms against the binding limits of her religion, and she doubted that her bishop, whom she had been taught had direct communication with God, would damn her soul for refusing to marry a Mormon. As for Tall and his churchmen, when they had harassed her, perhaps made her poor, they would find her unchangeable, and then she would get back most of what she had lost. So she reasoned, true at last, to her faith in all men and in their ultimate goodness. The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her hurriedly from her retirement. There, beside his horse, stood Lasseter, his dark apparel and the great black gun sheaths contrasting singularly with his gentle smile. Jane's act of mind took up her interest in him and her half-determined desire to use what charm she had to foil his evident design in visiting Cottonwoods. If she could mitigate his hatred of Mormons or at least keep him from killing more of them, not only would she be saving her people, but also be leading back this blood-spiller to some semblance of the human. "'Morning, ma'am,' he said, black sombrero in hand. "'Lasseter, I'm not an old woman or even a madam,' she replied, with her bright smile. "'If you can't say Miss Witherstein, call me Jane.' "'I reckon Jane would be easier. First names are always handy for me.' "'Well, use mine, then. Lasseter, I'm glad to see you. I'm in trouble.' Then she told him of Judkin's return, of the driving of the red-herd, of Vinter's departure on wrangle and the calling-in of her riders. "'Peers to me you're some smilein' and pretty for a woman with so much trouble,' he remarked. "'Lasseter, are you paying me compliments? But seriously, I've made up my mind not to be miserable. I've lost much, and I'll lose more. Nevertheless, I won't be sour, and I hope I'll never be unhappy again.' Lasseter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, and took his time in replying. "'Women are strange to me. I got to back-trailin' myself from them long ago. But I'd like a game-woman.' "'Might I ask Sien as how you take this trouble if you're goin' to fight?' "'Fight? How? Even if I would, I haven't a friend except that boy who doesn't dare stay in the village.' "'I make bold to say, ma'am, Jane, that there's another if you want him.' "'Lasseter, thank you. But how can I accept you as a friend? Think, why you'd ride down into the village with those terrible guns and kill my enemies, who are also my churchmen.' "'I reckon I might be riled up to just about that,' he replied, dryly. She held out both hands to him. "'Lasseter, I'll accept your friendship. Be proud of it. Return it. If I may keep you from killing another Mormon.' "'I'll tell you one thing,' he said bluntly as the gray lightning formed in his eyes. You're too good a woman to be sacrificed as you're going to be. No, I reckon you and me can't be friends on such terms.' In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet fascinated by the sudden transition of his moods. That he would fight for her was at once horrible and wonderful. "'You came here to kill a man, the man whom Millie earned.' The man who dragged Millie earned a hell put it that way. "'Jane Witherstein, yes, that's why I came here. I'd tell so much to no other living soul. There are things such a woman as you'd never dream of, so don't mention her again. Not till you tell me the name of the man.' "'Tell you, I never.' "'I reckon you will, and I'll never ask you. I'm a man of strange beliefs and ways of thinking, and I seem to see into the future and feel things hard to explain. The trail I've been following for so many years was twisted and tangled, but it's straightened out now. And, Jane Witherstein, you crossed it long ago to ease poor Millie's agony. That, whether you want or not, makes Lassiter your friend. But you cross it now strangely to mean something to me. God knows what, unless by your noble blindness to incite me to greater hatred of Mormon men.' Jane felt swayed by a strength that far exceeded her own. In a clash of wills with this man, she would go to the wall. If she were to influence him, she would be wholly through womanly allurement. There was that about Lassiter which commanded her respect. She had abhorred his name. Face to face with him, she found she feared only his deeds. His mystic suggestion, his foreshadowing of something that she was to mean to him, pierced deep into her mind. She believed fate had thrown in her way the lover or husband of Millie Urne. She believed that through her an evil man might be reclaimed. To what he called her blindness terrified her. Such a mistaken idea of his might unleash the bitter, fatal mood she sensed in him. At any cost she must placate this man. She knew the die was cast, and that if Lassiter did not soften to a woman's grace and beauty and wiles, then it would be because she could not make him. I reckon you'll hear no more such talk from me, Lassiter went on presently. Now, Miss Jane, I wrote in to tell you that your herd of white steers is down on the slope behind them big ridges, and I've seen something going on that would be mighty interesting to you if you could see it. Have you a field-glass? Yes, I have two glasses. I'll get them and ride out with you. Wait, Lassiter, please, she said, and hurried within. Sending word to juror to saddle black star and fetch him to the court, she then went to her room and changed to the riding-clothes she always donned when going into the sage. In this male attire her mirror showed her a jaunty, handsome rider. If she expected some little need of admiration from Lassiter, she had no cause for disappointment. The gentle smile that she liked, which made of him another person, slowly overspread his face. If I didn't take you for a boy, he exclaimed, it's powerful queer what difference clothes make. Now I've been some scared of your dignity, like when the other night you was all in white, but in this rig, black star came pounding into the court, dragging juror half off his feet, and he whistled at Lassiter's black. But at sight of Jane all his defiant lines seemed to soften, and with tosses of his beautiful head he whipped his bridle. Down, black star, down, said Jane. He dropped his head, and slowly lengthening, he bent one foreleg, then the other, and sank to his knees. Jane slipped her left foot in the stirrup, swung lightly into the saddle, and black star rose with a ringing stamp. It was not easy for Jane to hold him to a canter through the grove, and like the wind he broke when he saw the sage. Jane let him have a couple of miles of free running on the open trail, and then she coaxed him in and waited for her companion. Lassiter was not long and catching up, and presently they were riding side by side. It reminded her how she used to ride with ventures. Where was he now? She gazed far down the slope to the curved purple lines of deception pass, and involuntarily shut her eyes with a trembling stir of nameless fear. We'll turn off here, Lassiter said, and take to the sage a mile or so. The white herd is behind them big ridges. What are you going to show me? asked Jane. I'm prepared. Don't be afraid. He smiled as if he meant that bad news came swiftly enough without being presaged by speech. When they reached the lee of a rolling ridge, Lassiter dismounted, motioning to her to do likewise. They left the horses standing, bridles down. Then Lassiter, carrying the field-glasses, began to lead the way up the slow rise of ground. Upon nearing the summit he halted her with a gesture. I reckon we'd see more if we didn't show ourselves against the sky, he said. I was here less than an hour ago. Then the herd was seven or eight miles south, and if they ain't bolted yet, Lassiter bolted? That's what I said. Now let's see. Jane climbed a few more paces behind him and then peeped over the ridge. Just beyond began a shallow swell that deepened and widened into a valley and then swung to the left. Following the undulating sweep of sage, Jane saw the straggling lines and then the great body of the white herd. She knew enough about steers, even at a distance of four or five miles, to realize that something was in the wind. Bringing her field-glass into use, she moved it slowly from left to right, which action swept the whole herd into range. The stragglers were restless. The more compactly masked steers were browsing. Jane brought the glass back to the big sentinels of the herd and she saw them trot with quick steps, stop short and toss wide horns, look everywhere, and then trot in another direction. Judkins hasn't been able to get his boys together yet, said Jane, but he'll be there soon. I hope not too late. Lassiter, what's frightening those big leaders? Nothing just on the minute, reply Lassiter. Them steers are quiet and down. They've been scared, but not bad yet. I reckon the whole herd has moved a few miles this way since I was here. They didn't browse that distance, not in less than an hour. Cattle aren't sheep. No, they just run it, and that looks bad. Lassiter, what frightened them? Repeated Jane, impatiently. Put down your glass. You'll see it first better with a naked eye. Now look along them ridges on the other side of the herd, the ridges where the sun shines bright on the sage. That's right. Now look and look hard and wait. Long-drawn moments of straining sight, rewarded Jane with nothing, saved the low purple rim of ridge and the shimmering sage. It's begun again, whispered Lassiter, and he gripped her arm. Watch, there, did you see that? No, no, tell me what to look for. A white flash, a kind of pinpoint of quick light, a gleam as from sun shining on something white. Suddenly Jane's concentrated gaze caught a fleeting glint. Quickly she brought her glass to bear on the spot. Again the purple sage, magnified in color and size and wave, for long moments irritated her with its monotony. Then from out of the sage on the ridge a broad white object flashed in the sunlight and vanished, like magic it was and bewildered Jane. What on earth is that? I reckon there's someone behind that ridge throwing up a sheet or a white blanket to reflect the sunshine. Why, queried Jane, more bewildered than ever. To stampede the herd, replied Lassiter and his teeth clicked. She made a fierce, passionate movement, clutched the glass tightly, shook as with the passing of his bosom, and then dropped her head. Presently she raised it to greet Lassiter with something like a smile. My righteous brethren are at work again, she said in scorn. She had stifled the leap of her wrath, but for perhaps the first time in her life a bitter derision curled her lips. Lassiter's cool gray eyes seemed to pierce her. I said I was prepared for anything, but that was hardly true. But why would they, anybody, stampede my cattle? That's a Mormon's godly way of bringing a woman to her knees. Lassiter, I'll die before I ever bend my knees. I might be lead, I won't be driven. Do you expect the herd to bolt? I don't like the looks of them big steers, but you can never tell. Cattle sometimes stampede as easily as buffalo. Any little flash or move will start them. A rider getting down and walking toward them sometimes will make them jump and fly. Then again, nothing seems to scare them. But I reckon that white flare will do the biz. It's a new one on me, and I've seen some riding and rustling. It just takes one of them god-fearing Mormons to think of devilish tricks. Lassiter might not this trick be done by Old Ring's men, asked Jane, ever grasping at straws. It might be, but it ain't, replied Lassiter. Old Ring's an honest thief. He don't sculpt behind ridges to scatter your cattle to the four winds. He rides down on you, and if you don't like it, you can throw a gun. Jane bit her tongue to refrain from championing men who at the very moment were proving to her that they were little and mean compared even with rustlers. Look, Jane, them leaden steers, have bolted. They're drawing the stragglers, and that'll pull the whole herd. Jane was not quick enough to catch the details called out by Lassiter, but she saw the line of cattle lengthening. Then, like a stream of white bees pouring from a huge swarm, the steers stretched out from the main body. In a few moments with astonishing rapidity, the whole herd got into motion. A faint roar of trampling hoofs came to Jane's ears and gradually swelled. Low rolling clouds of dust began to rise above the sage. It's a stampede and a hummer, said Lassiter. Oh, Lassiter, the herge running with the valley. It leads into the canyon. There's a straight jump-off. I reckon they'll run into it, too, but that's a good many miles yet. And Jane, this valley swings round almost north before it goes east. That stampede will pass within a mile of us. The long, white, bobbing line of steers streaks swiftly through the sage, and a funnel-shaped dust cloud arose at a low angle. A dull rumbling filled Jane's ears. I'm thinking of Millan that herd, said Lassiter. His gray glance swept up the slope to the west. There are some specks and dust way off toward the village. Maybe that's Judkins and his boys. It ain't likely he'll get here in time to help. You'd better hold Blackstar here on this high ridge. He ran to his horse, and, throwing off saddlebags and tightening the cinches, he leaped astride and galloped straight down across the valley. Jane went for Blackstar, and, leading him to the summit of the ridge, she mounted and faced the valley with excitement and expectancy. She had heard of Millan's stampeded cattle, and knew it was a feat accomplished by only the most daring riders. The white herd was now strung out in a line two miles long. The dull rumble of thousands of hoofs deepened into continuous low thunder, and as the steers swept swiftly closer, the thunder became a heavy roll. Lassiter crossed in a few moments the level of the valley to the eastern rise of ground, and there waited the coming of the herd. Presently, as the head of the white line reached a point opposite to where Jane stood, Lassiter spurred his black into a run. Jane saw him take a position on the offside of the leaders of the stampede, and there he rode. It was like a race. They swept on down the valley, and when the end of the white line near Lassiter's first stand, the head had begun to swing round to the west. It swung slowly and stubbornly, yet surely, and gradually assumed a long, beautiful curve of moving white. To Jane's amaze, she saw the leaders swinging, turning till they headed back toward her and up the valley. Out to the right of these wild, plunging steers ran Lassiter's black, and Jane's keen eye appreciated the fleet's stride and sure-footedness of the blind horse. Then it seemed that the herd moved in a great curve, a huge half-moon with the points of head and tail almost opposite and a mile apart. But Lassiter relentlessly crowded the leaders, shearing them to the left, turning them little by little, and the dust-blinded wild followers plunged on madly in the tracks of their leaders. This ever-moving, ever-changing curve of steers rolled toward Jane, and when below her, scarce half a mile, it began to narrow and close into a circle. Lassiter had ridden parallel with her position, turned toward her, then aside, and now he was riding directly away from her, all the time pushing the head of that bobbing line inward. It was then that Jane, suddenly understanding Lassiter's feet, stared and gassed at the riding of this intrepid man, his horse was fleet and tireless, but blind. He had pushed the leaders around and around till they were about to turn in on the inner side of the end of that line of steers. The leaders were already running in a circle, the end of the herd was still running almost straight, but soon they would be wheeling. Then, when Lassiter had the circle formed, how would he escape? With Jane Witherstein, prayer was as ready as praise, and she prayed for this man's safety. A circle of dust began to collect. Dimly, as through a yellow veil, Jane saw Lassiter press the leaders inward to close the gap in the sage. She lost sight of him in the dust. Again she thought she saw the black, riderless now, rear and drag himself, and fall. Lassiter had been thrown, lost. Then he reappeared running out of the dust into the sage. He had escaped, and she breathed again. Spellbound Jane Witherstein watched this stupendous millwheel of steers. Here was the milling of the herd. The white running circle closed in upon the open space of sage, and the dust circles closed above into a pall. The ground quaked, and the incessant thunder of pounding hoofs rolled on. Jane felt deafened, yet she thrilled to a new sound. As the circle of sage lessened, the steers began to bawl, and when it closed entirely there came a great upheaval in the center, and a terrible thumping of heads and clinking of horns. Valling, climbing, goring, the great mass of steers on the inside wrestled in a crashing den, heaved and groaned under the pressure. Then came a deadlock. The inner strife ceased, and the hideous roar and crash. Movement went on in the outer circle, and that too gradually stilled. The white herd had come to a stop, and the pall of yellow dust began to drift away on the wind. Jane Witherstein waited on the ridge with full and grateful heart. Lassiter appeared, making his weary way toward her through the sage. And upon the slope, Judkins rode into sight with his troop of boys. For the present at least, the white herd would be looked after. When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on black star's mane, Jane could not find speech. Killed my horse, he panted. Oh, I'm sorry, cried Jane. Lassiter, I know you can't replace him, but I'll give you any one of my racers, bells or night, even black star. I'll take a fast horse, Jane, but not one of your favorites, he replied. Only, will you let me have black star now and ride him over there and head off them fellers who stampeded the herd? He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of dust in the purple sage. I can head them off with this horse, and then? Then, Lassiter? They'll never stampede no more cattle. Oh, no, no, Lassiter, I won't let you go. But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling hand shook black star's bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter's. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 The Daughter of Witherstein Lassiter, will you be my rider? Jane had asked him. I reckon so, he had replied. Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they implied. She wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges and save them if that were possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloud all she meant, she was perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the price to be paid, she must keep Lassiter close to her. She must shield from him the man who had led Millie Earn to Cottonwood's. In her fear she so controlled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to her own soul, she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing she regarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her was the need of a helper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she could rule this gunman, as Winters had called him, if she could even keep him from shedding blood, it was her strategy to play his flame and his presence against the game of oppression her churchmen were waging against her. Never would she forget the effect on Tull and his men when Winters shouted Lassiter's name. If she could not wholly control Lassiter, then what she could do might put off the fatal day. One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells because of the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When Jure let out this slender, beautifully built horse, he suddenly became all eyes. A rider's love of a thoroughbred shone in them. Round and round Bells he walked, plainly weakening all the time in his determination not to take one of Jane's favorite racers. Lassiter, your half-horse, and Bell sees it already, said Jane, laughing. Look at his eyes. He likes you. He'll love you, too. How can you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run. It's nip and tuck between him and Wrangle, and only Black Star can beat him. He's too spirited a horse for a woman. Take him. He's yours. I just am weak where a horse is concerned, said Lassiter. I'll take him, and I'll take your orders, ma'am. Well, I'm glad, but never mind the ma'am. Let it still be Jane. From that hour it seemed Lassiter was always in the saddle, riding early and late, and coincident with his part in Jane's affairs the days assumed their old tranquility. Her intelligence told her this was only the lull before the storm, but her faith would not have it so. She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these she encountered Tall. He greeted her as he had before any trouble came between them, and she, responsive to peace, if not quick to forget, met him halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regretted the loss of her cattle. He assured her that the vigilantes which had been organized would soon rout the rustlers. When that had been accomplished, her riders would likely return to her. You've done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter, Tall went on severely. He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent. I had to have somebody, and perhaps making him my rider may turn out best in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods. You mean to stay his hand? I can do, if I can. A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well, and would atone in some measure for the errors you have made. He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflicting thoughts. She resented Elder Tall's cold, impassive manner that looked down upon her as one who had incurred his just displeasure. Otherwise he would have been the same calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years. In fact, except when he had revealed his passion in the matter of the seizing of ventures, she had never dreamed he could be other than the grave reproving preacher. He stood out now a strange, secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he had picked up the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. Was Tall what he appeared to be? The question flung itself involuntarily over Jane Witherstein's inhibitive habit of faith without question, and she refused to answer it. Tall could not fight in the open. Ventures had said, Lasseter had said, that her elder shirked fight and worked in the dark. Just now in this meeting Tall had ignored the fact that he had sued, exhorted, demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of ventures. His manner was that of the minister who had been outraged but who overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemed unutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to bear upon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret power over riders, with night journeys, with rustlers, and stampedes of cattle. And that convinced her again of unjust suspicions. But it was commencement through an obstinate faith. She shuddered as she accepted it, and that shudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt. Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main street and entered a huge shady yard. Here were sweet smelling clover, alfalfa, flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy confusion. And like these fresh green things were the dozens of babies, tots, toddlers, noisy urchins, laughing girls, a whole multitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, the father of all this numerous progeny, was a Mormon with four wives. The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque, the lower part built of logs, the upper of rough clabbards, with vines growing up the outside stone chimneys. There were many wooden shuddered windows, and one pretentious window of glass proudly curtained in white. As this house had four mistresses, it likewise had four separate sections, not one of which communicated with another, and all had to be entered from the outside. In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch, Jane found Brandt's wives entertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly women of comparatively similar ages and plain-featured, and just at this moment anything but grave. The bishop was rather tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hair and beard, and eyes of light blue. They were merry now, but Jane had seen them when they were not, and then she feared him as she had feared her father. The women flocked around her in welcome. "'Daughter of Witherstein,' said the bishop gaily, as he took her hand, "'you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late. "'A sabbath without you at service, I shall reprove Elder Tall.' "'Bishop, the guilt is mine. I'll come to you and confess,' Jane replied lightly, but she felt the undercurrent of her words. "'Mormon love-making,' exclaimed the bishop, rubbing his hands. "'Tall keeps you all to himself.' "'No, he is not courting me.' "'What, the laggard? If he does not make haste, I'll go "'according myself up to Witherstein House.' There was laughter and further bantering by the bishop, and then mild talk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, and Jane was left with her friend, Mary Brant. "'Jane, you're not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of the cattle? "'But you have so many. You are so rich.' Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back her doubts of fear. "'Oh, why don't you marry Tall and be one of us?' "'But Mary, I don't love Tall,' said Jane stubbornly. "'I don't blame you for that. But, Jane Witherstein, "'you've got to choose between the love of man and love of God. "'Often we Mormon women have to do that. It's not easy. "'The kind of happiness you want, I wanted once. "'I never got it, nor will you unless you throw away your soul. "'We've all watched your affair with ventures in fear and trembling. "'Some dreadful thing will come of it. "'You don't want him hanged or shot or treated worse "'as that Gentile boy was treated in glaze "'for fooling round a Mormon woman. "'Mary, Tall, it's your duty as a Mormon. "'You'll feel no rapture as his wife, but think of heaven. "'Mormon women don't marry for what they expect on earth. "'Take up the cross, Jane. "'Remember your father found Amber Spring, built these old houses, "'brought Mormons here, and fathered them. "'You are the daughter of Witherstein.'" Jane left Mary Brant and went to call upon other friends. They received her with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished upon her the pent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her go with her ears ringing of Tall, Ventures, Lasseter, of duty to God, and glory in heaven. Verily, murmured Jane, I don't know myself when, through all this, I remain unchanged, nay, more fixed of purpose. She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps toward the center of the village. A string of wagons drawn by oxen was lumbering along. These sage freighters, as they were called, hauled grain and flour and merchandise from sterling, and Jane laughed suddenly in the midst of her humility and thought that they were her property, as was one of the three stores for which they freighted goods. The water that flowed along the path at her feet and turned into each cottage-yard to nourish garden and orchard also was hers, no less her private property because she chose to give it free. Yet in this village of Cottonwoods, which her father had founded and which she maintained, she was not her own mistress. She was not able to abide by her own choice of a husband. She was the daughter of Witherstein. Suppose she proved it imperiously. But she quelled that proud temptation at its birth. Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village people had for her. No power could have made her happy as the pleasure her presence gave. As she went on down the street past the stores with their rude platform entrances and the saloons where tired horses stood with bridles dragging, she was again assured with the bread and wine of life to her that she was loved. Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters, riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on dusty horses, little girls running errands, and women hurrying to the stores all looked up at her coming with glad eyes. Jane's various calls and wandering steps at length led her to the Gentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern end where here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts and shacks and log cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The fortunes of these inhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in their abodes. Water they had in abundance and therefore grass and fruit trees and patches of alfalfa and vegetable gardens. Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle. Others obtained such intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantly tendered them. But none of the families was prosperous. Many were very poor. And some lived only by Jane Witherstein's beneficence. As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened her to come in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not because she was unwelcome. Here she was gratefully received by the women, passionately by the children. But poverty and idleness with their attendant wretchedness and sorrow always hurt her. That she could alleviate this distress even more now than ever before proved the adage that it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. While her Mormon writers were in her employ, she had found few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was able to find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock was it to have man after man teller that he dare not accept her kind offer. It won't do, said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seen better days. We've had our warning, plain and to the point. Now there's Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can the daredevil boys he's hired. But they have little responsibility. Can we risk having our homes burned in our absence? Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as the blood left it. Carson, you and the others rent these houses? She asked. You ought to know, Ms. Witherstein, all of them are yours. I know. Carson, I never in my life took a day's labour for rent, or a yearling calf, or a bunch of grass, let alone gold. Bivens your storekeeper sees to that. Look here, Carson, went on Jane hurriedly, and now her cheeks were burning. You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move your families up to my cabins in the grove. They're far more comfortable than these. Then go to work for me, and if all that happens to you there, I'll give you money, gold enough to leave Utah. The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could ever have equaled that curse an eloquent expression of what he felt for Jane Witherstein. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of Lasseter. No, it won't do, he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. Miss Witherstein, there are things that you don't know, and there's not a soul among us who can tell you. I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you let me age you, say, till better times? Yes, I will, he replied, with his face lighting up. I see what it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you, and if better times ever come, I'll be only too happy to work for you. Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day, Carson. The lane opened out upon the sage-enclosed alfalfa fields, and the last habitation at the end of that lane of hovels was the meanest. Formerly it had been a shed, now it was a home. The broad leaves of a widespread cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor. Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, the hand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside the village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Witherstein entered the unfenced yard, a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of four called Faye. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a creature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly. Mother scented for you, cried Faye as Jane kissed her, and who never tomm. I didn't know Faye, but I've come now. Faye was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips. Her eyes were violet-blue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children of Cottonwoods were Jane Witherstein's friends. She loved them all. But Faye was dearest to her. Faye had few playmates, for among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and the Mormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild, lonely child. Mother's sick, said Faye, leading Jane toward the door of the hut. Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed. Miss Larkin, how are you? asked Jane anxiously. I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now. You haven't been here all alone with no one to wait on you. Oh no, my women-neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in. Did you sin for me? Yes, several times. But I had no word. No messages ever got to me. I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill, and would you please come. A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness as she fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night, an unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plate and weave a web. Jane Witherstein knew it now, and in the realization, further coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her ancestors. Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad, said Jane. But may I not do something for you? I turn at nursing, or send you things, or take care of Faye. You're so good. Since my husband's been gone, what would have become of Faye in me but for you? It was about Faye that I wanted to speak to you. This time I thought surely I'd die, and I was worried about Faye. Well, I'll be around all right shortly. But my strength's gone, and I won't live long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you've been asking me to let you take Faye and bring her up as your daughter? Indeed, yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hope the day— Never mind that. The day'll come sooner or later. I refused your offer, and now I'll tell you why. I know why, interposed Jane. It's because you don't want her brought up as a Mormon. No, it wasn't altogether that. Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand and laid it appealingly on Jane's. I don't like to tell you. But it's this. I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Faye to you. Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of Mormons, gossip of your love for Faye and your wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn't take Faye as much for love of her as because of your religious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to marry. That's a damnable lie, cried Jane Witherstein. It was what made me hesitate, went on Mrs. Larkin. But I never believed it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you— Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, but never a lie that mattered, that hurt anyone. Now believe me, I love little Faye. If I had her near me, I'd grow to worship her. When I asked for her, I thought only of that love. Let me prove this. You and Faye come to live with me. I've such a big house, and I'm so lonely. I'll help nurse you, take care of you. When you're better, you can work for me. I'll keep little Faye and bring her up without Mormon teaching. When she's grown, if she should want to leave me, I'll send her, and not empty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you. I knew it was a lie, replied the mother, and she sank back upon her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. Jane Witherstein may heaven bless you. I've been deeply grateful to you. But because you're a Mormon, I never felt close to you till now. I don't know much about religion as religion. But your God and my God are the same. Back in that strange canyon, which Winters had found indeed a valley of surprises, the wounded girls whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not to take her back to the rustlers, crowned the events of the last few days with a confounding climax, that she should not want to return to them staggered Winters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal confirmed his first impression that she was more unfortunate than bad, and he experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before that Old Ring's masked writer was a woman, his opinion would have been formed, and he would have considered her abandoned. But his first knowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony. He had heard God's name whispered by blood-stained lips. Through her solemn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpse of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty to him, don't take me back there. Once for all, Winters' quick mind formed a permanent conception of this poor girl. He based it not upon what the chances of life had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a few pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil. What's your name? he inquired. Bess, she answered. Bess what? That's enough. Just Bess. The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever. Winters marveled anew, and this time at the tent of shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler's girl, but she was still capable of shame. She might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of honour. Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter, he said. But this matters. What will I do with you? Are you a writer? She whispered. Not now. I was once. I drove the withersteen herds, but I lost my place, lost all I owned, and now I'm a sort of outcast. My name's Byrne Vinters. You won't take me to Cottonwood's or Glaze? I'd be hanged. No, indeed, but I must do something with you, for it's not safe for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he'll be found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where I can't be trailed. Leave me here. Alone, to die. Yes. I will not, Vinters spoke shortly, with a kind of ring in his voice. What do you want to do with me? Her whispering grew difficult, and faint that Vinters had to stoop to hear her. Why, let's see, he replied slowly. I'd like to take you someplace where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all right. And then? Well, it'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your wound. It's a bad one. And, best, if you don't want to live, if you don't fight for life, you'll never... Oh, I want to live. But I'd rather die than go back to... to... to Aldring, asked Vinters, interrupting her in turn. Her lips moved in an affirmative. I promised not to take you back to him, or to Cottonwood's, or to Glaze. The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterable gratitude and wonder. And as suddenly, Vinters found her eyes beautiful, as he had never seen or felt beauty. They were as dark blue as the sky at night. Then the flashing changed to a long, thoughtful look in which there was a wistful, unconscious searching of his face, a look that trembled on the verge of hope and trust. I'll try to live, she said. The broken whisper just reached his ears. Do what you want with me. Rest, then. Don't worry. Sleep, he replied. Abruptly he arose as if words had been decision for him, and with a sharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp. Vinters was conscious of an indefinite conflict of change within him. It seemed to be a vague passing of old moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition. He was both cast down and uplifted. He wanted to think and think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative need at present was to find a safe retreat, and this called for action. So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This trip he turned to the left and winded his skulking way southward a mile or more to the opening of the valley where lay the strange, scrawled rocks. He did not, however, venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall and went along that till its perpendicular line and broke into the long incline of bare stone. Before proceeding farther, he halted, studying the strange character of this slope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen far against such background. Before him ascended a gradual swell of smooth stone. It was hard, polished, and full of pockets worn by centuries of eddying rainwater. A hundred yards up began a line of grotesque cedar trees, and they extended along the slope, clear to its most southerly end. Beyond that end Vinters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars, few as they were, would afford some cover. Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than he had estimated, though he had, from long habit, made allowance for the deceiving nature of distances in that country. When he gained the cover of cedars he paused to rest and look, and it was then he saw how the trees sprang from holes in the bare rock. Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in depressions, wearing deep ground holes. There had been dry seasons, accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose wonderfully out of solid rock. But these were not beautiful cedars. They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions as if growth were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs had been a bitter fight, and ventures felt a strange sympathy for them. This country was hard on trees and men. He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the open valley. As he progressed the belt of trees widened and he kept to its upper margin. He passed shady pockets half full of water, and as he marked the location for possible future need he reflected that there had been no rain since the winter snows. From one of these shady holes a rabbit hopped out and squatted down, laying its ears flat. Ventures wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself to think of, but it would not do to fire his rifle there. So he broke off a cedar branch and threw it. He crippled the rabbit, which started to flounder up the slope. Ventures did not wish to lose the meat and he never allowed crippled game to escape, to die lingeringly in some covert. So after a careful glance below and back toward the canyon he began to chase the rabbit. The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him, but it presently seemed singular why this rabbit that might have escaped downward chose to ascend the slope. Ventures knew then that it had a burrow higher up. More than once he jerked over to seize it, only in vain, for the rabbit by renewed effort eluded his grasp. Thus the chase continued on up the bare slope. The farther Ventures climbed, the more determined he grew to catch his quarry. At last, panting and sweating, he captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade. Laying his rifle on the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slung it from his belt. Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had climbed far up that wonderful smooth slope and had almost reached the base of yellow cliff that rose scoured, a huge scarred and cracked bulk. He frowned down upon him as if to forbid further ascent. Ventures bent over for his rifle, and as he picked it up from where it leaned against the steeper grade, he saw several little nicks cut in the solid stone. They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. Ventures began to count them, one, two, three, four, on up to sixteen. That number carried his glance to the top of his first bulging bench of cliff base. The slope after a more level offset was still steeper slope, and the line of nicks kept on to wind round a projecting corner of wall. A casual glance would have passed by these little dents. If Ventures had not known what they signified, he would never have bestowed upon them the second glance. But he knew they had been cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, he recognized them as steps cut in the rock by the cliff-dwellers. With a pulse beginning to beat and hammer away his calmness, he eyed that indistinct line of steps, up to where the buttress of wall hid further side of them. He knew that behind the corner of stone would be a cave or a crack which could never be suspected from below. Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directed him to a probable hiding place. Again he laid aside his rifle, and, removing boots and belt, he began to walk up the steps. In a mountain goat he was agile, sure-footed, and he mounted the first bench without bending to use his hands. The next ascent took grip of fingers as well as toes, but he climbed steadily, swiftly, to reach the projecting corner and slipped around it. Here he faced a notch in the cliff. At the apex he turned abruptly into a ragged vent that split the ponderous wall clear to the top, showing a narrow streak of blue sky. At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, musty dust. It zigzagged so that he could not see ahead more than a few yards at a time. He noticed tracks of wildcats and rabbits in the dusty floor. At every turn he expected to come upon a huge cavern full of little square stone houses, each with a small aperture like a staring dark eye. The passage lightened and widened, with a light of a narrow, steep, ascending chute. Venters had a moment's notice of the rock, which was of the same smoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his gaze went irresistibly upward to the precipitous walls of this wide ladder of granite. These were ruined walls of yellow sandstone, and so split and splintered, so overhanging with great sections of balancing rim, so impending with tremendous crumbling crags that Venters caught his breath sharply, and, appalled, he instinctively recoiled as if a step upward might jar the ponderous cliffs from their foundation. Indeed, it seemed that these ruined cliffs were but awaiting a breath of wind to collapse and come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It would be a full, hearty man who risked his life under the leaning, waiting avalanches of rock in that gigantic split. Yet how many years had they leaned there without falling? At the bottom of the incline was an immense heap of weathered sandstone all crumbling to dust, but there were no huge rocks as large as houses such as rested so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently and inevitably to crash down. Slowly split from the parent rock by the weathering process, and carved and sculptured by ages of wind and rain, they waited their moment. Venters felt how foolish it was for him to fear these broken walls, to fear that after they had endured for thousands of years, the moment of his passing should be the one for them to slip. Yet he feared it. What a place to hide, muttered Venters. I'll climb. I'll see where this thing goes. If only I can find water. With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline, and as he climbed he bent his eyes downward. This, however, after a little grew impossible, he had to look to obey his eager, curious mind. He raised his glance and saw light between row on row of shafts and pinnacles and crags that stood out from the main wall. Some leaned against the cliff, others against each other. Many stood sheer and alone. All were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It was a place of yellow, ragged ruin. The passage narrowed as he went up. It became a slant, hard for him to stick on. It was smooth as marble. Finally he surmounted it, surprised to find the wall still several hundred feet high and a narrow gorge leading down on the other side. This was a divide between two inclines, about twenty yards wide. At one side stood an enormous rock. Venters gave it a second glance because it rested on a pedestal. It attracted closer attention. It was like a colossal pair of stone standing on its stem. Around the bottom were thousands of little nicks just distinguishable to the eye. They were marks of stone hatchets. The cliff dwellers had chipped and chipped away at this boulder till it rested its tremendous bulk upon a mere pinpoint of its surface. Venters pondered. Why had the little stone men hacked away at that big boulder? It bore no semblance to a statue or an idol or a godhead or a sphinx. Instinctively he put his hands on it and pushed. Then his shoulder and heaved. The stone seemed to groan, to stir, to grate, and then to move. It tipped a little downward and hung balancing for a long instant. Slowly returned, rocked slightly, groaned and settled back to its former position. Venters divide its significance. It had been meant for defense. The cliff dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this last stand, had cunningly cut the rock until it balanced perfectly, ready to be dislodged by strong hands. Just below it leaned a tottering crag that would have toppled, starting an avalanche on an aclivity where no sliding mass could stop. Crags and pinnacles, splintered cliffs, and leaning shafts and monuments would have thundered down to block forever the outlet to deception paths. That was a narrow shave for me, said Venters soberly. A balancing rock! The cliff dwellers never had to roll it. They died, vanished, and here the rock stands probably little changed. But it might serve another lonely dweller of the cliffs. I'll hide up here somewhere if I can only find water. He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was gradual, the space narrow, the course straight for many rods. A gloom hung between the upsweeping walls. In a turn the passage narrowed to scarce a dozen feet, and here was darkness of night. But light shone ahead. Another abrupt turn brought day again, and then wide open space. Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging the canyon rims, and through the enormous round portal gleamed and glistened a beautiful valley shining under sunset gold reflected by surrounding cliffs. He gave a start of surprise. The valley was a cove a mile long, half that wide, and its enclosing walls were smooth and stained and curved inward, forming great caves. He decided that its floor was far higher than the level of deception pass and the intersecting canyons. No purple sage colored this valley floor. Instead there were the white of aspens, streaks of branch and slender trunk glistening from the green of leaves and the darker green of oaks. And through the middle of this forest from wall to wall ran a winding line of brilliant green which marked the course of cottonwoods and willows. There's water here, and this is the place for me, said Venters. Only birds can peep over those walls. I've gone old ring one better. Venters waited no longer and turned swiftly to retrace his steps. He named the canyon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder that guarded the outlet Balancing Rock. Going down he did not find himself attended by such fears as had beset him in the climb. Still he was not easy in mind and could not occupy himself with plans of moving the girl and his outfit until he had descended to the notch. There he rested a moment and looked about him. The pass was darkening with the approach of night. At the corner of the wall where the stone steps turned he saw a spur of rock that would serve the noose of a lasso. He needed no more aid to scale that place. As he intended to make the move under cover of darkness he wanted most to be able to tell where to climb up. So taking several small stones with him he stepped and slid down to the edge of the slope where he had left his rifle and boots. He placed the stone some yards apart. He left the rabbit lying upon the bench where the steps began. The queen cited remembering gaze to the rim wall above. It was serrated and between two spears of rock directly in line with his position showed a zig-zag crack that at night would let through the gleam of sky. This settled he put on his belt and boots and prepared to descend. Some consideration was necessary to decide whether or not to leave his rifle there. On the return carrying the girl and a pack it would be added encumbrance after debating the matter he left the rifle leaning against the bench. As he went straight down the slope he halted every few rods to look up at his mark on the rim. It changed but he fixed each change in his memory. When he reached the first cedar tree he tied his scarf upon a dead branch and then hurried toward camp having no more concern about finding his trail upon the return trip. Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. He hurried to him as he glided into the grassy glade near camp and heard the whinny of a horse that he had forgotten wrangle. The big sorrow could not be gotten into surprise valley. He would have to be left here. Ventures determined at once to lead the other horses out through the thicket and turn them loose. The farther they wandered from this canyon the better it would suit him. He easily described wrangle through the gloom but the others were not in sight. When the dogs, and when they came trotting to him he sent them out to search for the horses and followed. It soon developed that they were not in the glade nor the thicket. Ventures grew cold and rigid at the thought of rustlers having entered his retreat. But the thought passed for the demeanor of ring and whitey reassured him. The horses had wandered away. Under the clump of silver spruces was a denser mantle of darkness yet not so thick that Ventures night could not catch the white oval of a still face. He bent over it with a slight suspension of breath that was both caution lest he frighten her and chill uncertainty of feeling lest he find her dead. But she slept and he arose to renewed activity. He packed his saddlebags. The dogs were hungry. They whined about him and nosed his busy hands. But he took no time to feed them nor to satisfy his own hunger. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulders and made them secure with his lasso. Then he wrapped the blankets closer about the girl and lifted her in his arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumped the ground as Ventures passed him with the dogs. The sorrel knew he was being left behind and was not sure whether he liked it or not. Ventures went on and entered the thicket. Here he had to feel his way in pitch blackness and to wedge his progress between the close saplings. Time meant little to him now that he had started. And he edged along with slow side movement till he got clear of the thicket. Ring and Whitey stood waiting for him. Taking to the open aisles and patches of the sage he walked guardedly, careful not to stumble or step in dust or strike against spreading sage branches. If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time when he passed out of the black lines of shade into the wan starlight he glanced at the white face of the girl lying in his arms. She had not awakened from her sleep or stupor. He did not rest until he cleared the black gate of the canyon. Then he leaned against a stone breast high to him and gently released the girl from his hold. His brow and hair and the palms of his hands were wet and there was a kind of nervous contraction of his muscles. They seemed to ripple and strangle tense. He had a desire to hurry and no sense of fatigue. He had a scent of sage in his face. The first early blackness of night passed with the brightening of the stars. Somewhere back on his trail a coyote yelped splitting the dead silence. Venter's faculty seemed singularly acute. He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley was better travelling than the canyon. It was lighter freer of sage and there were no rocks. Soon out of the pale gloom shown a still paler thing and that was the low swell of slope. Venter's mounted it and his dogs walked beside him. Once upon the stone he slowed to snail pace straining his sight to avoid the pockets and holes. Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars like great demons in witches chained to the rock and writhing in silent anguish loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. Venter's crossed this belt of cedars, skirted the upper border he had marked even before he saw his waving scarf. Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently feet first and slowly later out full length. What he feared was to reopen one of her wounds. If he gave her a violent jar or slipped and fell but the supreme confidence so strangely felt that night admitted no such blunders. The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity to lose its definite outline of the opaque cloud that shaded into the overshadowing wall. He scanned the rim where the serrated points speared the sky and he found the zigzag crack. It was dim only a shade lighter than the dark ramparts but he distinguished it and that served. Lifting the girl he stepped upward closely attending to the nature of the path under his feet. After a few steps he stopped to mark his line with the crack in the rim. The dogs clung closer to him. While chasing the rabbit this slope had appeared interminable to him. Now burdened as he was he did not think of length or height or toil. He remembered only to avoid a misstep and to keep his direction. He climbed on with frequent stops to watch the rim and before he dreamed of gaining the bench he bumped his knees into it and saw in the dim gray light his rifle and the rabbit. He saw mishap or swerving off his course and his shut teeth unlocked. As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little ridge with her white face upturned she opened her eyes wide staring black at once like both the night and the stars they made her face seem still whiter. Is it you? she asked faintly. Yes, replied Venters. Oh, where are we? I'm taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find you. I must climb a little here and call the dogs. Don't be afraid. I'll soon come for you. She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a moment and then closed. Venters pulled off his boots and then felt for the little steps in the rock. The shade of the cliff above obscured the point he wanted to gain but he could see dimly a few feet before him. What he had attempted with care he now went at with surpassing lightness. Boyant, rapid, sure he attained the corner of wall and slipped around it. Here he could not see a hand before his face so he groped along, found a little flat space and there removed the settle bags. The lasso he took back with him to the corner and looped the noose over the spur of rock. Ring, whitey, come he called softly. Low whines came up from below. Here come whitey, ring, he repeated, this time sharply. Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet and out of the grey gloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to reach his side and pass beyond. Venters descended holding to the lasso. He tested its strength by throwing all his weight upon it. Then he gathered the girl up and holding her securely in his left arm he began to climb at every few steps jerking his right hand upward along the lasso. It sagged at each forward movement he made but he balanced himself lightly during the interval when he lacked the support of a tall rope. He climbed as if he had wings the strength of the giant and knew not the sense of fear. The sharp corner of cliff seemed to cut out of the darkness. He reached it and the protruding shelf and then, entering the black shade of the notch, he moved blindly but surely to the place where he had left the saddlebags. He heard the dogs though he could not see them. Once more he carefully placed the girl at his feet. Then on hands and knees he went over the little flat space feeling for stones. He removed a number and scraping the deep dust into a heap he unfolded the outer blanket from around the girl and later upon this bed. Then he went down the slope again for his boots, rifle and the rabbit and bringing also his lasso with him he made short work of that trip. Are you there? The girl's voice came low from the blackness. Yes, he replied and was conscious that his laboring breast made speech difficult. Are we in a cave? Yes. Oh, listen. The waterfall. I hear it. You've brought me back. Ventures heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled to a pitch almost softly shrill and the next lulled to a low, almost inaudible sigh. That's wind-blowing in the cliffs, he panted. You're far from Old Ring's canyon. The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme lassitude following upon great exertion. It seemed that when he lay down and drew his blanket over him the action was the last frustration. He stretched inert, wet, hot. His body won great strife of throbbing, stinging nerves and bursting veins. And there he lay for a long while before he felt that he had begun to rest. Rest came to him that night but no sleep. Sleep he did not want. The hours of strained effort were now as if they had never been and he wanted to think. Earlier in the day he had dismissed the unthinkable feeling of change but now when there was no longer demand on his cunning and strength and he had time to think he could not catch the elusive thing that had sadly perplexed as well as elevated his spirit. Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the cliff shone the lustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers for a long, long year. Tonight they were different. He studied them. They seemed. But that was not the difference he meant. Gradually it came to him that the distinction was not one he saw but one he felt. And this he divined as much of the baffling change as he thought would be revealed to him then. And as he lay there with the singing of the cliff winds in his ears the white stars above the dark, bold vent the difference which he felt was that he was no longer alone. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 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 9 Silver Spruce and Aspins The rest of that night seemed to venters only a few moments of starlight, a dark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of gray gloom, and then the lighting of dawn. When he had bestirred himself feeding the hungry dogs and breaking his long fast and had repacked his settle-bags, it was clear daylight though the sun had not tipped the yellow wall in the east. He concluded to make the climb and descent into Surprise Valley in one trip. To that end he tied his blanket upon ring and gave Whitey the extra lasso and the rabbit to carry. Then with the rifle and settle-bag slung upon his back he took up the girl. She did not awaken from heavy slumber. That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the broken cliffs, in the face of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed to be weary of its age-long wavering, was a tax on strength and nerve that venters felt equally with something sweet and strangely exulting in its accomplishment. He did not pause until he gained the divide, and there he rested. Balancing rock loomed huge, cold in the grey light of dawn, a thing without life, yet it spoke silently to venters, I am waiting to plunge down to shatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail and close forever the outlet to deception pass. On the descent of the other side venters had easy going, but was somewhat concerned because Whitey appeared to have succumbed to temptation while carrying the rabbit, was also chewing on it. And Ring evidently regarded this as an injury to himself, especially as he had carried the heavier load. Presently he snapped at one end of the rabbit and refused to let go, but his action prevented Whitey from further misdoing, and then the two dogs pattered down, carrying the rabbit between them. Venters turned out of the gorge and suddenly paused, stock still, astounded at the scene before him. The curve of the great stone bridge had caught the sunrise, and through the magnificent arch burst a glorious stream of gold that shone with a long slant down into the center of surprise valley. Only through the arch did any sunlight pass so that all the rest of the valley lay still asleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level into walls as misty and soft as morning clouds. Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking up at its tremendous height and sweep. It spanned the opening to surprise valley, stretching in almost perfect curve from rim to rim. Even in his hurry in concern Venters could not but feel its majesty, and the thought came to him that the cliff dwellers must have regarded it as an object of worship. Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling the weight of his burden as he descended, and still the valley lay below him. As all other canyons and coves and valleys had deceived him, so had this deep nestling oval. At length he passed beyond the slope of weathered stone that spread fan shape from the arch, and encountered a grassy terrace running to the right and about on a level with the tips of the oaks and cottonwoods below. Scattered here and there upon this shelf were clumps of aspens, and he walked through them into a glade that surpassed, in beauty and adaptability for a wild home any place he had ever seen. Silver spruces bordered the base of a precipitous wall that rose loftily. Caves indented its surface, and there were no detached ledges or weathered sections that might dislodge a stone. The level ground beyond the spruces dropped down into a little ravine. This was one dense line of slender aspens from which came the low splashing of water, and the terrace, flying open to the west, afforded unobstructed view of the valley of green treetops. For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between the silver spruces in the cliff. Here in the stone wall had been wonderfully carved by wind, or washed by water, several deep caves above the level of the terrace. They were clean, dry, roomy. He cut spruce spouts and made a bed in the largest cave, and laid the girl there. The first intimation that he had of her being aroused from sleep or lethargy was a low call for water. He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was a shallow, grass green place with aspens growing up everywhere. To his delight he found a tiny brook of swift-running water. Its faint tinge of amber reminded him of the spring at Cottonwoods, and the thought gave him a little shock. The water was so cold it made his fingers tingle as he reached the canteen. Having returned to the cave he was glad to see the girl drink thirstily. This time he noted that she could raise her head slightly without his help. You were thirsty, he said. It's good water. I found a fine place. Tell me, how do you feel? There's a pain here, she replied, and moved her hand to her left side. Why, that's strange. Your wounds are on your right side. I believe you're hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache, a gnawing? It's like that. Then it's hunger. Ventures laughed, and suddenly caught himself with a quick breath and felt again the little shock. When had he laughed? It's hunger, he went on. I've had that gnaw many a time. I've got it now. But you mustn't eat. You can have all the water you want, but won't I starve? No, people don't starve easily. I've discovered that. You must lie perfectly still and rest and sleep for days. My hands are dirty. My face feels so hot and sticky. My boots hurt. It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed off in a whisper. Well, I'm a fine nurse. It annoyed him that he had never experienced these things. But then, awaiting her death and thinking of her comfort were vastly different matters, he unwrapped the blanket which covered her. What a slender girl she was. No wonder he had been able to carry her miles and pack her up that slippery ladder of stone. Her boots were of soft, fine leather reaching clear to her knees. He recognized the make is one of a bootmaker in the state. The boots consisted of silver frames and gold chains, and the rowels, large as silver dollars, were fancifully engraved. The boots slipped off rather hard. She wore heavy woollen rider stockings half-length, and these were pulled up over the ends of her short trousers. Venters took off the stockings to note her little feet were red and swollen. He bathed them. Then he removed his scarf I must see your wounds now," he said gently. She made no reply, but watched him steadily as he opened her blouse and untied the bandage. His strong fingers trembled a little as he removed it. If the wounds had reopened a chill struck him as he saw the angry red bullet mark and a tiny stream of blood winding from it down her white breast. Very carefully he lifted her to see that the wound in her back then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed the wound, and left it unbandaged, open to the air. Her eyes thanked him. Listen," he said earnestly. I've had some wounds and I've seen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your back has closed. If you lie still three days the one in your breast will close and you'll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will be over. He had spoken with earnest almost eagerness. Why do you want me to get well? She asked, wonderingly. The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds of humanity. But the circumstances under which he had shot this strange girl the shock and realization, the waiting for death, the hope had resulted in a condition of mind where inventors wanted her to live more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet he could not tell why. He believed the killing of the rustler and the subsequent excitement had disturbed him. For how else could he explain the throbbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, the undefined sense of full hours charged vibrant with pulsating mystery for once they had dragged in loneliness? I shot you, he said slowly, and I want you to get well so I shall not have killed a woman. But for your own sake, too. A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes and her lips quivered. Hush, said inventors, you've talked too much already. In her unutterable bitterness he saw a darkness of mood that could not have been caused by her present weak and feverish state. She hated the life she had led that she probably had been compelled to lead. She had suffered some unforgivable wrong at the hands of Aldring. In conviction, inventors felt a shame throughout his body and it marked the rekindling of fierce anger and ruthlessness. In the past long year he had nursed resentment. He had hated the wilderness, the loneliness of the uplands. He had waited for something to come to pass. It had come. Like an Indian stealing horses he had sculpted into the recesses of the canyons. He had found Aldring's retreat. The innocent girl then had saved her from this unwitting act and he meant to save her from the consequent wasting of blood, from fever and weakness. Starvation he had to fight for her and for himself. Where he had been sick at the letting of blood now he remembered it in grim cold calm and as he lost that softness of nature so he lost his fear of men. He would watch for Aldring biting his time and he would kill this great settler who had held a girl in bondage who had used her to his infamous ends. Venture surmised this much of the change in him. Idleness had passed. Keen fierce vigor flooded his mind and body. All that had happened to him at Cottonwood's seemed remote and hard to recall. The difficulties and perils of the present absorbed him, held him in a kind of spell. First then he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl's room for his own comfort and use. His next work was to build a fireplace of stones and to gather a store of wood. That done he spilled the contents of his saddlebags upon the grass and took stock. His outfit consisted of a small handled axe, a hunting knife, a large number of cartridges for rifle or revolver, a tin plate, a cup and a fork and spoon, a quantity of dried beef and dried fruits and small canvas bags containing tea, sugar, salt and pepper. For him alone this supply would have been bountiful to begin a sojourn in the wilderness. But he was no longer alone. Starvation in the uplands was not an unheard of thing. He did not, however, worry at all on that score and feared only his possible inability to supply the needs of a woman in a weakened and extremely delicate condition. If there was no game in the valley, a contingency he doubted, it would not be a great task for him to go by night to Old Ring's herd and pack out a calf. The exigency of the moment was to ascertain if there were game in surprise valley. Whitey still guarded the dilapidated rabbit and Ring slept nearby under a spruce. Ventures called Ring and went to the edge of the terrace and there halted to survey the valley. He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances had made it appear. For more than a casual idea of dimensions and a hasty conception of its natural shape and singular beauty he had not had time. Again the felicity of the name he had given the valley struck him forcibly. Around the red perpendicular walls except under the great arc of stone ran a terrace fringed at the cliff base by silver spruces. Below that first terrace sloped another wider one densely overgrown with aspens and the center of the valley was a level circle of oaks and alders with the glittering green line of wood dividing it in half. Ventures saw a number and variety of birds flitting among the trees. To his left facing the stone bridge an enormous cavern opened in the wall and low down just above the treetops he made out a long shelf of cliff dwellings with little black staring windows or doors like eyes they were and seemed to watch him. The few cliff dwellings he had seen all ruins had left him a memory of age and solitude and of something past. He had come in a way to be a cliff-dweller himself and those silent eyes would look down upon him as if in surprise that after thousands of years a man had invaded the valley. Ventures felt sure that he was the only white man who had ever walked under the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge down into that wonderful valley with its circle of caves and its terraced rings of silver spruces The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Ventures ran down the declivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked with sunshine. The oak trees were slender, none more than half a foot thick and they grew close together intermingling their branches. Ring came running back with a rabbit in his mouth. Ventures took the rabbit and holding the dog near him stole softly own. There were fluttering of wings thick bird-notes and rustling of dead leaves and rapid patterings. Ventures crossed well-worn trails marked with fresh tracks and when he had stolen on a little farther he saw many birds and running quail and more rabbits than he could count. He had not penetrated the forest of oaks for a hundred yards had not approached anywhere near the line of willows and cotton-woods which he knew grew along a stream but he had seen enough to know many wild creatures. Ventures returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits and gave the dogs the one they had quarreled over and the skin of this he dressed and hung up to dry feeling that he would like to keep it. It was a particularly rich furry pelt with a beautiful white tail. Ventures remembered that but for the bobbing of that white tail catching his eye he would not have aspired the rabbit and he would never have discovered surprise valley. Little incidents of chance like this had turned him here and there in deception pass and now they had assumed to him the significance and direction of destiny. His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to his mind the necessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he took the oaks and cut bundles of aspens and willows and packed them up under the bridge to the narrow outlet of the gorge. Here he began fashioning a fence by driving aspens into the ground and fast with willows. Trip after trip he made down for more building material and the afternoon had passed when he finished the work to his satisfaction. Wildcats might scale the fence but no coyote could come in to search for prey and no rabbits or other small game could escape from the valley. Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease around a fine fire without hurry or fear of discovery. After hard work that had definite purpose this freedom and comfort gave him peculiar satisfaction. He caught himself often as he kept busy round the campfire stopping to glance at the quiet form in the cave and at the dog stretched cosily near him and then out across the beautiful valley. The present was not yet real to him. While he ate the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved wall as the morning sun burst wondrously through a grand arch into this valley in a golden slanting shaft so the evening sun, at the moment of setting shone through a gap of cliffs sending down a broad red burst to brighten the oval with a blaze of fire. To ventors both sunrise and sunset were unreal. A cool wind blew across the oval waving the tips of oaks and while the light lasted fluttering the aspen leaves into millions of facets of red and sweeping the graceful spruces. Then with the wind soon came a shade and a darkening and suddenly the valley was grey. Night came there quickly after the sinking of the sun. Ventors went softly to look at the girl. She slept and her breathing was quiet and slow. He lifted ring into the cave with stern whisper for him to stay there on guard. Then he drew the blanket carefully over her and returned to the campfire. Though exceedingly tired he was yet loath to yield to lassitude. But this night it was not from listening watchful vigilance it was from a desire to realize his position. The details of his wild environment seemed the only substance of a strange dream. He saw the darkening rims the grey oval turning black the undulating surface of forest like a rippling lake and the spear pointed spruces. He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and the soft continuous splash of water. The melancholy note of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs. Ventors had no name for this night singer and he had never seen one but the few notes always peeling out just at darkness were as familiar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased and the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound that Ventors fancied was not of earth. Neither had he a name for this expressably wild and sweet. The thought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her last outcry of life and he felt a tremor shake him. But no, this sound was not human though it was like despair. He began to doubt his sensitive perceptions to believe that he half dreamed what he thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with the strengthening of the breeze and he realized it was the singing of the wind in the cliffs. By and by a drowsiness overcame him and Ventors began to nod half asleep with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself and calling whitey he went to the cave. The girl lay barely visible in the dimness. Ringed crouched beside her and the padding of his tail on the stone assured Ventors that the dog was awake and faithful to his duty. Ventors sought his own bed of fragrant bows and as he lay back somehow grateful for the comfort and safety the night seemed to steal away from him and he sank softly into intangible space and rest and slumber. Ventors awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only the haunting echo of dream music. He opened his eyes to another surprise of this valley of beautiful surprises. Out of his cave he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces crossing a round space of blue morning sky and in this passage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white stripes and long tails. They were mockingbirds and they were singing as if they wanted to burst their throats. Ventors listened. One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almost to his cave and a punnet within a few yards of him sat one of the graceful birds. Ventors saw the swelling and quivering of its throat and song. He arose and when he slid down out of his cave the birds fluttered too farther away. Ventors stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked in. The girl was awake with wide eyes and listening look and she had a hand on Ring's neck. Mockingbirds, she said. Yes, replied Ventors and I believe they like our company. Where are we? Never mind now. After a little I'll tell you. The birds woke me. When I heard them and saw the shiny trees and the blue sky and then a blaze of gold dropping down I wondered. She did not complete her fancy but Ventors imagined he understood her meaning. She appeared to be wandering in mind. Ventors felt her face in hands and found them burning with fever. He went for water and was glad to find it almost as cold as if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine he had and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink but he made her swallow and then he bathed her face and head and cooled her wrists. The day began with the heightening of the fever. Ventors spent the time reducing her temperature cooling her hot cheeks and temples. He kept close watch over her and at the least indication of restlessness that he knew led to tossing and rolling of the body. He held her tightly so no violent move could reopen her wounds. More after hour she babbled and laughed and cried and moaned in delirium but whatever her secret was she did not reveal it. Attended by something somber for Ventors the day passed. At night in the cool winds the fever abated and she slept. The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third he seemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes. That day he scarcely went from her side for a moment except to run for fresh cool water and he did not eat. The fever broke on the fourth day and left her spent and shrunken a slip of a girl with life only in her eyes. They hung upon Ventors with a mute observance and he found hope in that. To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out to nourish the little life and vitality that remained in her was Ventors' problem. But he had little resource other than the meat of the rabbits and quail and broths and soups as best he could and fed her with a spoon. It came to him that the human body like the human soul was a strange thing incapable of recovering from terrible shocks. For almost immediately she showed faint signs of gathering strength. There was one more waiting day in which he doubted and spent long hours by her side as she slept and watched the gentle swell of her breast rise and fall in breathing and the wind stir the tangled chestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live. Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his accustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce where once more he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces. She would live and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley and he felt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call of action to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp fixtures and utensils to the necessity of hunting food and the desire to explore the valley. But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from camp because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she could see him near at hand. And on the first day her langer appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. She awoke stronger from each short slumber. She ate greedily and she moved about in her bed of bowels and always it seemed to venters her eyes followed him. He knew now that her recovery would be rapid. She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about how hungry she was till Vinter silenced her asking her to put off for their talk till another time. She obeyed but she sat up in her bed and her eyes roved to and fro and always back to him. Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her and would not permit him to bathe which actions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however and Vinter's was quick to catch in her the first intimations of thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation. He left camp and took Whitey out to hunt for rabbits. Upon his return he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see his invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and her bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached and asked her to lie down again to tell her that perhaps she might overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her glinting on the little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small oval face with its pallor and dark blue eyes underlined by dark blue circles. She looked at him and he looked at her. And that exchange of glances he imagined each saw the other in some different guise. It seemed impossible to Vinter's fast rider. It flashed over him that he had made a mistake which presently she would explain. Help me down, she said. But are you well enough? he protested. Wait a little longer. I'm weak, dizzy, but I want to get down. He lifted her, what a light burden now, and stood her upright beside him and supported her as she essayed to walk She was like a stripling of a boy. The bright small head scarcely reached his shoulder. But now as she clung to his arm the rider's costume she wore did not contradict as it had done at first his feeling of her femininity. She might be the famous masked rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy, but her outline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something that Vinter's subtle essence rather than what he saw proclaimed her sex. She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the spruce that overspread the campfire. Now tell me everything, she said. He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of the rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment. You shot me, and now you've saved my life? Yes, after almost killing you I've pulled you through. Are you glad? I should say so. Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily. She was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions, and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and sadness. Tell me about yourself? She asked. He made this a briefer story telling of his coming to Utah his various occupations till he became a rider and how the Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast. Then no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity he questioned her in turn. Are you Aldring's masked rider? Yes, she replied, and dropped her eyes. I knew it. I recognized your figure and mask for I saw you once. Yet I can't believe it. But you never were really that rustler as we riders knew him. I'm a robber, a kidnapper of women, a murderer of sleeping riders. No, I never stole or harmed anyone in all my life. I only rode and rode. But why, why, he burst out. Why the name? I understand Aldring made you ride. But the black mask, the mystery, the things laid to your hands, the threats in your infamous name, the night riding credited to you the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you the rustlers, even Aldring himself. Why, tell me why? I never knew that, she answered low. Her drooping head straightened and the large eyes, larger now and darker met ventures with a clear steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It verified his own conviction. Never knew? That's strange. Are you a Mormon? No. Is Aldring a Mormon? Do you care for him? Yes. I hate his men, his life. Sometimes I almost hate him. Ventures paused in his rapid-fire questioning as if to brace himself to ask for a truth that would be apparent for him to confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear. What are—what were you to Aldring? Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl wilted. Her head dropped and into her white wasted cheeks crept the red of shame. Ventures would have given anything to recall that question. It seemed so different, his thought, when spoken. Yet her shame established in his mind something akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering to feel for her. Damn that question! Forget it, he cried, in a passion of pain for her and anger at himself. But once and for all, tell me, I know it, yet I want to hear you say so. You couldn't help yourself? Oh, no. Well, that makes it all right with me, he went on, honestly. I—I want you to feel that, you see, we've been thrown together and—and I want to help you, not hurt you. I thought life had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel mean and little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast. And now, I don't see very clearly what it all means, only we are here, together. We've got to stay here for long, surely till you are well. But you'll never go back to Aldring. And I'm sure helping you will help me for I was sick in mind. There's something now for me to do. And if I can win back your strength, then get you away out of this wild country, help you somehow to a happier life, just think how good that'll be for me.