 CHAPTER XIII. In his hidden valley ventures awakened from sleep, and his ears rang with innumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds, and his eyes opened wide upon the glorious golden shaft of sunlight shining through the great stone bridge. The circle of cliffs surrounding surprise valley lay shrouded in morning mist, a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy moving cloud along the ramparts. The oak forest in the center was a plumed and tufted oval of gold. He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery of strength, she always rose with the dawn. At the moment she was feeding the quail she had tamed, and she had begun to tame the mockingbirds. They fluttered among the branches overhead, and some left off their songs to flip down and shyly hop near the twittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits crouched in the grass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching the dogs. Her swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess and her pets, and Ring and Whitey. It swept over all to return again and rest upon the girl. She had changed. To the dark trousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, but she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to mark the rounded contours of a woman. The change had been to grace and beauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint of red shown in the clear dark brown of cheeks. The haunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been elusive, a promise, had become a living fact. She fitted harmoniously into that wonderful setting. She was like Surprise Valley, wild and beautiful. Ventures leaped out of his cave to begin the day. He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after the passing of the summer rains. The rains were due soon, but until their arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village, he sequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of his past life, and almost that of the present. It was enough to live. He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distant future. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home of the cliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, and another thing wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand. The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. He was assimilating something from this valley of gleams and shadows. From this strange girl he was assimilating more. The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As Ventures had no tools with which to build or to till the terraces, he remained idle. Beyond the cooking of the simple fare there were no tasks, and as there were no tasks there was no system. He and Bess began one thing to leave it, to begin another, to leave that, and then do nothing but lie under the spruces and watch the great cloud sails majestically move along the ramparts and dream and dream. The valley was a golden sunlit world. It was silent. The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the singing birds, even the rare and seldom occurring hollow crack of a sliding weathered stone only thickened and deepened that insulated silence. Ventures and Bess had vagrant minds. Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle, inquired Ventures? A hundred times, she replied. Oh, have I? I'd forgotten. I want you to see him. He'll carry us both. I'd like to ride him. Can he run? Run? He's a demon, swift as horse on the sage. I hope he'll stay in that canyon. He'll stay. They left camp to wander along the terraces into the aspen ravines under the gleaming walls. Ring and Whitey wandered in the fore, often turning, often trotting back, open-mouthed and solemn-eyed and happy. Ventures lifted his gaze to the grand archway over the entrance to the valley, and Bess lifted hers to follow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held their attention for a long time. Today a soaring eagle attracted them. How he sails, exclaimed Bess. I wonder where his mate is. She's at the nest, it's on the bridge in a crack near the top. I see her often, she's almost white. They wandered on down the terrace into the shady sun-flecked forest, a brown bird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess peeped into the leaves. Look, a nest in four little birds. They're not afraid of us. See how they open their mouths, they're hungry. Rabbits rustled the dead brush and pattered away. The forest was full of a drowsy hum of insects. Little darts of purple that were running quail crossed the glades, and a plaintive, sweet peeping came from the covarts. Bess's soft step disturbed a sleeping lizard that scampered away over the leaves. She gave chase and caught it, a slim creature of nameless color, but of exquisite beauty. Jewel eyes, she said. It's like a rabbit, afraid. We won't eat you. There, go. Murmuring water drew their steps down into a shallow shaded ravine where a brown brook brawled softly over mossy stones. Multitudes of strange gray frogs with white spots and black eyes lined the rocky bank and leaped only at close approach. Then Venter's eye described a very thin, very long, green snake coiled round a sapling. They drew closer and closer till they could have touched it. The snake had no fear and watched them with scintillating eyes. It's pretty, said Bess. How tame! I thought snakes always ran. No, even the rabbits didn't run here till the dogs chased them. On and on they wandered to the wild jumble of masked and broken fragments of cliff at the west end of the valley. The roar of the disappearing stream dend in their ears. Into this maze of rocks they threaded a torturous way, climbing, descending, halting, to gather wild plums and great lavender lilies, and going on at the will of fancy. Idol and keen perceptions guided them equally. Oh, let us climb there, cried Bess, pointing upward to a small space of terrace left green and shady between huge abutments of broken cliff. They climbed to the nook and rested and looked out across the valley to the curling column of blue smoke from their campfire. But the cool shade and the rich grass and the fine view were not what they had climbed for. They could not have told, although whatever had drawn them was well satisfying. Light, sure-footed as a mountain goat, Bess patterned down at Ventur's heels, and they went on, calling the dogs, eyes dreamy and wide, listening to the wind and the bees and the crickets and the birds. Part of the time Ring and Whitey led the way, then Ventur's, then Bess, and the direction was not an object. They left the sun-streaked shade of the oaks, brushed the long grass of the meadows, entered the green and fragrant swaying willows to stop at length under the huge old cotton woods where the beavers were busy. Here they rested and watched, a dam of brush and logs and mud and stones back the stream into a little lake. The round, rough beaver-houses projected from the water. Like the rabbits, the beavers had become shy. Gradually, however, as Ventur's and Bess knelt low, holding the dogs, the beavers emerged to swim with logs and gnaw at cotton woods and pat mud walls with their paddle-like tails, and glossy and shiny in the sun to go on with their strange, persistent industry. They were the builders. The lake was a mud-hole and the immediate environment a scarred and dead region, but it was a wonderful home of wonderful animals. Look at that one, he paddles in the mud, said Bess. And there, see him dive. Hear them gnawing. I'd think they'd break their teeth. How's it they can stay out of the water and under the water? And she laughed. Then Ventur's and Bess wandered farther, and perhaps not all unconsciously this time, winded their slow steps to the cave of the cliff-dwellers where she liked Bess to go. The tangled thicket and the long slant of dust and little chips of weathered rock and the steep bench of stone and the worn steps all were arduous work for Bess in the climbing, but she gained the shelf gasping, hot of cheek, glad of eye, with her hand in Ventur's. Here they rested. The beautiful valley glittered below with its millions of wind-turned leaves bright-faced in the sun, and the mighty bridge towered heavenward crowned with blue sky. Bess, however, never rested for long. Soon she was exploring, and Ventur's followed. She dragged forth from corners and shelves a multitude of crudely fashioned and painted pieces of pottery, and he carried them. They peeped down into dark holes of the kivas, and Bess gleefully dropped a stone and waited for the long-coming hollow sound to rise. They peeped into the little globular houses like mud-wasp nests and wondered if these had been storeplaces for grain or baby-cribs or what, and they crawled into the larger houses and laughed when they bumped their heads on the low roofs, and they dug in the dust of the floors, and they brought from dust and darkness armloads of treasure which they carried to the light. Flints and stones and strange curved sticks and pottery they found, and twisted grass-rope that crumbled in their hands and bits of whitish stone which crushed a powder at a touch and seemed to vanish in the air. That white stuff was bone, said Ventur's slowly. Bones of a cliff-dweller. No, exclaimed Bess. Here's another piece. Look! Phew! Dry powdery smoke, that's bone. Then it was that Ventur's primitive childlike mood, like a savages, seeing, yet unthinking, gave way to the encroachment of civilized thought. The world had not been made for a single day's play or fancy or idle watching. The world was old. Nowhere could be gotten a better idea of its age than in this gigantic, silent tomb. The gray ashes in Ventur's hand had once been bone of a human being like himself. The pale gloom of the cave had shadowed people long ago. He saw that Bess had received the same shock, could not, in moments such as this, escape her feeling, living, thinking destiny. Burn, people have lived here, she said, with wide, thoughtful eyes. Yes, he replied. How long ago? A thousand years and more. What were they? Cliff-dwellers, men who had enemies and made their homes high out of reach. They had to fight? Yes. They fought for what? For life, for their homes, food, children, parents, for their women. Has the world changed any in a thousand years? I don't know, perhaps a little. Have men? I hope so. I think so. Things crowd into my mind, she went on, and the wistful light in her eyes told Ventures the truth of her thoughts. I've ridden the border of Utah. I've seen people, know how they live. But they must be few of all who are living. I had my books, and I studied them. But all that doesn't help me anymore. I want to go out into the big world and see it. Yet I want to stay here more. What's to become of us? Are we cliff-dwellers? We're alone here. I'm happy when I don't think. These bones that fly into dust, they make me sick and a little afraid. Did the people who lived here once have the same feelings as we have? What was the good of their living at all? They're gone. What's the meaning of it all, of us? Bess, you ask more than I can tell. It's beyond me. Only there was laughter here once, and now there's silence. There was life, and now there's death. Men cut these little steps, made these arrowheads and kneeling stones, plated the ropes we found, and left their bones to crumble in our fingers. As far as time is concerned, it might all have been yesterday. We're here today. Maybe we're higher in the scale of human beings in intelligence. But who knows? We can't be any higher in the things for which life is lived at all. What are they? Like, I suppose, relationship, friendship, love. Love. Yes, love of man for woman, love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself. She said no more. Wistfulness of glance deepened into sadness. Come, let us go, said Venters. Action brightened her. Beside him, holding his hand, she slipped down the shelf, ran down the long, steep slant of sliding stones out of the cloud of dust, and likewise out of the pale gloom. We beat the slide, she cried. The miniature avalanche cracked and roared, and rattled itself into an inert mass at the base of the incline. Yellow dust, like the gloom of the cave, but not so changeless, drifted away on the wind. The roar clapped in echo from the cliff, returned, went back, and came again to die in the hollowness. Down on the sunny terrace there was a different atmosphere. Ring and Whitey leaped around Bess. Once more she was smiling, gay, and thoughtless, with the dream mood in the shadow of her eyes. Bess, I haven't seen that since last summer. Look, said Venters, pointing to the scalloped edge of rolling purple clouds that peeped over the western wall. We're in for a storm. Oh, I hope not. I'm afraid of storms. Are you? Why? Have you ever been down in one of those walled-up pockets in a bad storm? No, now I think of it, and I haven't. Well, it's terrible. Every summer I get scared to death and hide somewhere in the dark. Storms up on the sage are bad, but nothing to what they are down here in the canyons. And in this little valley, why echoes can wrap back and forth so quick they'll split our ears. We're perfectly safe here, Bess. I know, but that hasn't anything to do with it. The truth is I'm afraid of lightning and thunder, and thunderclaps hurt my head. If we have a bad storm, will you stay close to me? Yes. When they got back to camp, the afternoon was closing, and it was exceedingly sultry. Not a breath of air stirred the aspen leaves, and when these did not quiver, the air was indeed still. The dark purple clouds moved almost imperceptibly out of the west. What have we for supper? asked Bess. Rabbit. Burn, can't you think of another new way to cook rabbit? Went on Bess with earnestness. What do you think I am? A magician? Retorted ventures. I wouldn't dare tell you. But Burn, do you want me to turn into a rabbit? There was a dark blue merry flashing of eyes and a parting of lips. Then she laughed. In that moment she was naive and wholesome. Rabbit seems to agree with you, replied ventures. You're a well and strong, and growing very pretty. Anything in the nature of compliment he had never before said to her, and just now he responded to a sudden curiosity to see its effect. Bess stared as if she had not heard a right, slowly blushed, and completely lost her poise in happy confusion. I'd better go right away, he continued, and fetched supplies from Cottonwood's. A startlingly swift change in the nature of her agitation made him reproach himself for his erotonous. No, no, don't go, she said. I didn't mean that about the rabbit. I was only trying to be funny. Don't leave me all alone. Bess, I must go sometime. Wait then. Wait till after the storms. The purple cloud bank darkened the lower edge of the setting sun, crept up and up, obscuring its fiery red heart, and finally passed over the last ruddy crescent of its upper rim. The intense dead silence awakened to a long, low, rumbling roll of thunder. Oh, cried Bess nervously. We've had big black clouds before this without rain, said ventures. But there's no doubt about that thunder. The storms are coming. I'm glad every rider on the sage will hear that thunder with glad ears. Ventures and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasks around the camp, then faced the open terrace, the valley, and the west to watch and await the approaching storm. It required keen vision to see any movement whatever in the purple clouds. By infinitesimal degrees, the dark cloud line merged upward into the golden red haze of the afterglow of sunset. A shadow lengthened from under the western wall across the valley. As straight and rigid as steel rose the delicate, spear-pointed silver spruces, the aspen leaves, by nature pendent and quivering, hung limp and heavy. No slender blade of grass moved. A gentle splashing of water came from the ravine. Then again, from out of the west, sounded the low, dull, and rumbling roll of thunder. A wave, a ripple of light, a trembling and turning of the aspen leaves, like the approach of a breeze on the water, crossed the valley from the west, and the lull and the deadly stillness and the sultry air passed away on a cool wind. The night bird of the canyon, with clear and melancholy notes, announced the twilight. And from all along the cliffs rose the faint murmur and moan and mourn of the wind singing in the caves. The bank of clouds now swept hugely out of the western sky. Its front was purple and black, with gray between. A bulging, mushrooming, vast thing instinct with storm. It had a dark, angry, threatening aspect. As if all the power of the winds were pushing and piling behind, it rolled ponderously across the sky. A red flare burned out instantaneously, flashed from the west to east, and died. Then from the deepest black of the purple cloud burst a boom. It was like the bowling of a huge boulder along the crags and ramparts, and seemed to roll on and fall into the valley to bound and bang and boom from cliff to cliff. Oh, cried Bess, with her hands over her ears. What did I tell you? Why, Bess, be reasonable, said Venters. I'm a coward. Not quite that, I hope. It's strange you're afraid. I love a storm. I tell you, a storm down in these canyons is an awful thing. I know Aldring hated storms. His men were afraid of them. There was one who went deaf in a bad storm and never could hear again. Maybe I've lots to learn, Bess. I'll lose my guess if this storm isn't bad enough. We're going to have heavy wind first, then lightning and thunder, then the rain. Let's stay out as long as we can. The tips of the cottonwoods and the oaks waved to the east, and the rings of aspens along the terraces twinkled their myriad of bright faces in fleet and glancing gleam. A low roar rose from the leaves of the forest and the spruces swished in the rising wind. It came in gusts with light breezes between. As it increased in strength, the lull shortened in length till there was a strong and steady blow all the time, and violent puffs at intervals and sudden whirling currents. The clouds spread over the valley, rolling swiftly and low, and twilight faded into a sweeping darkness. Then the singing of the wind in the caves drowned the swift roar of rustling leaves. Then the song swelled to a morning, moaning wail. Then with the gathering power of the wind, the wail changed to a shriek. Steadily the wind strengthened, and constantly the strange sound changed. The last bit of blue sky yielded to the own sweep of clouds. Like angry surf, the pale gleams of gray amid the purple of that scutting front swept beyond the eastern rampart of the valley. The purple deepened to black. Broad sheets of lightning flared over the western wall. There were not yet any ropes or zigzag streaks darting down through the gathering darkness. The storm-center was still beyond Surprise Valley. "'Listen, listen,' cried Bess, with her lips close to Vinter's ear. "'You'll hear Old Ring's knell.' "'What's that?' "'Old Ring's knell. "'When the wind blows a gale in the caves, "'it makes what the rustlers call Old Ring's knell. "'They believe it bodes his death. "'I think he believes so, too. "'It's not like any sound on earth. "'It's beginning. Listen.' "'The gale swooped down with a hollow, unearthly howl. "'It yelled and peeled and shrilled and shrieked. "'It was made up of a thousand piercing cries. "'It was a rising and a moving sound. "'Beginning at the western break of the valley, "'it rushed along each gigantic cliff, "'whistling into the caves and cracks, "'to mount in power, "'to bellow a blast through the Great Stone Bridge. "'Gone as into an engulfing roar of surging waters, "'it seemed to shoot back and begin all over again. "'It was only wind,' thought Vinter's. "'Here sped and shrieked the sculptor "'that carved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs. "'It was only a gale, but as Vinter's listened, "'as his ears became accustomed to the fury and strife, "'out of it all, or through it, or above it, "'peeled low and perfectly clear and persistently uniform, "'a strange sound that had no counterpart "'in all the sounds of the elements. "'It was not of earth or of life. "'It was the grief and agony of the gale, "'a knell of all upon which it blew. "'Black night enfolded the valley. "'Vinter's could not see his companion, "'and knew of her presence only through the tightening "'hold of her hand on his arm. "'He felt the dogs huddle closer to him. "'Suddenly the dense black vault overhead "'split asunder to a blue-white, dazzling streak of lightning. "'The whole valley lay vividly clear "'and luminously bright in his sight. "'Upreared, vast and magnificent, "'the Stone Bridge glimmered like some grand god of storm "'in the lightning's fire. "'Then all flashed black again, "'blacker than pitch, a thick, impenetrable, cold blackness. "'And there came a ripping, crashing report. "'Instantly an echo resounded with clapping crash. "'The initial report was nothing to the echo. "'It was a terrible, living, reverberating, detonating crash. "'The wall threw the sound across "'and could have made no greater roar "'if it had slipped in avalanche. "'From cliff to cliff, the echo went in crashing retort "'and banged in lessening power "'and boomed in thinner volume "'and clapped weaker and weaker "'till a final clap could not reach across the waiting cliff. "'In the pitchy darkness, ventors led Bess "'and, groping his way, by feel of hand, "'found the entrance to her cave and lifted her up. "'On the instant a blinding flash of lightning "'illumined the cave and all about him. "'He saw Bess's face, white now with dark frightened eyes. "'He saw the dogs leap up and he followed suit. "'The golden glare vanished, all was black, "'and then came the splitting crack "'and the infernal den of echoes. "'Bess shrank closer to him and closer, found his hands "'and pressed them tightly over her ears "'and dropped her face upon his shoulder "'and hid her eyes. "'Then the storm burst with a succession "'of ropes and streaks and shafts of lightning "'playing continuously, filling the valley "'with a broken radiance, "'and the cracking shots followed each other swiftly "'till the echoes blended in one fearful, deafening crash. "'Ventors looked out upon the beautiful valley, "'beautiful now as never before, "'mystic in its transparent, luminous gloom, "'weird in the quivering golden haze of lightning. "'The dark spruces were tipped with glimmering lights. "'The aspen's bent low in the winds "'as waves in a tempest at sea. "'The forest of oaks tossed wildly "'and shone with gleams of fire. "'Across the valley, the huge cavern "'of the cliff-dwellers yawned in the glare. "'Every little black window is clear as at noonday, "'but the night and the storm added to their tragedy. "'Flung arching to the black clouds, "'the great stone bridge seemed to bear the brunt of the storm. "'It caught the full fury of the rushing wind. "'It lifted its noble crown to meet the lightnings. "'Ventors thought of the eagles "'and their lofty nest in a niche under the arch. "'A driving pall of rain, black as the clouds, "'came sweeping on to obscure the bridge "'and the gleaming walls and the shining valley. "'The lightning played incessantly, "'streaking down through opaque darkness of rain. "'The roar of the wind, with its strange knell "'and the re-crashing echoes, "'mingled with the roar of the flooding rain, "'and all seemingly were deadened and drowned "'in a world of sound. "'In the dimming pale light, "'Ventors looked down upon the girl. "'She had sunk into his arms, "'upon his breast, burying her face. "'She clung to him. "'He felt the softness of her and the warmth "'and the quick heave of her breast. "'He saw the dark, slender, graceful outline of her form. "'A woman lay in his arms, and he held her closer. "'He who had been alone in the sad, "'silent watches of the night was not now "'and never must be again alone. "'He who had yearned for the touch of a hand "'felt the long tremble and the heartbeat of a woman. "'By what strange chance had she come to love him? "'By what change, by what marvel "'had she grown into a treasure?' "'No more did he listen to the rush "'and roar of the thunderstorm. "'For with the touch of clinging hands "'and the throbbing bosom, "'he grew conscious of an inward storm, "'the tingling of new chords of thought, "'strange music of unheard, joyous bells, "'sad dreams dawning to wakeful delight, "'dissolving doubt, resurging hope, "'force, fire, and freedom, "'unutterable sweetness of desire, "'a storm in his breast, a storm of real love.'" End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Riders of the Purple Sage. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Laurie Ann Walden. Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Gray. Chapter 14. West Wind. When the storm abated, Vinter sought his own cave, and late in the night, as his blood cooled, and the stirrer and throb and thrill subsided, he fell asleep. With the breaking of dawn, his eyes unclosed. The valley lay drenched in bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. The rain-washed walls glistened in the morning light. Waterfalls of many forms poured over the rims. One, a broad, lacy sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the western notch, and struck a ledge in its downward fall, to bound into a broader leap, to burst far below into white and gold and rosy mist. Vinter's prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man. "'It's a glorious morning,' said Bess, in greeting. "'Yes, after the storm, the West Wind,' he replied. "'Last night was I very much of a baby,' she asked, watching him. "'Pretty much. Oh, I couldn't help it. "'I'm glad you were afraid.' "'Why?' she asked, in slow surprise. "'I'll tell you some day,' he answered soberly. Then, around the campfire, and through the morning meal, he was silent. Afterward, he strolled thoughtfully, off alone, along the terrace. He climbed a great yellow rock, raising its crest among the spruces, and there he sat down to face the valley in the West. "'I love her.' "'A loud,' he spoke, unburdened his heart, confessed his secret. For an instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls waved, and all about him whirled with tumult within. "'I love her. I understand now.' Reviving memory of Jane Witherstein, and thought of the complications of the present, amazed him with proof of how far he had drifted from his old life. He discovered that he hated to take up the broken threads, to delve into dark problems and difficulties. In this beautiful valley he had been living a beautiful dream. Tranquility had come to him, and the joy of solitude, and interest in all the wild creatures in crannies of this incomparable valley, and love. Under the shadow of the great stone bridge, God had revealed himself to Ventures. "'The world seems very far away,' he muttered. "'But it's there, and I'm not yet done with it. Perhaps I never shall be. Only how glorious it would be to live here always, and never think again.' Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony of his wish, steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out of it all he presently evolved these things. He must go to Cottonwoods. He must bring supplies back to Surprise Valley. He must cultivate the soil and raise corn and stock. And most imperative of all, he must decide the future of the girl who loved him and whom he loved. The first of these things required tremendous effort. The last one, concerning Bess, seemed simply and naturally easy of accomplishment. He would marry her. Suddenly, as from roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten truth concerning her. It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on its hot, tearing way to his heart. She had been Aldring's masked writer. To Ventures' question, what were you to Aldring, she had answered with scarlet shame and drooping head. What do I care who she is or what she was? He cried passionately. And he knew it was not his old self speaking. It was this softer, gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts in the Quiet Valley. Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched the absence of joy and blunted the knife edge of entering jealousy. Strong and passionate effort of will, surprising to him, held back the poison from piercing his soul. Wait, wait, he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed his breast, and he might have called to the pang there. Wait, it's all so strange, so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who am I to judge her? I'll glory in my love for her. But I can't tell it, can't give up to it. Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying her was impossible in Surprise Valley, and in any village south of Stirling. Even without the masks she had once worn, she would easily have been recognized as Old Ring's writer. No man who had ever seen her would forget her, regardless of his ignorance as to her sex. Then more poignant than all other argument was the fact that he did not want to take her away from Surprise Valley. He resisted all thought of that. He had brought her to the most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands. He had taken her to the most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands. He had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom as one of the Valley Lilies. He knew her life there to be pure and sweet. She belonged to him, and he loved her. Still these were not all the reasons why he did not want to take her away. Where could they go? He feared the rustlers, he feared the riders, he feared the Mormons. And if he should ever succeed in getting best safely away from these immediate perils, he feared the sharp eyes of women in their tongues, the big outside world with its problems of existence. He must wait to decide her future, which, after all, was deciding his own. But between her future and his something hung impending. Like balancing rock, which waited darkly over the steep gorge, ready to close forever the outlet to deception pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible as fate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of the future. I've dreamed, muttered ventures as he rose. Well, why not? To dream is happiness. But let me just once see this clearly, wholly, then I can go on dreaming till the thing falls. I've got to tell Jane Witherstein. I've dangerous trips to take. I've work here to make comfort for this girl. She's mine. I'll fight to keep her safe from that old life. I've already seen her forget it. I love her. And if a beast ever rises in me, I'll burn my hand off before I lay it on her with shameful intent. And by God, sooner or later, I'll kill the man who hid her and kept her in deception pass. As he spoke, the West wind softly blew in his face. It seemed to soothe his passion. That West wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, and it carried a sweet, strange burden of far-off things, tidings of life and other climes, of sunshine asleep on other walls, of other places where reigned peace. It carried, too, sad truth of human hearts and mystery, of promise and hope unquenchable. Surprise Valley was only a little niche in the wild world whence blew that burdened wind. Best was only one of millions at the mercy of unknown motive in nature and life. Content had come to ventures in the valley. Happiness had breathed in the slow, warm air. Love, as bright as light, had hovered over the walls and descended to him. And now on the West wind came a whisper of the eternal triumph of faith over doubt. How much better I am for what has come to me, he exclaimed. I'll let the future take care of itself. Whatever falls, I'll be ready. Ventures retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp and found best in the old familiar seat, waiting and watching for his return. I went off by myself to think a little, he explained. You never looked that way before. What is it? Won't you tell me? Well, best, the fact is I've been dreaming a lot. This valley makes a fellow dream. So I forced myself to think. We can't live this way much longer. Soon I'll simply have to go to Cottonwood's. We need a whole pack train of supplies. I can get— Can you go safely? She interrupted. Why, I'm sure of it. I'll ride through the pass at night. I haven't any fear that Wrangle isn't where I left him. And once on him, best just wait till you see that horse. Oh, I want to see him, to ride him. But—But, Burn, this is what troubles me, she said. Will—Will you come back? Give me four days. If I'm not back in four days, you'll know I'm dead. For that only shall keep me. Oh! Best, I'll come back. There's danger. I wouldn't lie to you. But I can take care of myself. Burn, I'm sure—Oh, I'm sure of it. All my life I've watched hunted men. I can tell what's in them. And I believe you can ride and shoot and see with any rider of the sage. It's not—Not that I fear. Well, what is it then? Why—Why—Why should you come back at all? I couldn't leave you here alone. You might change your mind when you get to the village among old friends. I won't change my mind. As for old friends— He uttered a short, expressive laugh. Then there—there must be a—a woman. Dark Red mantled the clear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes of shame, upheld a long moment by intense straining search for the verification of her fear. Suddenly they drooped. Her head fell to her knees. Her hands flew to her hot cheeks. Bess, look here—said Venters, with a sharpness due to the violence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion. As if compelled against her will, answering to an irresistible voice, Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, and tried to whisper with tremulous lips. There's no woman, went on Venters, deliberately holding her glance with his. Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keep me away. Her face flashed and flushed with a glow of a leaping joy, but like the vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as he had never beheld her. I am nothing. I am lost. I am nameless. Do you want me to come back? He asked, with sudden stern coldness. Maybe you want to go back to Old Ring. That brought her erect, trembling in ashy pale, with dark, proud eyes and mute lips refuting his insinuation. Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. But you angered me. I intend to work, to make a home for you here, to be a brother to you as long as ever you need me. And you must forget what you are—were, I mean—and be happy. When you remember that old life, you're a bitter, and it hurts me. I was happy. I shall be very happy. Oh, you're so good that—that it kills me. If I think, I can't believe it. I grow sick with wondering why. I'm only a—let me say it—only a lost, nameless girl of the rustlers. Old Ring's girl, they called me. That you should save me, be so good and kind, want to make me happy. Why, it's beyond belief. No wonder I'm wretched at the thought of your leaving me. But I'll be wretched and bitter no more. I promise you, if only I could repay you even a little. You've repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me? Believe you, I couldn't do else. Then listen, saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valley with you, I've found myself. I've learned to think while I was dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what you say about yourself. I can't explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you've suffered, God holds you blameless. I see that, feel that in you, every moment you are near me. I have a mother and a sister way back in Illinois. If I could, I'd take you to them, to-morrow. If it were true, oh, I might—I might lift my head, she cried. Lift it then, you child, for I swear it's true. She did lift her head with a singular wild grace always a part of her actions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which always tortured Venters, but now with something more, a spirit rising from the depths that linked itself to his brave words. I've been thinking too, she cried, with quivering smile and swelling breast. I've discovered myself too. I'm young, I'm alive, I'm so full, oh, I'm a woman. Best, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery before you, Venters said, and laughed. Oh, there's more, there's something I must tell you. Tell it then. When will you go to Cottonwood's? As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them. I'll tell you before you go. I can't now, I don't know how I shall then. But it must be told. I'd never let you leave me without knowing. For in spite of what you say, there's a chance you mightn't come back. Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after day the clouds clustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sang and the caves rang with old rings knell, and the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, the echoes crashed and crashed, and the rains flooded the valley. Wild flowers sprang up everywhere, swaying with the lengthening grass on the terraces. Smiling wandily from shady nooks, peeping wondrously from year-dry crevices of the walls. The valley bloomed into a paradise. Every single moment, from the breaking of the gold bar through the bridge at dawn, on to the reddening of rays over the western wall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick, transparent haze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in the twilight. At the end of every storm a rainbow curved down into the leaf-bright forest to shine and fade and leave lingeringly some faint essence of its rosy iris in the air. Ventures walked with best once more in a dream, and watched the lights change on the walls and face the wind from out of the west. Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings, youth in the shady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow-style, bathers in the booming surf, sweet idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes, everywhere in far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips, from all the world tidings of unquenchable love. Often in these hours of dreams he watched the girl and asked himself of what was she dreaming. For the changing light of the valley reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in the changing light of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more than he saw in his dreams. He saw thought and soul and nature, strong vision of life. All tidings the west wind blew from distance and age he found deep in those dark blue deaths and found them mystery solved. Under their wistful shadow he softened and in the softening felt himself grow a sadder, a wiser and a better man. While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full, teaching him a man's part, the days passed, the purple clouds changed to white and the storms were over for that summer. I must go now, he said. When, she asked, at once, tonight. I'm glad the time has come, it dragged at me. Go, for you'll come back the sooner. Late in the afternoon as the ruddy sun split its last flame in the ragged notch of the western wall, Bess walked with ventures along the eastern terrace up the long weathered slope under the great stone bridge. They entered the narrow gorge to climb around the fence long before built there by ventures. Farther than this she had never been. Twilight had already fallen in the gorge. It brightened a waning shadow in the wider ascent. He showed her balancing rock, of which he had often told her, and explained its sinister leaning over the outlet. Shuddering she looked down the long pale incline with its closed end toppling walls. What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here? I did, surely, replied he. It frightens me somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. I'd ride anywhere a horse could go and climb where he couldn't. But there's something fearful here. I feel as if the place was watching me. Look at this rock. It's balanced here, balanced perfectly. You know I told you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock and why. But they're gone and the rock waits. Can't you see, feel how it waits here? I moved it once, and I'll never dare again. A strong heave would start it. Then it would fall and bang and smash that crag, and jar the walls and close forever the outlet to deception pass. Ah, when you come back, I'll steal up here and push and push with all my might to roll the rock and close forever the outlet to the pass. She said it lightly, but in the undercurrent of her voice was a heavier note, a ring deeper than any ever-given mere play of words. Bess, you can't dare me. Wait till I come back with supplies. Then roll the stone. I was in fun. Her voice now throbbed low. Always you must be free to go when you will. Go now. This place presses on me, stifles me. I'm going, but you had something to tell me? Yes, will you come back? I'll come if I live. But, but you mightn't come? That's possible, of course. It'll take a good deal to kill me. A man couldn't have a faster horse or keener dog. And Bess, I've guns and I'll use them if I'm pushed. But don't worry. I've faith in you. I'll not worry until after four days. Only, because you mightn't come, I must tell you. She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great glowing earnest eyes, seemed to stand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. The dog whined, breaking the silence. I must tell you, because you mightn't come back, she whispered. You must know what, what I think of your goodness, of you. Always I've been tongue-tied. I seemed not to be grateful. It was deep in my heart. Even now, if I were other than I am, I couldn't tell you. But I'm nothing, only a rustler's girl. Nameless, infamous. You saved me. And I'm, I'm yours to do with as you like. With all my heart and soul, I love you. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 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. In the cloudy, threatening, waning summer days, shadows lengthened down the sage slope, and Jane Witherstein likened them to the shadows gathering and closing in around her life. Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no known relative. Jane's love redoubled. It was the saving brightness of a darkening hour. Fay turned now to Jane in childish worship, and Jane at last found full expression for the mother longing in her heart. Upon Lasseter, too, Mrs. Larkin's death had some subtle reaction. Before, he had often, without explanation, advised Jane to send Fay back to any Gentile family that would take her in. Passionately, and reproachfully, and wonderingly, Jane had refused even to entertain such an idea. And now Lasseter never advised it again, grew sadder and quieter in his contemplation of the child, and infinitely more gentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold, inexplicable sensation of dread when she saw Lasseter watching Fay. What did the Rotter see in the future? Why did he, day by day, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in prophetic assurance of something to be? No doubt Jane thought the Rotter and his almost superhuman power of foresight saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening shadows that were soon to crowd and gloom over him and her and little Fay. Jane Witherstein awaited the long deferred breaking of the storm with a courage and embittered calm that had come to her in her extremity. Hope had not died. Doubt and fear, subservient to her will, no longer gave her sleepless nights and tortured days. Love remained. All that she had loved she now loved the more. She seemed to feel that she was defiantly flinging the welp of her love in the face of misfortune and of hate. No day passed but she prayed for all, and most fervently for her enemies. It troubled her that she had lost or had never gained the whole control of her mind. In some measure reason and wisdom and decision were locked in a chamber of her brain, awaiting a key. Power to think of some things was taken from her. Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly to deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into her heart. On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the court for lassiter, heard a clear-ringing report of a rifle. It came from the grove, somewhere toward the corrals. Jane glanced out in alarm. The day was dull, windless, soundless. The leaves of the cottonwood strooped as if they had foretold the doom of Witherstein House and were now ready to die and drop and decay. Never had Jane seen such shade. She pondered on the meaning of the report. Revolver shots had, of late, cracked from different parts of the grove, spies taking snapshots at Lassiter from a cowardly distance. But a rifle report meant more. Writers seldom used rifles. Judkind's inventors were the exceptions she called to mind. Had the men who hounded her hidden in her grove taken to the rifle to rid her of Lassiter, her last friend? It was probable, it was likely, and she did not share his cool assumption that his death would never come at the hands of a Mormon. Long had she expected it. His constancy to her, his singular reluctance to use the fatal skill for which he was famed, both now plain to all Mormons, laid him open to inevitable assassination. Yet what charm against ambush and aim and enemy he seemed to bear about him? No, Jane reflected. It was not charm, only a wonderful training of eye and ear and sense of impending peril. Nevertheless, that could not forever avail against secret attack. That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention, then the familiar clinking accompaniment of a soft, slow, measured step, and Lassiter walked into the court. Jane, there's a fellow out there with a long gun, he said, and removing his sombrero showed his head bound in a bloody scarf. I heard the shot. I knew it was meant for you. Let me see. You can't be badly injured? I reckon not. But maybe it wasn't a close call. I'll sit here in this corner where nobody can see me from the grove. He untied the scarf and removed it to show a long, bleeding furrow above his left temple. It's only a cut, said Jane. But how it bleeds. Hold your scarf over it just a moment till I come back. She ran into the house and returned with bandages, and while she bathed and dressed the wound Lassiter talked. That fellow had a good chance to get me, but he must have flinched when he pulled the trigger. As I dodged down I saw him run through the trees. He had a rifle. I've been expecting that kind of gunplay. I reckon now I'll have to keep a little closer hid myself. These fellows all seem to get chilly or shaky when they draw a bead on me, but one of them might just happen to hit me. Won't you go away? Leave Cottonwoods as I've begged you to. Before someone does happen to hit you? She appealed to him. I reckon I'll stay. But oh, Lassiter, your blood will be on my hands. See here, lady, look at your hands now, right now. Aren't they fine, firm, white hands? Aren't they bloody now? Lassiter's blood. That's a queer thing to stain your beautiful hands. But if you could only see deeper, you'd find a redder color of blood. Heart color, Jane. Oh, my friend. No, Jane. I'm not one to quit when the game grows hot, no more than you. This game, though, is new to me, and I don't know the moves yet, else I wouldn't have stepped in front of that bullet. Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you, to find him and kill him? Well, I reckon I haven't any great hankering for that. Oh, the wonder of it. I knew. I prayed. I trusted. Lassiter, I almost gave all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God, and thank you, my friend. But, selfish woman that I am, this is no great test. What's the life of one of those sneaking cowards to such a man as you? I think of your great hate toward him who—I think of your life's implacable purpose. Can it be—? Wait, listen, he whispered. I hear a hausse. He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head, and, swinging his gun sheathes round in front, he stepped into the alcove. It's a hausse, coming fast, he added. Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharp difference when the horse passed from the sage trail to the hard-packed ground of the grove. It became a ringing run, swift in its bell-like clatterings, yet singular and longer paws than usual between the hoofbeats of a horse. It's wrangle, it's wrangle! cried Jane Witherstein. I'd know him from a million horses. Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Witherstein's calm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. Then he was pounding down the lane, thundering into the court, crashing his great iron-shot hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was, surely, but shaggy and wild-eyed and sage-streaked, with dust-caped lather staining his flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leaped off through the bridle and held hard on a lasso looped round Wrangle's head and neck. Jane's heart sank as she tried to recognize Venter's in the rider. Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this bearded, long-haired, unkempt man who wore ragged clothes patched with pieces of skin and boots that showed bare legs and feet, this dusty, dark and wild rider could not possibly be Venter's. Whoa, Wrangle, old boy. Come down. Easy now. So, so, so. You're home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water, you'll remember. In the voice, Jane knew the rider to be Venter's. He tied Wrangle to the hitching rack and turned to the court. Oh, Byrne, you wild man, she exclaimed. Jane, Jane, it's good to see you. Hello, Lassiter. Yes, it's Venter's. Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt the difference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn, yet house-splendid. He had gone away a boy, he had returned a man. He appeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper chested, more powerfully built. But was that only her fancy, had he always been a young giant? Was the change one of spirit? He might have been absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grown like Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes, were they keener, more flashing than before, met hers with clear, frank, warm regard in which perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain. Look at me long as you like, he said with a laugh. I'm not much to look at. And Jane, neither you nor Lassiter can brag. You're paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter here he wears a bloody bandage under his hat. That reminds me, someone took a flying shot at me down in this age. It made Wrangle run some. Well, perhaps you've more to tell me than I've got to tell you. Briefly, in a few words, Jane outlined the circumstances of her undoing in the weeks of his absence. Under his beard and bronze she saw his face whiten in terrible wrath. Lassiter, what held you back? No time in the long period of fiery moments and sudden shocks had Jane Witherstein ever beheld Lassiter as calm and serene and cool as then. Jane had gloom enough without my addon to it by shooting up the village, he said. As strange as Lassiter's coolness was Vinter's curious, intense scrutiny of them both. And under it Jane felt a flaming tide wave from bosom to temples. Well, you're right, he said, with slow pause. It surprises me a little, that's all. Jane sensed then a slight alteration in Vinter's and what it was, in her own confusion, she could not tell. It had always been her intention to acquaint him with the deceit she had fallen to in her zeal to move Lassiter. She did not mean to spare herself. Yet now at the moment before these riders it was an impossibility to explain. Vinter's was speaking somewhat haltingly, without his former frankness. I found Oldering's hiding place and your red herd. I learned, I know, I'm sure there was a deal between tall and Oldering. He paused and shifted his position and his gaze. He looked as if he wanted to say something that he found beyond him. Sorrow and pity and shame seemed to contend for mastery over him. Then he raised himself and spoke with effort. Jane, I've cost you too much. You've almost ruined yourself for me. It was wrong, for I'm not worth it. I never deserved such friendship. Well, maybe it's not too late. You must give me up. Mind, I haven't changed. I'm just the same as ever. I'll see tall while I'm here and tell him to his face. Burn, it's too late, said Jane. I'll make him believe, cried Vinter's violently. You ask me to break our friendship? Yes, if you don't, I shall. Forever? Forever. Jane sighed. Another shadow had lengthened down the sage slope to cast further darkness upon her. A melancholy sweetness pervaded her resignation. The boy who had left her had returned a man, nobler, stronger, one in whom she'd divine something unbending as steel. There might come a moment later when she would wonder why she had not fought against his will, but just now she yielded to it. She liked him as well. Nay, more, she thought, only her emotions were deadened by the long, menacing wait for the bursting storm. Once before she had held out her hand to him when she gave it. Now she stretched it tremblingly forth in acceptance of the decree circumstance had laid upon them. Vinter's bowed over it, kissed it, pressed it hard, and half stifled the sound very like a sob. Certain it was that when he raised his head, tears glistened in his eyes. Some women have a hard lot, he said huskily. Then he shook his powerful form, and his rags lashed about him. I'll say a few things to Tull when I meet him. Burn, you'll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be the burn, you'll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be, promise me. I promise you this, he interrupted, in stern passion that thrilled while it terrorized her. If you say one more word for that plotter, I'll kill him as I would a mad coyote. Jane clasped her hands. Was this fire-eyed man the one whom she had once made as wax to her touch? Had Vinter's become Lassiter, and Lassiter, Vinter's? I'll say no more, she faltered. Jane, Lassiter once called you blind, said Vinter's. It must be true, but I won't up-brage you. Only don't rouse the devil in me by praying for Tull. I'll try to keep cool when I meet him, that's all. Now there's one more thing I want to ask of you, the last. I found a valley down in the pass. It's a wonderful place. I intend to stay there. It's so hidden I believe no one can find it. There's good water and brows and game. I want to raise corn and stock. I need to take in supplies. Will you give them to me? Assuredly, the more you take the better you'll please me, and perhaps the less my enemies will get. Vinter's, I reckon you'll have trouble packing anything away, put in Lassiter. I'll go at night. Maybe that wouldn't be best. You'd sure be stopped. You'd better go early in the morning, say, just after dawn. That's the safest time to move round here. Lassiter, I'll be hard to stop, returned Vinter's darkly. I reckon so. Burn, said Jane, go first to the rider's quarters and get yourself a complete outfit. You're a sight. Then help yourself to whatever else you need. Burrows, packs, grain, dried fruits, and meat. You must take coffee and sugar and flour, all kinds of supplies. Don't forget corn and seeds. I remember how you used to starve. Please, please take all you can pack away from here. I'll make a bundle for you, which you mustn't open till you're in your valley. How I'd like to see it. To judge by you and wrangle, how wild it must be. Jane walked down into the outer court and approached the sorrel. Upstarting, he laid back his ears and eyed her. Wrangle, dear old wrangle, she said, and put a caressing hand on his matted mane. Oh, he's wild, but he knows me. Burn, can he run as fast as ever? Run? Jane, he's done sixty miles since last night at dark, and I could make him kill Blackstar right now in a ten-mile race. He never could, protested Jane. He couldn't even if he was fresh. I reckon maybe the best horse will prove himself yet, said Lassiter. And Jane, if it ever comes to that race, I'd like you to be on wrangle. I'd like that, too, rejoined Venters. But Jane, maybe Lassiter's hint is extreme. Bad as your prospects are, you'll surely never come to the running point. Who knows, she replied, with mournful smile. No, no, Jane, it can't be so bad as all that. Soon as I see tall there'll be a change in your fortunes. I'll hurry down to the village. Now, don't worry. Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter's subtle forecasting of disaster, Venters forced optimism, neither remained in mind. Material loss weighed nothing in the balance with other losses she was sustaining. She wandered dully at her sitting there, hands folded listlessly, with a kind of numb deadness to the passing of time and the passing of her riches. She thought of Venters' friendship. She had not lost that, but she had lost him. Lassiter's friendship, that was more than love. It would endure, but soon he, too, would be gone. Little Fay slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming over the pillow. Jane had the child's worship. Would she lose that, too? And if she did, what then would be left? Conscience thundered at her that there was left her religion. Conscience thundered that she should be grateful on her knees for this baptism of fire that through misfortune, sacrifice, and suffering her soul might be fused pure gold. But the old, spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exalted her. She wanted to be a woman, not a martyr. Like the saint of old who mortified his flesh, Jane Witherstein had in her the temper for heroic martyrdom. If by sacrificing herself she could save the souls of others. But here the damnable verdict blistered her that the more she sacrificed herself, the blacker grew the souls of her churchmen. There was something terribly wrong with her soul, something terribly wrong with her churchmen and her religion. In the whirling gulf of her thought there was yet one shining light to guide her, to sustain her in her hope. And it was that, despite her errors and her frailties and her blindness, she had one absolute and unfaltering hold on ultimate and supreme justice. That was love. Love your enemies as yourself was a divine word entirely free from any church or creed. Jane's meditations were disturbed by Lassiter's soft, tinkling step in the court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always he was in readiness to ride. She passed out and called him into the huge, dim hall. I think he'll be safer here. The court is too open, she said. I reckon, replied Lassiter, and it's cooler here. The day is sure muggy. Well, I went down to the village with Venters. Already? Where is he? queried Jane in quick amaze. He's at the corrals. Blake's helping him get the burrows and packs ready. That Blake is a good fellow. Did, did Byrne meet Tall? I guess he did, answered Lassiter, and he laughed dryly. Tell me. Oh, you exasperate me. You're so cool, so calm. For heaven's sake, tell me what happened. First time I've been in the village for weeks, went on Lassiter mildly. I reckon there ain't been more of a show for a long time. Me and Venters walking down the road. It was funny. I ain't sayin' anybody was particularly glad to see us. I'm not much thought of hereabouts. And Venters, he sure looks like what you called him, a wild man. Well, there was some runnin' of folks before we got to the stores. Then everybody vamoosed except some surprised rustlers in front of a saloon. Venters went right in the stores and saloons, and of course I went along. I don't know which tickled me the most, the actions of many fellers we met, or Venters' nerve. Jane, I was downright glad to be along. You see, that sort of thing is my element, and I've been away from it for a spell. But we didn't find Tall in one of them places. Some Gentile feller at last told Venters he'd find Tall in that long building next to Parsons Store. It's a kind of meetin' room, and sure enough, when we peeped in, it was half full of men. Venters yelled, Don't anybody pull guns, we ain't come for that. Then he trapped in, and I was some put to keep alongside him. There was a hard, scrapin' sound defeat, a loud cry, and then some whisperin', and after that stillness you could cut with a knife. Tall was there, and that fat party who once tried to throw a gun on me, and other important-lookin' men, and that little frog-legged feller who was with Tall the day I rode in here. I wish you could have seen their faces, especially Tall's and the fat parties. But there ain't no use of me trying to tell you how they looked. Well, Venters and I stood there in the middle of the room with that batch of men all in front of us, and not a blamed one of them winked an eyelash or moved a finger. It was natural, of course, for me to notice many of them packed guns. That's a way of mine, first noticing them things. Venters spoke up, and his voice sort of chilled and cut, and he told Tall he had a few things to say. Here Lassiter paused while he turned his sombrero round and round in his familiar habit, and his eyes had the look of a man seeing over again some thrilling spectacle, and under his red bronze there was strange animation. Like a shot, then, Venters told Tall that the friendship between you and him was all over, and he was leaving your place. He said you'd both of you broken off in the hope of propitiating your people, but you hadn't changed your mind otherwise and never would. Next he spoke up for you. I ain't gonna tell you what he said. Only no other woman who ever lived had such tribute. You had a champion, Jane, and never fear that those thick-skulled men don't know you now. It couldn't be otherwise. He spoke the ringing, lightning truth. Then he accused Tall of the underhand, miserable robbery of a helpless woman. He told Tall where the red herd was, of a deal made with Aldring, that Jerry Card had made the deal. I thought Tall was going to drop, and that little frog-legged cuss. He looked some limp and white. But Venters' voice would have kept anybody's legs from buckling. I was stiff myself. He went on and called Tall—called him every bad name ever known to a rider, and then some. He cursed Tall. I never hear a man get such a cursing. He laughed in scorn at the idea of Tall being a minister. He said Tall and a few more dogs of hell builded their empire out of the hearts of such innocent and god-fearing women as Jane Witherstein. He called Tall a binder of women, a callous beast who hid behind a mock mantel of righteousness, and the last and lowest coward on the face of the earth. To pray on weak women through their religion, that was the last unspeakable crime. Then he finished, and by this time he had almost lost his voice. But his whisper was enough. Tall, he said, she begged me not to draw on you today. She would pray for you if you burned her at the stake. But listen, I swear, if you and I ever come face to face again, I'll kill you. We backed out of the door then, and up the road. But nobody followed us. Jane found herself weeping passionately. She had not been conscious of it till Lasseter ended his story, and she experienced exquisite pain and relief in shedding tears. Long had her eyes been dry, her grief deep. Long had her emotions been dumb. Lasseter's story put her back on the rack. Calling nature of Venter's act in speech had no parallel as an outrage. It was worse than bloodshed. Men like Tall had been shot, but had one ever been so terribly denounced in public? Overmountain her horror, an uncontrollable, quivering passion took her very soul. It was sheer human glory in the deed of a fearless man. It was hot, primitive instinct to live, to fight. It was a kind of mad joy in Venter's chivalry. It was close to the wrath that had first shaken her in the beginning of this war waged upon her. Well, well, Jane, don't take it that way," said Lasseter in evident distress. I had to tell you. There's some things a feller just can't keep. It's strange you give up on hearing that when all this long time you've been the gamest woman I ever seen. But I don't know women. Maybe there's reason for you to cry. I know this. Nothing ever rang in my soul and so filled it as what Venter's did. I'd like to have done it, but I'm only good for throwing a gun, and it seems you hate that. Well, I'll be going now. Where? Venter's took wrangle to the stable, the sorrow shy as shoe, and I've got to help hold the big devil and put on another. Tell Bern to come for the pack I want to give him, and to say good-bye," called Jane as Lasseter went out. Jane passed the rest of that day in a vain endeavor to decide what and what not to put in the pack for Venter's. This task was the last she would ever perform for him, and the gifts were the last she would ever make him. So she picked and chose and rejected and chose again, and often paused in sad reverie and began again till at length she filled the pack. It was about sunset, and she and Fay had finished supper and were sitting in the court when Venter's quick steps rang on the stones. She scarcely knew him, for he had changed the tattered garments, and she missed the dark beard and long hair. Still he was not the Venter's of old. As he came up the steps she felt herself pointing to the pack and heard herself speaking words that were meaningless to her. He said good-bye, he kissed her, released her, and turned away. His tall figure blurred in her sight, grew dim through dark, streaked vision, and then he vanished. Twilight fell around Witherstein House, and dusk, and night. Little Fay slept, but Jane lay with strained, aching eyes. She heard the wind moaning in the cottonwoods, and mice squeaking in the walls. The night was interminably long, yet she prayed to hold back the dawn. What would another day bring forth? The blackness of her room seemed blacker for the sad, entering gray of morning light. She heard the chirp of awakening birds, and fancied she caught a faint clatter of hoofs. Then low, dull, distant, throbbed a heavy gun-shot. She had expected it, was waiting for it. Nevertheless an electric shock checked her heart, froze the very living fiber of her bones. That vice-like hold on her faculties apparently did not relax for a long time, and it was a voice under her window that released her. Jane, Jane, softly called lasseter. She answered somehow. It's all right, Vinter's got away. I thought maybe you'd heard that shot, and I was worried some. What was it? Who fired? Well, some fool feller tried to stop Vinter's out there in the sage, and he only stopped Lid. I think it'll be all right. I haven't seen or heard of any other fellers round. Vinter's will go through safe. And Jane, I've got Bells settled, and I'm going to trail Vinter's. Mind, I won't show myself unless he falls foul of somebody and needs me. I want to see if this place where he's going is safe for him. He says nobody can track him there. I've never seen the place yet. I couldn't track a man to. Now, Jane, you stay indoors while I'm gone and keep close watch on Faye, will you? Yes. Oh, yes. And another thing, Jane, he continued, then paused for long. Another thing, if you ain't here when I come back, if you're gone, don't fear. I'll trail you. I'll find you out. My dear Lasseter, where could I be gone, as you put it, asked Jane in curious surprise. I reckon you might be somewhere, maybe tied in an old barn or corralled in some gulch or chained in a cave. Millie earned wise till she give in. Maybe that's news to you. Well, if you're gone, I'll hunt for you. No, Lasseter, she replied, sadly and low. If I'm gone, just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded, selfish deceit you repaid with kindness and love. She heard a deep muttering curse under his breath, and then the silvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away. Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared without his usual cheer, and jurid wore a harassed look of a worn and worried man. And when Judkins put in appearance, riding a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazed expression told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words. Miss Witherstine, I have to report loss of the white herd, said Judkins, hoarsely. Come, sit down, you look played out, replied Jane solicitously. She brought him brandy and food, and while he partook of refreshments, of which he appeared badly in need, she asked no questions. No one rider could have done more, Miss Witherstine. He went on presently. Judkins, don't be distressed. You've done more than any other rider. I've long expected to lose the white herd. It's no surprise. It's in line with other things that are happening. I'm grateful for your service. Miss Witherstine, I knew how you'd take it. But if anything, that makes it harder to tell. You see, a feller wants to do so much for you, and I'd got fond of my job. We led the herd a ways off to the north of the break in the valley. There was a big level, and pools of water, and tip-top brows. But the cattle was in a high, nervous condition. Wild as wild as antelope. You see, they'd been so scared they never slept. I ain't going to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off out there in the sage. But there wasn't a day for weeks that the herd didn't get started to run. We all has managed to ride them close and drive them back and keep them bunched. Honest, Miss Witherstine, them steers was thin. They was thin when water and grass was everywhere. Thin at this season, that'll tell you how your steers was pestered. For instance, one night a strange running streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak was a coyote with an oiled and blazing tail. For I shot it and found out. We had hell with the herd that night, and if the sage and grass hadn't been wet, we, horses, steers and all, would have burned up. But I said I wasn't going to tell you any of the tricks. Strange now, Miss Witherstine, when the stampede did come, it was from natural calls, just a whirling devil of dust. You've seen the like often. And this wasn't no big whirl, for the dust was mostly settled. It had dried out in a little swale, and ordinarily no steer would ever have run for it. But the herd was nervous and wild. And just as Lassiter said, when that bunch of white steers got to move in, they was as bad as buffalo. I've seen some buffalo stampedes back in Nebraska, and this fault of the steers was the same kind. I tried to mill the herd just as Lassiter did, but I wasn't equal to it, Miss Witherstine. I don't believe the rider lives who could have turned that herd. We kept along of the herd for miles, and more than one of my boys tried to get the steers a millen. It wasn't no use. We got off level ground, going down, and then the steers ran something fierce. We left the little gullies and washes level full of dead steers. Finally, I saw the herd was making to pass a kind of low pocket between ridges. There was a hogback, as we used to call them, a pile of rocks sticking up, and I saw the herd was going to split round it, or swing out to the left. And I wanted them to go to the right, so maybe we'd be able to drive them into the pocket. So, with all my boys except three, I rode hard to turn the herd a little to the right. We couldn't budge them. They went on and split round the rocks, and the most of them was turned sharp to the left by a deep wash we hadn't seen, had no chance to see. The other three boys, Jimmy Vale, Joe Willis, and that little Karen's boy, a nervy kid, they, with Karen's leading, tried to buck that herd round to the pocket. It was a wild, full idea. I couldn't do nothing. The boys got hemmed in between the steers and the wash that they hadn't no chance to see either. Vale and Willis was run down right before our eyes. And Karen's, who rode a fine horse, he did some riding I never seen equalled, and would have beat the steers if there had been any room to run in. I was high up and could see how the steers kept spilling by twos and threes over into the wash. Karen's put his horse to a place that was too wide for any horse, and broke his neck and the horses too. We found that out after, and as for Vale and Willis, two thousand steers ran over the poor boys. There wasn't much left to pack home for Barriain. And Ms. Witherstein, that all happened yesterday, and I believe if the white herd didn't run over the wall of the pass, it's running yet. On the morning of the second day, after Judkin's recital, during which time Jane remained indoors, a prey to regret and sorrow for the boy-riders, and a new and now strangely insistent fear for her own person, she again heard what she had missed more than she dared honestly confess, the soft, jingling step of Lassiter. Almost overwhelming relief surged through her, a feeling as akin to joy as any she could have been capable of in those gloomy hours of shadow, and one that suddenly stunned her with the significance of what Lassiter had come to mean to her. She had begged him for his own sake to leave Cottonwood's. She might yet beg that if her weakening courage permitted her to dare absolute loneliness and helplessness, but she realized now that if she were left alone, her life would become one long, hideous nightmare. When his soft steps clinked into the hall, an answer to her greeting, and his tall, black-garbed form filled the door, she felt an inexpressible sense of immediate safety. In his presence she lost her fear of the dim passageways of Witherstein House and of every sound. Always it had been that when he entered the court or the hall, she had experienced a distinctly sickening but gradually lessening shock at sight of the huge black gun swinging at his sides. This time the sickening shock again visited her. It was, however, because a revealing flash of thought told her that it was not alone Lassiter who was thrillingly welcome, but also his fatal weapons. They meant so much. How she had fallen, how broken and spiritless must she be to have still the same old horror of Lassiter's guns and his name, yet feel somehow a cold shrinking protection in their law and might and use. Did you trail Vinter's? Find his wonderful valley? She asked, eagerly. Yes, and I reckon it's sure a wonderful place. Is he safe there? That's been bothering me some. I tracked him, and part of the trail was the hardest I ever tackled. Maybe there's a rustler or somebody in this country who's as good at tracking as I am. If that's so, Vinter's ain't safe. Well, tell me all about Byrne and his valley. To Jane's surprise Lassiter showed disinclination for further talk about his trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. Jane reflected that 120 miles, with probably a great deal of climbing on foot all in three days, was enough to tire any rider. Moreover it presently developed that Lassiter had returned in a mood of singular sadness and preoccupation. She put it down to a moodiness over the loss of her white herd and the now precarious condition of her fortune. Several days passed, and as nothing happened Jane's spirits began to brighten. Once in her musings she thought that this tendency of hers to rebound was as sad as it was futile. Meanwhile she had resumed her walks through the grove with little fay. One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen the slope since the beginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a rich deep purple. There was a high wind blowing, and the sage tossed and waved and colored beautifully from light to dark. Clouds scuttered across the sky, and their shadows sailed darkly down the sunny slope. Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to the stables, and she had scarcely entered the great open space with its corrals and sheds when she saw Lassiter hurriedly approaching. Faye broke from her and, running to a corral fence, began to pat and pull the long hanging ears of a drowsy burrow. One look at Lassiter armed her for a blow. Without a word he led her across the wide yard to the rise of the ground upon which the stable stood. Jane looked, he said, and pointed to the ground. Jane glanced down and again, and upon steadier vision made out splotches of blood on the stones, and broad smooth marks in the dust leading out toward the sage. What made these? she asked. I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where there was hausses in the sage. Dead or wounded men? I reckon. Jane, are you strong? Can you bear up? His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyes, suddenly she could no longer look into them. Strong? she echoed, trembling. I will be. Up on the stone-flag-drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shot hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever-growing firmer. Where's Blake, and... and Jerd? she asked, haltingly. I don't know where Jerd is, bolted most likely, replied Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door. But Blake, poor Blake, he's gone forever. Be prepared, Jane. With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung and empty and discharged shells scattered near. Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white, dead, one hand clutching a gun, and the other twisted in his bloody blouse. Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers, Blake killed some of them, said Lassiter. Thieves? whispered Jane. I reckon. Hoss thieves. Look. Lassiter waved his hand toward the stalls. The first stall, Bell's stall, was empty. All the stalls were empty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone. Blackstar was gone. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 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 16 Gold As Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters went through safely, and after a toilsome journey reached the peaceful shelter of Surprise Valley. When finally he lay wearily down under the silver spruces, resting from the strain of dragging packs and burrows up the slope and through the entrance to Surprise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time went in regretting that he had not been frank with his loyal friend Jane Witherstein. But he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more face to face with her and had been shocked at the change in her and had heard the details of her adversity, he had not had the heart to tell her of the closer interest which had entered his life. He had not lied, yet he had kept silence. Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies in the outfit he had packed from Cottonwoods. He had certainly brought a hundred times more than he had gone for, enough surely for years, perhaps to make permanent home in the valley. He saw no reason why he need ever leave there again. After a day of rest he recovered his strength and shared Bess's pleasure in rummaging over the endless packs and began to plan for the future. In this planning his trip to Cottonwoods with its revived hate of tall and consequent unleashing of fierce passions soon faded out of mind. By slower degrees his friendship for Jane Witherstein and his contrition drifted from the active preoccupation of his present thought to a place in memory with more and more infrequent recalls. And as far as the state of his mind was concerned, upon the second day after his return the valley with its golden hues and purple shades, the speaking west wind and the cool silent night, and Bess's watching eyes with their wonderful light so wrought upon ventures that he might never have left them at all. That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered him upon beginning, though it in no wise checked his delight, and that in the multiplicity of tasks planned to make a paradise out of the valley he could not choose the one with which to begin. He had to grow into the habit of passing from one dreamy pleasure to another, like a bee going from flower to flower in the valley, and he found this wandering habit likely to extend to his labours. Nevertheless he made a start. At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable help in some ways and a very great hindrance in others. Her excitement and joy were spurs, inspirations, but she was utterly impracticable in her ideas, and she flitted from one plan to another with bewildering vacillation. Moreover he fancied that she grew more eager, youthful, and sweet, and he marked that it was far easier to watch her and listen to her than it was to work. Therefore he gave her tasks that necessitated her going often to the cave where he had stored his packs. Upon the last of these trips, when he was some distance down the terrace and out of sight of camp, he heard a scream, and then the sharp barking of the dogs. For an instant he straightened up, amazed. Danger for her had been absolutely out of his mind. She had seen a rattlesnake or a wildcat. Still she would not have been likely to scream at sight of either, and the barking of the dogs was ominous. Dropping his work he dashed back along the terrace. Upon breaking through a clump of aspens he saw the dark form of a man in the camp. Cold, then hot, ventures burst into frenzied speed to reach his guns. He was cursing himself for a thoughtless fool when the man's tall form became familiar and he recognized Lasseter. Then the reversal of emotions changed his run to a walk. He tried to call out, but his voice refused to carry. When he reached camp there was Lasseter staring at the white-faced girl. By that time Ring and Whitey had recognized him. Hello, ventures. I'm making you a visit, said Lasseter slowly. And I'm some surprise to see you've a young feller for company. One glance had sufficed for the keen rider to read Besse's real sex, and for once his cool calm had deserted him. He stared till the white of Besse's cheeks flared into crimson. That, if it were needed, was the concluding evidence of her femininity, for it went fittingly with her sun-tinted hair and darkened, dilated eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, and the striking symmetry of her slender shape. Heaven's Lasseter, panted ventures, when he called his breath. What relief it's only you! How, in the name of all that's wonderful, did you ever get here? I trailed you. We, I, wanted to know where you was, if you had a safe place. So I trailed you. Trailed me, cried ventures, bluntly. I reckon it was some of a job after I got to them smooth rocks. I was all day tracking you up to them little cut steps in the rock. The rest was easy. Where's your horse? I hope you hid him. I tied him in them queer cedars down on the slope. He can't be seen from the valley. That's good. Well, well, I'm completely dumbfounded. It was my idea that no man could track me in here. I reckon that if there's a tracker in these uplands as good as me, he can find you. That's bad. That'll worry me. But, Lasseter, now you're here. I'm glad to see you. And, and my companion here is not a young fellow. Bess, this is a friend of mine. He saved my life once. The embarrassment of the moment did not extend to Lasseter. Almost at once, his manner, as he shook hands with Bess, relieved ventures and put the girl at ease. After ventures' words, and one quick look at Lasseter, her agitation stilled. And, though she was shy, if she were conscious of anything out of the ordinary in the situation, certainly she did not show it. I reckon I'll only stay a little while, Lasseter was saying. And if you don't mind troubling, I'm hungry. I fetch some biscuits along, but they're gone. Ventures, this place is sure the wonderfulest ever seen. Them cut steps on the slope, that outlet into the gorge. And it's like climbing up through hell into heaven to climb through that gorge into this valley. There's a queer-looking rock at the top of the passage. I didn't have time to stop. I'm wondering how you ever found this place. It's sure interesting. During the preparation and eating of dinner, Lasseter listened mostly, as was his want, and occasionally he spoke in his quaint and dry way. Ventures noted, however, that the rider showed an increasing interest in Bess. He asked her no questions and only directed his attention to her while she was occupied and had no opportunity to observe his scrutiny. It seemed to Ventures that Lasseter grew more and more absorbed in his study of Bess and that he lost his coolness in some strange, softening sympathy. Then quite abruptly he arose and announced the necessity for his early departure. He said goodbye to Bess in a voice gentle and somewhat broken and turned hurriedly away. Ventures accompanied him and they had traversed the terrace, climbed the weathered slope, and passed under the stone bridge before either spoke again. Then Lasseter put a great hand on Ventures' shoulder and wheeled him to meet a smoldering fire of gray eyes. Lasseter, I couldn't tell Jane. I couldn't, burst out Ventures, reading his friend's mind. I tried, but I couldn't. She wouldn't understand, and she has troubles enough. And I love the girl. Ventures, I reckon this beats me. I've seen some queer things in my time too. This girl, who is she? I don't know. Don't know? What is she then? I don't know that either. Oh, it's the strangest story you ever heard. I must tell you, but you'll never believe. Ventures, women were always puzzles to me. But for all that, if this girl ain't a child and is innocent, I'm no fit person to think of virtue and goodness in anybody. Are you going to be square with her? I am, so help me God. I reckoned so. Maybe my temper oughtn't led me to make sure. But man, she's a woman in all but years. She's sweeter than the sage. Lasseter, I know, I know. And the hell of it is that in spite of her innocence and charm she's not what she seems. I wouldn't want to, of course I couldn't call you a liar, Ventures, said the older man. What's more, she was Old Ring's masked rider. Ventures expected to floor his friend with that statement, but he was not in any way prepared for the shock his words gave. For an instant he was astounded to see Lasseter stunned. Then his own passionate eagerness to unbosom himself, to tell the wonderful story precluded any other thought. Son, tell me all about this, presently said Lasseter, as he seated himself on a stone and wiped his moist brow. Thereupon Ventures began his narrative at the point where he had shot the rustler and Old Ring's masked rider, and he rushed through it, telling all, not holding back even Bess's unreserved avowal of her love or his deepest emotions. That's the story, he said, concluding. I love her, though I've never told her. If I did tell her I'd be ready to marry her, and that seems impossible in this country. I'd be afraid to risk taking her anywhere, so I intend to do the best I can for her here. The longer I live the stranger life is, mused Lasseter with downcast eyes. I'm reminded of something you once said to Jane about hands in her game of life. There's that unseen hand of power, and talls a black hand, and my red one, and your indifferent one, and the girl's little brown helpless one. And Ventures, there's another one that's all wise and all wonderful. That's the hand-gotten Jane Witherstein's game of life. Your story's won to days a far clearer head than mine. I can't offer no advice, even if you ask for it. Maybe I can help you. Anyway, I'll hold Old Ring up when he comes to the village and find out about this girl. I knew the rustler years ago. He'll remember me. Lasseter, if I ever meet Old Ring, I'll kill him, cried Ventures, with sudden intensity. I reckon that'd be perfectly natural, replied the writer. Make him think Bess is dead, as she is to him and that old life. Sure, sure, son, cool down now. If you're going to begin pulling guns on tall and Old Ring, you want to be cool. I reckon, though, you'd better keep hid here. Well, I must be leaving. One thing, Lasseter, you'll not tell Jane about Bess? Please don't. I reckon not, but I wouldn't be afraid to bet that after she'd got over anger at your secrecy, Ventures, she'd be furious once in her life. She'd think more of you. I don't mind saying for myself that I think you're a good deal of a man. In the further ascent, Lasseter examined several times with the intention of saying goodbye, yet he changed his mind and kept on climbing till they reached Balancing Rock. Lasseter examined the huge rock, listened to Ventures' idea of its position and suggestion, and curiously placed a strong hand upon it. Hold on, cried Ventures. I heaved at it once and have never gotten over my scare. Well, you do seem uncommon nervous, replied Lasseter, much amused. Now, as for me, why, I always had the funniest notion to roll stones. When I was a kid I did it, and the bigger I got, the bigger stones I'd roll. Ain't that funny? Honest, even now I often get off my horse just to tumble a big stone over a precipice and watch it drop and listen to it bang and boom. I've started some slides in my time, and don't you forget it. I never seen a rock I wanted to roll as bad as this one. Wouldn't there just be roaring, crashing hell down that trail? You'd close the outlet forever, exclaimed Ventures. Well, goodbye, Lasseter. Keep my secret and don't forget me, and be mighty careful how you get out of the valley below. The Russell's Canyon isn't more than three miles up the pass. Now you've tracked me here, I'll never feel safe again. In his descent to the valley, Ventures' emotion roused a stirring pitch by the recital of his love story, quieted gradually, and in its place came a sober, thoughtful mood. All at once he saw that he was serious because he would never more regain his sense of security while in the valley. What Lasseter could do, another skillful tracker, might duplicate. Among the many riders with whom Ventures had ridden, he recalled no one who could have taken his trail at Cottonwoods and have followed it to the edge of the bare slope in the pass, let alone up that glistening, smooth stone. Lasseter, however, was not an ordinary rider. Instead of hunting cattle tracks, he had likely spent a goodly portion of his life tracking men. It was not improbable that among Old Ring's wrestlers there was one who shared Lasseter's gift for trailing, and the more Ventures dwelt on this possibility, the more perturbed he grew. Lasseter's visit, moreover, had a disquieting effect upon Bess, and Ventures fancied that she entertained the same thought as to future seclusion. The breaking of their solitude, though by a well-meaning friend, had not only dispelled all its dream and much of its charm, but had instilled a canker of fear. Both had seen the footprint in the sand. Ventures did no more work that day. Sunset and twilight gave way to night, and the canyon bird whistled its melancholy notes, and the wind sang softly in the cliffs, and the campfire blazed and burned down to red embers. To Ventures a subtle difference was apparent in all of these, or else the shadowy change had been in him. He hoped that on the morrow this slight depression would have passed away. In that measure, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Furthermore, Bess reverted to a wistful sadness that he had not observed in her since her recovery. His attempt to cheer her out of it resulted in dismal failure, and consequently in a darkening of his own mood. Hard work relieved him. Still, when the day had passed, his unrest returned. Then he set to deliberate thinking, and there came to him the startling conviction that he must leave surprise valley and take Bess with him. As a writer he had taken many chances, and as an adventurer in deception pass he had unhesitatingly risked his life, but now he would run no preventable hazard of Bess's safety and happiness, and he was too keen not to see that hazard. It gave him a pang to think of leaving the beautiful valley just when he had the means to establish a permanent and delightful home there. One flashing thought tore in hot temptation through his mind. Why not climb up into the gorge, roll balancing rock down the trail, and close forever the outlet to deception pass? That was the beast in me showing his teeth, muttered Vinter scornfully. I'll just kill him good and quick. I'll be fair to this girl if it's the last thing I do on earth. Another day went by in which he worked less and pondered more, and all the time covertly watched Bess. Her wistfulness had deepened into downright unhappiness, and that made his task to tell her all the harder. He kept the secret another day, hoping by some chance she might grow less moody, and to his exceeding anxiety she fell into far deeper gloom. Out of his own secret and the torment of it he divined that she too had a secret and the keeping of it was torturing her. As yet he had no plan thought out in regard to how or when to leave the valley, but he decided to tell her the necessity of it and to persuade her to go. Furthermore he hoped his speaking out would induce her to unburden her own mind. Vess, what's wrong with you? he asked. Nothing, she answered, with averted face. Vinter's took hold of her gently, though masterfully, forced her to meet his eyes. You can't look at me and lie, he said. Now, what's wrong with you? you're keeping something from me. Well, I've got a secret too, and I intend to tell it presently. Oh, I have a secret. I was crazy to tell you when you came back. That's why I was so silly about everything. I kept holding my secret back, gloating over it. But when Lassiter came I got an idea. That changed my mind. Then I hated to tell you. Are you going to now? Yes, yes, I was coming to it. I tried yesterday, but you were so cold. I was afraid I couldn't keep it much longer. Very well, most mysterious lady, tell your wonderful secret. You needn't laugh, she retorted, with a first glimpse of reviving spirit. I can take the laugh out of you in one second. It's a go. She ran through the spruces to the cave and returned carrying something which was manifestly heavy. Upon nearer view he saw that whatever she held with such evident importance had been bound up in a black scarf he well remembered. That alone was sufficient to make him tingle with curiosity. Have you any idea what I did in your absence? She asked. I imagine you lounged about, waiting and watching for me. He replied, smiling. I have my share of conceit, you know. You're wrong, I worked. Look at my hands. She dropped on her knees close to where he sat and carefully depositing the black bundle she held out her hands. The palms and inside of her fingers were white, puckered, and worn. Why, Bess, you've been fooling in the water, he said. Fooling? Look here. With deft fingers she spread open the black scarf and the bright sun shone upon a dull, glittering heap of gold. Gold, he ejaculated. Yes, gold, see, pounds of gold. I found it, washed it out of the stream, picked it out grain by grain, nugget by nugget. Gold, he cried. Yes, now, now laugh at my secret. For a long minute Venters gazed. Then he stretched forth a hand to feel if the gold was real. Gold, he almost shouted. Bess, there are hundreds, thousands of dollars worth here. He leaned over to her and put his hand strong and clinching now on hers. Is there more where this came from? He whispered. Plenty of it, all the way up the stream to the cliff. You know I've often washed for gold. Then I've heard the men talk. I think there's no great quantity of gold here but enough for a fortune for you. That was your secret. Yes, I hate gold, for it makes men mad. I've seen them drunk with joy and dance and fling themselves around. I've seen them curse and rave. I've seen them fight like dogs and roll in the dust. I've seen them kill each other for gold. Is that why you hated to tell me? Not altogether. Bess lowered her head. It was because I knew you'd never stay here long after you found gold. You were afraid I'd leave you? Yes. Listen, you great simple child, listen, you sweet wonderful wild blue-eyed girl. I was tortured by my secret. It was that I knew we must leave the valley. We can't stay here much longer. I didn't think how we'd get away out of the country or how we'd live if we ever got out. I'm a beggar. That's why I kept my secret. I'm poor. It takes money to make way beyond sterling. We couldn't ride horses or burrows or walk forever. So while I knew we must go I was distracted over how to go and what to do. Now we've gold. Once beyond sterling we'll be safe from rustlers. We've no others to fear. Oh, listen, Bess. Vinter's now heard his voice ringing high and sweet and he felt Bess's cold hands in his crushing grasp as she leaned toward him pale breathless. This is how much I'd leave you. You made me live again. I'll take you away, far away from this wild country. You'll begin a new life. You'll be happy. You shall see cities, ships, people. You shall have anything your heart craves. All the shame and sorrow of your life shall be forgotten as if they had never been. This is how much I'd leave you here alone, you sad-eyed girl. I love you. Didn't you know it? How could you fail to know it? I love you. I'm free. I'm a man. A man you've made. No more a beggar. Kiss me. This is how much I'd leave you here alone, you beautiful, strange, unhappy girl. But I'll make you happy. What do I care for your past? I love you. I'll take you home to Illinois, to my mother. Then I'll take you to far places. I'll make up all you've lost. Oh, I know you love me. Knew it before you told me. And it changed my life. And you'll go with me, not as my companion as you are here, nor my sister, but Bess, darling, as my wife. End of Chapter 16