 CHAPTER I A SHARP CLIP CLOP OF IRON SHOT HOOFS DEDDENED AND DIED AWAY AND CLOUDS OF YELLOW DUST DRIFTED FROM UNDER THE COTTON WOODS OUT OVER THE SAGE. JANE WITHERSTEEN GAZED DOWN THE WIDE PURPLE SLOP WITH DREAMY AND TROUBLED EYES. A ROTTER HAD JUST LEFT HER AND IT WAS HIS MESSAGE THAT HELD HER THOUGHTFUL AND ALMOST SAD, AWATING THE CHURCHMAN WHO WERE COMING TO RESENT AND ATTACK HER RIGHT TO BEFRIEND A GENTIL. SHE WONDERED IF THE UNREST AND STRIFE THAT HAD LATELY COME TO THE LITTLE VILLAGE OF COTTON WOODS WAS TO INVOLVE HER. AND THEN SHE SIDE, REMEMBERING THAT HER FATHER HAD FOUNDED THIS REMOTISTSED BORDER SETTLEMENT OF SOUTHERN Utah AND THAT HE HAD LEFT IT TO HER. SHE OWNED ALL THE GROUND AND MANY OF THE COTTAGES. WITHERSTEEN HOUSE WAS HERS AND THE GREAT RANCH WITH ITS THOUSANDS OF CATTLE AND THE SWIFTEST HORSES OF THE SAGE. TO HER BELONGED AMBER SPRING THE WATER WHICH GAVE VERDIER AND BEAUTY TO THE VILLAGE AND MADE LIVING POSSIBLE ON THAT WILD, PURPLE UPLAND WAST. SHE COULD NOT ESCAPE BEING INVOLVED BY WHATEVER BEFELL COTTON WOODS. THAT YEAR, 1871, HAD MARKED A CHANGE WHICH HAD BEEN GRADUALLY COMING IN THE LIVES OF THE PIECE-LOVING MORMONDS OF THE BORDER. GLAZE, STONE BRIDGE, STIRLING, VILLAGES TO THE NORTH, HAD RISEN AGAINST THE INVASION OF GENTILES SETTLERS AND THE FORAES OF RUSTLERS. THERE HAD BEEN OPPOSITION TO THE ONE AND FIGHTING WITH THE OTHER. AND NOW COTTON WOODS HAD BEGUN TO WAKE AND BESTER ITSELF AND GROWN HARD. JANE PRAYED THAT THE TRANQUILITY AND SWEETNESS OF HER LIFE WOULD NOT BE PERMANENTLY DISRUPTED. SHE MEANT TO DO SO MUCH MORE FOR HER PEOPLE THAN SHE HAD DONE. SHE WANTED THE SLEEPY, QUIET, PASTURAL DAYS TO LAST ALWAYS. TROUBLE BETWEEN THE MORMONDS AND GENTILES OF THE COMMUNITY WOULD MAKE HER UNHAPPY. SHE WAS MORMOND BORN, AND SHE WAS A FRIEND TO POUR AND UNFORTUNATE GENTILES. SHE WISHED ONLY TO GO ON DOING GOOD AND BEING HAPPY. AND SHE THOUGHT OF WHAT THAT GREAT RANCH MEANT TO HER. SHE LOVED IT ALL. THE GROWVE OF COTTON WOODS, THE OLD STONE HOUSE, THE AMBER TENTED WATER, AND THE DROVES OF SHAGGY, DUSTY HORSES AND MUSTANGS, THE SLEEK, CLEAN-LIMBED BLOODED RACERS, AND THE BROWSING HERDS OF CATTLE, AND THE LEAN, SUN-BROWN ROTTERS OF THE SAGE. WHILE SHE WAITED THERE, SHE FORGOT THE PROSPECT OF UNTOWARD CHANGE. THE BREY OF A Lazy Burrow broke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortingly suggestive of the drowsy farmyard and the open corrals and the green alfalfa fields. Her clear sight intensified the purple sage slope as it rolled before her. Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up to the west. Dark, lonely cedar trees, few and far between, stood out strikingly, and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Their own, up the gradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument looming dark purple and stretching its solitary mystic way, a wavering line that faded in the north. Here to the westward was the light and color and beauty. Northward the slope descended to a dim line of canyons from which rose an up-hinging of earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purple uplands with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs and gray escarpments. Here at all crept the lengthening, waning afternoon shadows. The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Witherstein to the question at hand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted and threw their bridles. They were seven in number, and tall, the leader, a tall, dark man, was an elder of Jane's church. Did you get my message? He asked, curtly. Yes, replied Jane. I sent word I'd give that rider Vinter's half an hour to come down to the village. He didn't come. He knows nothing of it, said Jane. I didn't tell him. I've been waiting here for you. Where is Vinter's? I left him in the courtyard. Here Jerry, called tall, turning to his men, take the gang and fetch Vinter's out here if you have to rope him. The dusty booted and long spurred riders clanked noisily into the grove of cotton woods and disappeared in the shade. Elder tall, what do you mean by this? demanded Jane. If you must arrest Vinter's you might have the courtesy to wait till he leaves my home, and if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It's absurd to accuse Vinter's of being mixed up in that shooting fray in the village last night. He was with me at the time. Besides he let me take charge of his guns. You're only using this as a pretext. What do you mean to do to Vinter's? I'll tell you presently, replied tall. But first tell me why you defend this worthless rider. Worthless, exclaimed Jane, indignantly. He's nothing of the kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There's not a reason why I shouldn't champion him and every reason why I should. It's no little shame to me, Elder tall, that through my friendship he has roused the enmity of my people and become an outcast. Since I owe him eternal gratitude for saving the life of little Faye. I've heard of your love for Faye Larkin and that you intend to adopt her. But Jane Witherstein the child is a Gentile. Yes, but Elder I don't love the Mormon children any less because I love a Gentile child. I shall adopt Faye if her mother will give her to me. I'm not so much against that. You can give the child Mormon teaching, said tall. But I'm sick of seeing this fellow Vinters hang around you. I'm going to put a stop to it. You've so much love to throw away on those beggars of Gentiles that I have an idea you might love Vinters. Tall spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not be brooked and with the passion of a man in whom jealousy had kindled a consuming fire. Maybe I do love him, said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir her heart. I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow, he certainly needs someone to love him. This will be a bad day for Vinters unless you deny that, returned tall, grimly. Tall's men appeared under the cotton woods and led a young man out into the lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast, but he stood tall and straight. His wide shoulders flung back with the muscles of his bound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent on tall. For the first time Jane Witherstein felt Vinters' real spirit. She wondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooled to the sobering sense of the issue at stake. Vinters, will you leave cotton woods at once and forever? Asked Tall tensely. Why, rejoined the rider. Because I order it. Vinters laughed and cooled a stain. The red leaped to Tall's dark cheek. If you don't go it means you're ruined, he said sharply. Ruin! exclaimed Vinters passionately. Haven't you already ruined me? What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses and cattle of my own. I had a good name in cotton woods. And now when I come into the village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. You trail me as if I were a rustler. I've no more to lose except my life. Will you leave Utah? Oh, I know, went on Vinters tauntingly. It galls you, the idea of beautiful Jane Witherstein being friendly to a poor Gentile. You want her all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You have use for her, and Witherstein House, and Amber Spring, and seven thousand head of cattle. Tall's hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood courted the veins of his neck. Once more will you go? No. And I'll have you whipped within an inch of your life, replied Tall harshly. I'll turn you out in this age, and if you ever come back you'll get worse. Vinters agitated face grew coldly set, and the bronze changed. Jane impulsively stepped forward. Oh, Elder Tall, she cried, you won't do that. Tall lifted a shaking finger toward her. That'll do from you. Understand you'll not be allowed to hold this boy to a friendship that's offensive to your bishop. Jane Witherstein, your father left you wealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven't yet come to see the place of Mormon women. We've reasoned with you, borne with you. We've patiently waited. We've let you have your fling, which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven't come to your senses. Now once for all, you can't have any further friendship with Vinters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leave Utah. Oh, don't whip him. It would be dastardly. He implored Jane with slow certainty of her failing courage. Tall always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she had feigned a boldness which she did not possess. He loomed up now in different guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysterious despotism she had known from childhood, the power of her creed. Vinters, will you take your whipping here, or would you rather go out in the sage? Asked Tall. He smiled a flinty smile that was more than inhuman, yet seemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam of righteousness. I'll take it here, if I must, said Vinters. But by God, Tall, you'd better kill me outright. That'll be a dear whipping for you and your praying Mormons. You'll make me another lasseter. The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tall's face, might have been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty. But there was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personal and sinister, a deep of himself, an engulfing abyss. As his religious mood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless. Elder, I repent my words, Jane faltered. The religion in her, the long habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke in her voice. Spare the boy, she whispered. You can't save him now, replied Tall stridently. Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth when suddenly there came an inward constriction, a hardening of gentle forces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all that had been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something new and unintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage slopes. Jane Witherstein loved that wild and purple wilderness. In times of sorrow it had been her strength. In happiness its beauty was her continual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, whence cometh my help? It was a prayer, as if forth from those lonely purple reaches and walls of red and clefs of blue might ride a fearless man, neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraining hand in the faces of her ruthless people. The restless movements of Tall's men suddenly quieted down. Then followed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation. Look! said one, pointing to the west. A rider! Jane Witherstein wheeled and saw a horseman silhouetted against the western sky, come riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from the left in the golden glare of the sun and had been unobserved till close at hand, an answer to her prayer. Do you know him? Does anyone know him? questioned Tall hurriedly. His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads. He's come from far, said one. That's a fine horse, said another. A strange rider. Ha! he wears black leather, added a fourth. With a wave of his hand in joining silence, Tall stepped forward in such a way that he concealed ventures. The rider reigned in his mount, and with a lithe forward slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and in as much that while performing it, the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group before him. Look! Horsely whispered one of Tall's companions. He packs two black-butted guns, low down, they're hard to see. Black again them black chaps. A gunman, whispered another, fellers, careful now about moving your hands. The stranger's slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner of gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking, yet, as well, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances with men. Hello, stranger, called Tall. No welcome was in this greeting, only a gruff curiosity. The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. The moment he closely regarded Tall and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax. Evening, ma'am, he said to Jane and removed his sombrero with quaint grace. Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctively and which riveted her attention. It had all the characteristics of the range riders, the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the set changelessness that came from years of silence and solitude. But it was not these which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, a piercing wistfulness of keen gray sight, as if the man was forever looking for that which he never found. Jane's subtle woman's intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, a secret. Jane withersteen, ma'am, he inquired. Yes, she replied. The water here is yours? Yes. May I water my horse? Certainly, there's the trough. But maybe if you knew who I was, he hesitated with his glance on the listening men. Maybe you wouldn't let me water him, though I ain't asking none for myself. Stranger, it doesn't matter who you are. Water your horse, and if you're thirsty and hungry, come into my house. Thanks, ma'am. I can't accept for myself, but for my tired horse. Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements on the part of tall's men broke up the little circle, exposing the prisoner ventors. Maybe I've kind of hindered something for a few moments, perhaps, inquired the rider. Yes, replied Jane withersteen, with a throb in her voice. She felt the drawing power of his eyes, and then she saw him look at the bound ventors and at the men who held him, and their leader. And this here country, all the rustlers, and thieves, and cutthroats, and gunthroars, and all round no good men just happen to be Gentiles. Ma'am, which of the no good class does that young feller belong to? He belongs to none of them. He's an honest boy. You know that, ma'am? Yes, yes. Then what has he done to get tied up that way? His clear and distinct question meant for tall, as well as for Jane withersteen, stilled the restlessness and brought a momentary silence. Ask him, replied Jane, her voice rising high. The rider stepped away from her, moving out with the same slow, measured stride in which he had approached, and the fact that his action placed her wholly to one side and him no nearer to tall in his men had a penetrating significance. Young feller, speak up, he said to ventors. Here, stranger, this is none of your mix. It began tall. Don't try any interference. You've been asked to drink and eat. That's more than you'd have gotten in any other village of the Utah border. What are your horse, and be on your way? Easy, easy, I ain't interfering yet, replied the rider. The tone of his voice had undergone a change. A different man had spoken, where in addressing Jane he had been mild and gentle, now with his first speech to tall he was dry, cool, fighting. I've just stumbled onto a queer deal, seven Mormons all packing guns and a Gentile tied with rope, and a woman who swears by his honesty. Queer ain't that. Queer or not, it's none of your business, retorted tall. Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrown that yet. Tull fumed between amaze and anger. Meddler, we have a law here, something different from woman's whim. Mormon law. Here you don't transgress it. To hell with your Mormon law. The deliberate speech marked the rider's further change, this time from kindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a transformation in Tull and his companions. The leader gasped and staggered backward at a blasphemous affront to an institution he held most sacred. The man Jerry, holding the horses, dropped the bridles and froze in his tracks. Like posts the other men stood watchful eyed, arms hanging rigid, all waiting. Speak up now, young man. What have you done to be roped that way? It's a damned outrage, burst out ventures. I've done no wrong. I've offended this Mormon elder by being a friend to that woman. Ma'am, is it true what he says? Asked the rider of Jane. But his quiveringly alert eyes never left the little knot of quiet men. True? Yes, perfectly true, she answered. Well, young man, it seems to me that being a friend to such a woman would be what you wouldn't want to help and couldn't help. What's to be done to you for it? They intend to whip me. You know what that means in Utah. I reckon, replied the rider, slowly. With his gray glance cold on the Mormons, with the rest of bit-champing of the horses, with Jane failing to repress her mounting agitations, with ventures standing pale and still, the tension of the moment tightened. Tull broke the spell with a laugh, a laugh without mirth, a laugh that was only a sound betraying fear. Come on, men, he called. Jane Witherstein turned again to the rider. Stranger, can you do nothing to save ventures? Ma'am, you ask me to save him from your own people? Ask you, I beg of you. But you don't dream who you're asking. Oh, sir, I pray you, save him. These are Mormons and I. Let any cost save him, for I care for him. Tull snarled. You love sick, full. Tell your secrets. There'll be a way to teach you what you've never learned. Come men, out of here. Mormon, the young man stays, said the rider. Like a shot his voice halted tall. What? Who will keep him? He's my prisoner, cried tall, hotly. Stranger, again I tell you, don't mix here. You've meddled enough. Go your way now, or— Listen, he stays. Absolute certainty beyond any shadow of doubt breathed in the rider's low voice. Who are you? We are seven here. The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular in that it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the big black gun sheaths swung around to the fore. Lasseter! It was Vinter's wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the fateful connection between the rider's singular position and the dreaded name. Tull put out a groping hand. The life of his eyes dulled to the gloom with which men of his fear saw the approach of death. But death, while it hovered over him, did not descend, for the rider waited for the twitching fingers, the downward flash of hand that did not come. All gathering himself together turned to the horses, attended by his pale comrades. CHAPTER II Vinter's appeared too deeply moved to speak the gratitude his face expressed, and Jane turned upon the rescuer and gripped his hands. Her smiles and tears seemingly dazed him. Presently as something like calmness returned, she went to Lasseter's weary horse. I will water him myself, she said, and she led the horse to a trough under a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers she loosened the bridle and removed the bit. The horse snorted and bent his head. The trough was of solid stone, hollowed out, moss-covered and green, and wet and cool, and the clear brown water that fed it spouted and splashed from a wooden pipe. He has brought you far to-day? Yes, ma'am, a matter of over sixty miles, maybe seventy. A long ride, a ride that—ah! He is blind. Yes, ma'am, replied Lasseter. What blinded him? Some men once roped and tied him, and then held white iron close to his eyes. Oh! Men, you mean devils. Were they your enemies, Mormons? Yes, ma'am. To take revenge on a horse—Lasseter, the men of my creed are unnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess it. They have been driven, hated, scourged, till their hearts have hardened. But we women hope and pray for the time when our men will soften. Begging your pardon, ma'am, that time will never come. Oh! It will. Lasseter, do you think Mormon women wicked? Has your hand been against them, too? No. I believe Mormon women are the best and noblest, the most long-suffering and the blindest, unhappiest women on earth. Ah! She gave him a grave, thoughtful look. Then you will break bread with me? Lasseter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his weight from one leg to another, and turned his sombrero round and round in his hands. Ma'am, he began presently, I reckon your kindness of heart makes you overlook things. Perhaps I ain't well known hereabouts, but back up north there's Mormons who rest uneasy in their graves at the idea of me sitting to table with you. I dare say, but will you do it anyway? She asked. Maybe you have a brother or a relative who might drop in and be offended, and I wouldn't want to. I've not a relative in Utah that I know of. There's no one with a right to question my actions. She turned smilingly to Venters. You will come in, Byrne, and Lasseter will come in. We'll eat and be merry while we may. I'm only wondering if Tull and his men will raise a storm down in the village, said Lasseter, in his last weakening stand. Yes, he'll raise the storm after he has prayed, replied Jane, come. She led the way with the bridle of Lasseter's horse over her arm. They entered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by great low-branching cotton-woods. The last rays of the setting sun sent golden bars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrast to sage-tired waves. Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a tree-top somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still air floated the freshness and murmur of flowing water. The home of Jane Witherstein stood in a circle of cotton-woods, and was a flat, long, red stone structure with a covered court in the center through which flowed a lively stream of amber-colored water. In the massive blocks of stone and heavy timbers and solid doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who had build it against pillage and time, and in the flowers and mosses lining the stone-bedded stream, in the bright colors of rugs and blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner with hammock and books and the clean linen table showed the grace of a daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand. Jane turned Lasseter's horse loose in the thick grass. You will want him to be near you, she said, or I'd have him taken to the alfalfa fields. At her call appeared women who began at once to bustle about, hurrying to and fro setting the table. Then Jane, excusing herself, went within. She passed through a huge, low-sealed chamber like the inside of a fort and into a smaller one where a bright wood fire blazed in an old open fireplace, and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort as was manifested in the home-like outer court. Moreover, it was warm and rich and soft hues. Seldom did Jane Witherstein enter her room without looking into her mirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty which since early childhood she had never been allowed to forget. Her relatives and friends, and later a horde of Mormon and Gentile suitors, had fanned the flame of natural vanity in her, so that at twenty-eight she scarcely thought at all of her wonderful influence for good in the little community where her father had left her practically its beneficent landlord, but cared most for the dream and the assurance and the allurement of her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into her glass with more than the usual happy motive, without the usual slight, conscious smile. For she was thinking of more than the desire to be fair in her own eyes, and those of her friend. She wondered if she were to seem fair in the eyes of this Lassiter, this man whose name had crossed the long, wild breaks of stone and planes of sage, this gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a killer of Mormons. It was not now her usual half-conscious vein obsession that actuated her as she hurriedly changed her riding-dress to one of white, and then looked long at the stately form with its gracious contours, at the fair face with its strong chin and full firm lips, at the dark blue, proud and passionate eyes. If by some means I can keep him here a few days a week, he will never kill another Mormon, she mused. Lassiter, I shudder when I think of that name, of him. But when I look at the man, I forget who he is. I almost like him. I remember only that he saved Byrne. He has suffered. I wonder what it was. Did he love a Mormon woman once? How splendidly he championed us poor misunderstood souls, somehow he knows much. Jane Witherstein joined her guests and bade them to her board. Dismissing her woman, she waited upon them with her own hands. It was a bountiful supper and a strange company. On her right sat the ragged and half-starved ventures, and though blind eyes could have seen what he counted for in the sum of her happiness, yet he looked the gloomy outcast his allegiance had made him, and about him there was the shadow of the ruin presaged by tall. On her left sat black leather-garbed Lassiter, looking like a man in a dream. Hunger was not with him, nor composure, nor speech, and when he twisted in frequent, unquiet movements the heavy guns that he had not removed knocked against the table legs. If it had been otherwise possible to forget the presence of Lassiter, those telling little jars would have rendered it unlikely. Jane Witherstein talked and smiled and laughed with all the dazzling play of lips and eyes that a beautiful, daring woman could summon to her purpose. When the meal ended and the men pushed back their chairs, she leaned closer to Lassiter and looked square into his eyes. Why did you come to Cottonwood's? Her questions seemed to break a spell. The writer arose as if he had just remembered himself and had harried longer than his want. Ma'am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevada for something, and through your name I learned where to find it here in Cottonwood's. My name? Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it, and from whom? At the little village, Glaze, I think it's called, some 50 miles or more west of here. And I heard it from a Gentile, a writer who said you'd know where to tell me to find— But, she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off. Millie earned's grave, he answered low, and the words came with a wrench. Ventures wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder. Millie earned's grave, she echoed in a whisper. What did you know of Millie Earn, my best beloved friend who died in my arms? What were you to her? Did I claim to be anything? He asked. I know people—relatives—who have long wanted to know where she's buried. That's all. Relatives? She never spoke of relatives except a brother who was shot in Texas. Lassiter Millie earned's grave is in a secret burying ground on my property. Will you take me there? You'll be offended Mormons worse than by breaking bread with me. Indeed, yes, but I'll do it. Only we must go unseen—tomorrow, perhaps. Thank you, Jane Witherstein, replied the writer, and he bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court. Will you not stay, sleep under my roof? She asked. No, ma'am, and thanks again. I never sleep indoors. And even if I did, there's that gathering storm in the village below. No, no, I'll go to the sage. I hope you won't suffer none for your kindness to me. Lassiter, said Ventures, with a half-bitter laugh. My bed, too, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there. Maybe so, but the sage is wide, and I won't be near. Good night. At Lassiter's low whistle the black horse whinnied and carefully picked his blind way out of the grove. The writer did not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand, and together they passed slowly into the shade of the cotton-woods. Jane, I must be off soon, said Ventures. Give me my guns. If I'd had my guns. Whether my friend or the elder of my church would be lying dead, she interposed. Tull would be, surely. Oh, you fierce-blooded savage youth, can't I teach you forbearance, mercy? Burn! It's divine to forgive your enemies. Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath. Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion after to-day. Today this strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I'll die a man. Give me my guns. Suddenly she went into the house to return with a heady cartridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle. These she handed to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him in silent eloquence. Jane, he said, in gentler voice, don't look so. I'm not going out to murder your churchman. I'll try to avoid him and all his men. But can't you see I've reached the end of my rope? Jane, you're a wonderful woman. Never was there a woman so unselfish and good. Only you're blind in one way. Listen. From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses in a rapid trot. Some of your riders, he continued, it's getting time for the night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talk there. It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading cotton woods shadows were obscuring the lanes. Ventures drew Jane off from one of these into a shrub-lined trail just wide enough for the two to walk abreast, and in a roundabout way led her far from the house to a knoll on the edge of the grove. Here in a secluded nook was a bench from which, through an opening in the treetops, could be seen the sage slope and the wall of rock and the dim lines of canyons. Jane had not spoken since Ventures had shocked her with his first harsh speech, but all the way she had clung to his arm, and now, as he stopped and laid his rifle against the bench, she still clung to him. Jane, I'm afraid I must leave you. Burn! she cried. Yes, it looks that way. My position is not a happy one. I can't feel right. I've lost all. I'll give you anything you—listen, please. When I say loss, I don't mean what you think. I mean loss of goodwill, good name—that which would have enabled me to stand up in this village without bitterness. Well it's too late. Now as to the future, I think you'd do best to give me up. Tull is implacable. You ought to see from his intention to day that—but you can't see. Your blindness, your damned religion. Jane, forgive me. I'm sore within and something rankles. Well, I fear that invisible hand will turn its hidden work to your ruin. Invisible hand, burn! I mean your bishop. Ventures said it deliberately and would not release her as she started back. She's the law. The edict went forth to ruin me. Well look at me. It'll now go forth to compel you to the will of the church. You wrong Bishop Dyer. Tull is hard, I know, but then he has been in love with me for years. Oh, your faith and your excuses. You can't see what I know and if you did see it you'd not admit it to save your life. That's the Mormon of you. These elders and bishops will do absolutely any deed to go on building up the power and wealth of their church, their empire. Think of what they've done to the Gentiles here, to me. Think of Millie Urne's fate. What do you know of her story? I know enough, all perhaps except the name of the Mormon who brought her here, but I must stop this kind of talk. She pressed his hand in response. He helped her to a seat beside him on the bench, and he respected a silence that he divined was full of woman's deep emotion beyond his understanding. It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset brightened momentarily before yielding to twilight. And for ventures the outlook before him was in some sense similar to a feeling of his future, and with searching eyes he studied the beautiful purple barren waste of sage. Here was the unknown and the perilous. The whole scene impressed ventures as a wild, austere and mighty manifestation of nature. And as it somehow reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenly resembled the woman near him, only in her there were greater beauty and peril, a mystery more unsolvable and something nameless that numbed his heart and dimmed his eye. Look, a rider, exclaimed Jane, breaking the silence. Can that be Lasseter? Ventures moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman showed dark on the skyline, then merged into the color of the sage. It might be, but I think not. That fellow was coming in, one of your riders more likely. Yes, I see him clearly now, and there's another. I see them too. Jane, your riders seem as many as the bunches of sage. I ran into five yesterday way down near the trail to deception pass. They were with the white herd. You still go to that canyon? Byrne, I wish you wouldn't. The herd ring and his rustlers live somewhere down there. Well, what of that? Tull has already hinted to your frequent trips into deception pass. I know, Ventures uttered a short laugh. He'll make a rustler of me next. But Jane, there's no water for fifty miles after I leave here, and the nearest is in the canyon. I must drink and water my horse. There, I see more riders. They're going out. That herd is on the slope toward the pass. Twilight was fast falling. A group of horsemen crossed the dark line of low ground to become more distinct as they climbed the slope. The silence broke to a clear call from an incoming rider, and almost like the peel of a hunting-horn floated back the answer. The outgoing riders moved swiftly, came sharply into sight as they topped a ridge to show wild and black above the horizon, and then passed down, dimming into the purple of the sage. I hope they don't meet Lasseter, said Jane. So do I, replied Ventures. By this time the riders of the night shift know what happened today, but Lasseter will likely keep out of their way. Byrne, who is Lasseter? He's only a name to me, a terrible name. Who is he? I don't know, Jane. Nobody I ever met knows him. He talks a little like a Texan, like Millie Urne. Did you note that? Yes, how strange of him to know of her, and she lived here ten years and has been dead, too. Byrne, what do you know of Lasseter? Tell me what he has done, why you spoke of him to Tull, threatening to become another Lasseter yourself. Jane, I only heard things, rumors, stories, most of which I disbelieved. At Glaze his name was none, but none of the riders or ranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stonebridge I never heard him mentioned. But at Stirling, in villages north of there, he was spoken of often. I've never been in a village which he had been known to visit. There were many conflicting stories about him and his doings. Some said he had shot up this and that Mormon village, and others denied it. I'm inclined to believe he has, and you know how Mormons hide the truth. But there was one feature about Lasseter upon which all agree that he was what riders in this country call a gunman. He's a man with a marvelous quickness and accuracy in the use of a cult. And now that I've seen him I know more. Lasseter was born without fear. I watched him with eyes which saw him my friend. I'll never forget the moment I recognized him from what had been told me of his crouch before the draw. It was then I yelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull's life. At any rate I know this. Between Tull and Death then there was not the breadth of the littlest hair, if he or any of his men had moved a finger downward. Lasseter's left his meaning unspoken, but at the suggestion Jane shuttered. The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging of twilight into night. The sage now spread out black and gloomy. One dim star glimmered in the southwest sky. The sound of trotting horses had ceased, and there was silence broken only by a faint dry pattering of cottonwood leaves in the soft night wind. Into this peace and calm suddenly broke the high keyed yelp of a coyote, and from far off in the darkness came the faint answering note of a trailing mate. "'Hello, the sage-dogs are barking,' said Venters. "'I don't like to hear them,' replied Jane. "'At night, sometimes when I lie awake listening to the long morn or breaking bark or wild howl, I think of you asleep somewhere in the sage, and my heart aches. "'Jane, you couldn't listen to sweeter music, nor could I have a better bed.' "'Just think, men like Lassiter and you have no home, no comfort, no rest, no place to lay your weary heads. "'Well, let us be patient. Tall's anger may cool, and time may help us. You might do some service to the village. Who can tell?' "'Suppose you discovered the long unknown hiding place of Oldring and his band, and told it to my riders. That would disarm Tall's ugly hints and put you in favor. For years my riders have trailed the tracks of stolen cattle. You know as well as I how dearly we've paid for our ranges in this wild country. Oldring drives our cattle down into the network of deceiving canyons, and somewhere far to the north or east he drives them up and out to Utah markets. If you will spend time in deception past, try to find the trails.' "'Jane, I've thought of that. I'll try.' "'I must go now, and it hurts. For now I'll never be sure of seeing you again. But tomorrow burn?' "'Tomorrow surely. I'll watch for Lasseter and ride in with him. Good night.' Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape that soon vanished in the shadows. Ventures waited until the faint slam of the door assured him she had reached the house, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly slipped through the bushes, down the knoll, and owned under the dark trees to the edge of the grove. The sky was now turning from gray to blue. Stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness, and from the wide, flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant with the breath of sage. Keeping close to the edge of the cottonwoods, he went swiftly and silently westward. The grove was long, and he had not reached the end when he heard something that brought him to a halt. Low-padded thuds told him horses were coming this way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting, listening. Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to his amazement he described horsemen near at hand. They were riding along the border of the sage, and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses were muffled. Then the pale starlight afforded him indistinct sight of the riders. But his eyes were keen and used to the dark, and by peering closely he recognized the huge bulk and black-bearded visage of aldering, and the lithe, supple form of the rustler's lieutenant, a masked rider. They passed on, the darkness swallowed them. Then farther out on the sage a dark, compact body of horsemen went by, almost without sound, almost like spectres, and they too melted into the night. No unusual circumstance was it for aldering and some of his men to visit cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to venters the presence of the masked rider with aldering seemed especially ominous. For about this man there was mystery. He seldom rode through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly. Riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore. Aldering's band did not confine themselves to the rustling of cattle. Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods pondering this chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe to move on. Then with sudden impulse he turned the other way and went back along the grove. When he reached the path leading to Jane's home he decided to go down to the village. So he hurried onward with quick, soft steps. Once beyond the grove he entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall poplars, and under each row of trees inside the footpath were ditches where ran the water from Jane Witherstein's spring. Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far down flared bright windows of the village stores. When venters got closer to these he saw knots of men standing together in earnest conversation. The usual lounging on the corners and benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadow venters went closer and closer until he could hear voices, but he could not distinguish what was said. He recognized many Mormons and looked hard for tall in his men, but looked in vain. Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the village street. No doubt these earnest men were discussing lassagers coming, but venters felt positive that Tull's intention toward himself that day had not been and would not be revealed. So venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracing his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next to it was also dark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any night at this hour there would be lights here, and venters marked the unusual omission. As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Finally he described two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull's stalwart figure and beside him the short, frog-like shape of the rider, Jerry. They were silent, and they rode on to disappear. Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been his friend. And he sulked about her home, gripping a gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place, or people, or purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous store than Jane Witherstein gave her people, and likewise to those unfortunate whom her people hated. She asked only the divine right of all women, freedom, to love and to live as her heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain. For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village of Cottonwood's, muttered Venters as he strode on. Soon it'll burst. I don't like the prospects. That night the villagers whispered in the street, and nightriding rustlers muffled horses, and Tull was at work in secret, and out there in the sage hid a man who meant something terrible, Lasseter. Years past the black Cottonwood's, and entering the sage, climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly, somewhat to his right, and turning that way he whistled softly. Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him. He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully, and then went down. Here it was darker and sheltered from the wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and this one was a sweep curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal awoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle for a pillow, rolled in his blankets with his face upward to the stars. The white dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and padded a few yards to the rise of ground, and there crouched on guard. And in that wild covert, Venters shut his eyes under the great white stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparing their loneliness to his own, and fell asleep. When he awoke, day had dawned, and all about him was bright steel gray. The air had a cold tang. Arising he greeted the fawning dogs and stretched his cramped body, and then, gathering together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted a fire. Strips of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served him and the dogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing else in his outfit. He had grown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been his chief occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited for unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action in the immediate present. The day promised another meeting with Lasseter and Jane. Perhaps news of the rustlers. On the morrow he meant to take the trail to deception pass. And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them ring and whitey. They were sheepdogs, half collie, half deerhound, superb and build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value to him, and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitey watched him with somber eyes of love, and ring, crouched on the little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun rose the white dog took the place of the other, and ring went to sleep at his master's feet. By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his meager pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. He saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to fetch him. In that country where every rider boasted of a fine mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof of his misfortunes. Then with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and, stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight filled the valley with purple fire, before him to left to right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, and low swells of a purple sea stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods a green patch on the purple gleamed the dull red of Jane Witherstein's old stone house, and from there extended the wide green of the village gardens and orchards marked by the graceful poplars, and farther down shone the deep, dark richness of the alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dots speckled the sage, and these were cattle and horses. So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be Lasseter's black. Climbing to the highest rock so that he would show against the skyline, he stood and waved his hat. The almost instant turning of Lasseter's horse attested to the quickness of that rider's eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled his horse, tied on his pack, and with a word to his dogs was about to ride out to meet Lasseter, and he concluded to wait for him there, on higher ground, where the outlook was commanding. It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting from a man. Lasseter's warmed in him something that had grown cold from neglect, and when he had returned it with a strong grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he knew that Lasseter and he were to be friends. Venters, let's talk a while before we go down there, said Lasseter, slipping his bridle. I ain't in no hurry. Them sure fine dogs you've got. With a rider's eye he took in the points of Venters' horse, but did not speak his thought. Well, did anything come off after I left you last night? Venters told him about the rustlers. I was snug hid in the sage, replied Lasseter, and didn't see or hear no one. Alderang's got a high hand here, I reckon. It's no news up in Utah how he holds in canyons and leaves no track. Lasseter was silent a moment. Me and Alderang wasn't exactly strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Vostel's Ford at the head of the Rio Virgin, but he got harassed there and now he drives someplace else. Lasseter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile? I can't say. I've known Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles. No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler, declared Venters. Maybe so. It's a hard country for anyone but hardest for Gentiles. Did you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon community? I never did. Well, I want to get out of Utah, of a mother living in Illinois. I want to go home. It's eight years now. The older man's sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had left Quincy run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields, had never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, entered here and there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over the divide and across the barons and up the rugged plateau through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he became a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time prospered until chance threw him in the employ of Jane Witherstein. Lasseter, I needn't tell you the rest. Well, it'd be no news to me. I know Mormons. I've seen their women strange love and patience and sacrifice and silence and what I call madness for their idea of God. And over against that I've seen the tricks of men. They work hand in hand, all together and in the dark. No man can hold out against them unless he takes to pack in guns, for Mormons are slow to kill. That's the only good I've ever seen in their religion. Venters, take this from me. These Mormons ain't just right in their minds. Else could a Mormon marry one woman when he already has a wife and call it duty. Lasseter, you think as I think, returned Venters. How'd it come, then, that you never throwed a gun on toll or some of them? inquired the rider, curiously. Jane pleaded with me, begged me to be patient, to overlook. She even took my guns from me. I lost all before I knew it, replied Venters, with a red color in his face. But Lasseter, listen, out of the wreck I saved a Winchester, two colts and plenty of shells. I packed these down into deception paths. There almost every day for six months I have practiced with my rifle till the barrel burnt my hands. Practiced the draw, the firing of a colt, hour after hour. Now, that's interesting to me, said Lasseter, with a quick uplift of his head and a concentration of his gray gaze on Venters. Could you throw a gun before you began that practicing? Yes. And now, Venters made a lightning-swift movement. Lasseter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till his eyes seemed mere gray slits. You'll kill, toll. He did not question. He affirmed. I promised Jane Witherstein I'd try to avoid, toll. I'll keep my word. But sooner or later, toll and I will meet. As I feel now, if he even looks at me, I'll draw. I reckon so. I'll be hell down there presently. He paused a moment and flipped a sagebrush with his quart. Venters, seein' as your considerable worked out, tell me Millie Earn's story. Venters' agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eagerness in Lasseter's query. Millie Earn's story? Well, Lasseter, I'll tell you what I know. Millie Earn had been in Cottonwood's years when I first arrived there, and most of what I tell you happened before my arrival. I got to know her pretty well. She was a slip of a woman and crazy on religion. I conceived an idea that I never mentioned. I thought she was, at heart, more gentile than Mormon. But she passed as a Mormon, and certainly she had the Mormon woman's locked lips. You know, in every Mormon village there are women who seem mysterious to us, but about Millie there was more than the ordinary mystery. When she came to Cottonwood's she had a beautiful little girl whom she loved passionately. Millie was not known openly in Cottonwood's as a Mormon wife. That she really was a Mormon wife I have no doubt. Perhaps the Mormon's other wife or wives would not acknowledge Millie. Such things happen in these villages. Mormon wives wear yolks, but they get jealous. Well, whatever had brought Millie to this country, love or madness of religion, she repented of it. She gave up teaching the village school, she quit the church, and she began to fight Mormon upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormons put on the screws, slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared. Lost was the report. The child was stolen, I know that, so do you. That wrecked Millie Urne. But she lived on in hope. She became a slave. She worked her heart and soul and life out to get back her child. She never heard of it again. Then she sank. I can see her now, a frail thing, so transparent you could almost look through her, white like ashes. And her eyes. Her eyes have always haunted me. She had one real friend, Jane Witherstein. But Jane couldn't mend a broken heart, and Millie died. For moments Lasseter did not speak or turn his head. The man, he exclaimed presently, and husky accents. I haven't the slightest idea who the Mormon was, replied Venters. Or has any Gentile in Cottonwoods? Does Jane Witherstein know? Yes, but a red hot running iron couldn't burn that name out of her. Without further speech Lasseter started off, walking his horse, and Venters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope they entered a luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came into an open space, carpeted with grass like deep green velvet. The rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears. Venters led his comrade to a shady bower, and showed him amber spring. It was a magnificent outburst of clear amber water pouring from a dark, stone-lined hole. Lasseter knelt and drank, lingered there to drink again. He made no comment, but Venters did not need words. Next to his horse, a rider of the sage loved a spring. And this spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known to the upland riders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made Old Witherstein a feudal lord, and now enabled his daughter to return the toll which her father had exacted from the toilers of the sage. The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down joyously to make it swift way along a willow-skirted channel. Moss and ferns and lilies overhung its green banks. Except for the rough-hewn stones that held and directed the water, this willow thicket and glade had been left as nature had made it. Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the other in banks of raised earth, and round about them rose the lofty, green-follaged shafts of poplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy surface of the lakes. A blue heron stood motionless on a water-gate. Kingfisher started with shrieking flight along the shady banks. A white hawk sailed above. And from the trees and shrubs came the song of robins and catbirds. It was all in strange contrast to the endless slopes of lonely sage and the wild-rock environs beyond. Ventures thought of the woman who loved the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of the water. Next on the slope, just below the third and largest lake, were corrals and a wide-stone barn and open sheds and coops and pens. Here were clouds of dust and cracking sounds of hoofs and romping colts and he-hauling burrows. Boving horses trampled to the corral fences, and on the little windows of the barn projected bobbing heads of bays and blacks and sorrels. When the two men entered the immense barnyard, from all around the den increased. This welcome, however, was not seconded by the several men and boys who vanished on sight. Ventures and lasseter were turning toward the house when Jane appeared in the lane leading a horse. In riding skirt and blouse, she seemed to have lost some of her statuesque proportions, and looked more like a girl rider than the mistress of Witherstein. She was brightly smiling, and her greeting was warmly cordial. Good news, she announced, I've been to the village. All is quiet. I expected, I don't know what, but there's no excitement, and Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze. Tull gong, inquired Ventures with surprise. He was wondering what could have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another meeting with lasseter that he went? Could it have any connection with the probable nearness of Aldring and his gang? Gone, yes, thank goodness, replied Jane. Now I hath peace for a while. Lasseter, I want you to see my horses. You are a rider, and you must be a judge of horse flesh. Some of mine have Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in Nevada from Indians who claimed their horses were bred down from the original stock left by the Spaniards. Well, ma'am, the one you've been riding takes my eye, said Lasseter, as he walked around the racy, clean-limbed and fine-pointed Rhone. Where are the boys, she asked, looking about? Jer'd, Paul, where are you? Here, bring out the horses. The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp. Then they came pounding out of the door a file of thoroughbreds to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails up, mains flying. They halted afar off, squared away to look, came slowly forward with whinnies for their mistress and doubtful snorts for the strangers and their horses. Come, come, come, called Jane, holding out her hands. Why, bells, wrangle, where are your manners? Come, black star, come, knight, ah, you beauties, my racers of the sage. Jane, too, came up to her, though she called knight and black star. Venters never looked at them without delight. The first was soft, dead black, the other glittering black, and they were perfectly matched in size, both being high and long-bodied, wide through the shoulders with lithe, powerful legs. That they were a woman's pets showed in the gloss of skin the fineness of Maine. It showed, too, in the light of the big eyes and the gentle reach of eagerness. I've never seen their like, was Lasseter's encomium, and in my day I've seen a sight of horses. Now, ma'am, if you was wanting to make a long and fast ride across the sage, say to Elope. Lasseter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was meaning. Jane blushed and made arch eyes at him. Take care, Lasseter, I might think that a proposal, she replied gaily. It's dangerous to propose elopement to a Mormon woman. Well, I was expecting you. Now will be a good hour to show you Milly Urne's grave. The day-riders have gone and the night-riders haven't come in. Byrne, what do you make of that? Need I worry? You know I have to be made to worry. Well, it's not usual for the night shift to ride in so late, replied Venters, slowly, and his glance salt Lasseter's. Cattle are usually quiet after dark. Still, I've known even a coyote to stampede your white-herd. I refuse to borrow trouble. Come, said Jane. They mounted and, with Jane in the lead, rode down the lane, and, turning off into a cattle trail, proceeded westward. Venters' dogs trotted behind them. On this side of the ranch, the outlook was different from that on the other. The immediate foreground was rough and the sage more rugged and less colorful. There were no dark blue lines of canyons to hold the eye, nor any up-rearing rock walls. It was a long roll and slope into gray obscurity. Soon Jane left the trail and rode into the sage, and presently she dismounted and threw her bridle. The men did likewise. Then, on foot, they followed her, coming out at length on the rim of a low escarpment. She passed by several little ridges of earth to halt before a faintly defined mound. It lay in the shade of a sweeping sage brush close to the edge of the promontory, and a rider could have jumped his horse over it without recognizing a grave. Here. She looked sad as she spoke, but she offered no explanation for the neglect of an unmarked, uncared-for grave. There was a little bunch of pale, sweet lavender daisies, doubtless planted there by Jane. I only come here to remember and to pray, she said. But I leave no trail. A grave in the sage. How lonely this resting place of Millie Urne. The cottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was there any rock or ridge or cedar to lend contrast to the monotony. Gray slopes, tinging the purple, barren and wild, with the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dim horizon. Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that moment he seemed a figure of bronze. Jane touched Vinter's arm and led him back to the horses. Byrne cried Jane when they were out of hearing. Suppose Lassiter were Millie's husband, the father of that little girl lost so long ago. It might be, Jane. Let us ride on. If he wants to see us again, he'll come. So they mounted and rode out to the cattle trail and began to climb. From the height of the ridge where they had started down, Vinter's looked back. He did not see Lassiter, but his glance, drawn irresistibly farther out on the gradual slope, caught sight of a moving cloud of dust. Hello, a rider. Yes, I see, said Jane. That fellow's riding hard. Jane, there's something wrong. Oh, yes, there must be. How he rides. The horse disappeared in the sage and then puffs of dust marked his course. He's shortcut on us. He's making straight for the corrals. Vinter's and Jane galloped their steeds and reigned in at the turning of the lane. This lane led down to the right of the grove. Suddenly into its lower entrance flashed a bay horse. Then Vinter's caught the fast rhythmic beat of pounding hoofs. Soon his keen eye recognized the swing of the rider in a saddle. It's Judkin's, your Gentile rider, he cried. Jane, when Judkin's rides like that, it means hell. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 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 4. Deception Pass. The rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flect horse in the sudden stop. He was a giant form and with fearless eyes. Judkin's, you're all bloody! cried Jane in a fright. Oh, you've been shot! Nothing much, Miss Witherstein. I got a nick in the shoulder. I'm some wet and the horse has been thrown lather so all this ain't blood. What's up? queried Vinter's sharply. Rustlers sloped off with the red herd. Where are my riders? demanded Jane. Miss Witherstein, I was alone all night with the herd. The daylight this morning the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot at me on sight. They chased me hard and far, burning powder all the time, but I got away. Judd, they meant to kill you, declared Vinter's. Now, I wonder, returned Judkin's. They wanted me bad, and it ain't regular for rustlers to waste time chasing one rider. Thank heaven you got away, said Jane. But my riders, where are they? I don't know. The night riders weren't there last night when I rode down, and this morning I met no dayriders. Judkin's, Fern, they've been set upon, killed by Old Ring's men. I don't think so, replied Vinter's, decidedly. Jane, your riders haven't gone out in this age. Fern, what do you mean? Jane Witherstein turned deathly pale. You remember what I said about the unseen hand? Oh, impossible. I hope so, but I fear, Vinter's finished, with a shake of his head. Fern, you're bitter, but that's only natural. We'll wait to see what's happened to my riders. Juddkin's come to the house with me. Your wound must be attended to. Jane, I'll find out where Old Ring drives the herd, Vout Vinter's. No, no, Fern, don't risk it now, when the rustlers are in such shooting mood. I'm going. Judd, how many cattle in that red herd? Twenty-five hundred head. Phew, what on earth can Old Ring do with so many cattle? Why, a hundred head is a big steal. I've got to find out. Don't go, implored Jane. Fern, you want a horse that can run. Ms. Witherstein, if it's not too bold of me to advise, make him take a fast horse, or don't let him go. Yes, yes, Juddkin's. He must ride a horse that can't be caught. Which one? Blackstar? Knight? Jane, I won't take either, said Vinter's emphatically. I wouldn't risk losing one of your favorites. Wrangle then? That's the horse, replied Juddkin's. Wrangle can outrun Blackstar and Knight. You'd never believe it, Ms. Witherstein, but I know. Wrangle's the biggest and fastest horse on this age. Oh, no, Wrangle can't beat Blackstar. But, Bern, take Wrangle if you will go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful, careful. God speed you. She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with the rider. Vinter's rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The boy came running. Vinter sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits to be packed in saddlebags. His own horse he turned loose into the nearest corral. Then he went for Wrangle. The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite of amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard he broke from Vinter's, and plunged about with ears laid back. Vinter's had to rope him, and then he kicked down a section of fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down, and fought the rope. Jerd returned to lend a hand. Wrangle don't get enough work, said Jerd, as the big saddle went on. He's unruly when he's corralled, and wants to run. Wait till he smells the sage. Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him but once. Run? Say he swift as wind. The Vinter's boot touched the stirrup, the sorrel bolted, giving him the rodders flying mount. The swing of this fiery horse recalled to Vinter's days that were not really long past when he rode into the sage as the leader of Jane Witherstein's rodders. Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rain. He galloped out of the lane down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up at the watering trough, where he pranced and champed his bit. Vinter's got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank. The dogs, Ring and Whitey, came trotting up for their drink. Then Vinter's remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage. A wide white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping glance told Vinter's that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were lying down in the sage. Ring loped in the lead, and Whitey loped in the rear. Wrangle settled gradually into an easy, swinging canter, and Vinter's thoughts, now that the rush and flurry of the start were past and the long mile stretched before him, reverted to a calm reckoning of late singular coincidences. There was the night ride of Tall's, which, viewed in the light of subsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations. Aldering and his masked rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses, the report that Tall had ridden out that morning with his man Jerry on the trail to Glaze. The strange disappearance of Jane Witherstein's riders, the unusually determined attempt to kill the one Gentile still in her employ, an intention frustrated, no doubt, only by Judkin's magnificent riding of her racer. And lastly the driving of the red herd. These events, to Vinter's color of mind, had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane's accusation of bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancor in Judging Tall. But it was bitter knowledge that made him see the truth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand. He had watched till he saw its dim outline. And then he had traced it to a man's hate, to the rivalry of a Mormon elder, to the power of a bishop, to the long, far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. That unseen hand had made its first move against Jane Witherstein. Her riders had been called in, leaving her without help to drive seven thousand head of cattle. But to Vinter's it seemed extraordinary that the power which had called in these riders had left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers and harried by wolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate greed, they were one and the same. What can Old Ring do with twenty-five hundred head of cattle, muttered Vinter's? Is he a Mormon? Did he meet Tall last night? It looks like a black plot to me. But Tall and his churchmen wouldn't ruin Jane Witherstein unless the church was to profit by that ruin. Where does Old Ring come in? I'm going to find out about these things. Rangel did the twenty-five miles in three hours and walked little of the way. When he had gotten warmed up he had been allowed to choose his own gate. The afternoon had well advanced when Vinter's struck the trail of the Red Herd and found where it had grazed the night before. Then Vinter's rested the horse and used his eyes. Near at hand were a cow and a calf and several yearlings, and farther out in the sage some straggling steers. He caught a glimpse of coyotes skulking near the cattle. The slow sweeping gaze of the rider failed to find other living things within the field of sight. The sage about him was breast high to his horse, over sweet with its warm, fragrant breath, gray where it waved to the light, darker where the wind leapt it still, and beyond the wonderful haze-purple lent by distance. Far across that wide waste began the slow lift of upland through which deception pass cut its torturous, mini-canyoned way. Vinter's raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad cattle trail. The crushed sage resembled the path of a monster snake. In a few miles of travel he passed several cows and calves that had escaped the drive. Then he stood on the last high bench of the slope with the floor of the valley beneath. The opening of the canyon showed in a break of the sage, and the cattle trail paralleled it as far as he could see. That trail led to an undiscovered point where aldering drove cattle into the pass, and many a rider who had followed it had never returned. Vinter satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated from the usual course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle trail and made for the head of the pass. The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon where it changed from white to gold and rested like a huge ball about to roll on its golden shadows down the slope. Vinter's watched the lengthening of the rays and bars and marveled at his own league-long shadow. The sun sank. There was an instant shading of brightness about him, and he saw a kind of cold purple bloom creep ahead of him to cross the canyon to mount the opposite slope and chase and darken and bury the last golden flare of sunlight. Vinter's rode into a trail that he always took to get down into the canyon. He dismounted and found no tracks but his own made days previous. Nevertheless, he sent the dog ring ahead and waited. In a little while ring returned, whereupon Vinter's led his horse onto the break in the ground. The opening into deception pass was one of the remarkable natural phenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of sage, uplands insulated by gigantic red walls and deep canyons of mysterious source and outlet. Here the valley floor was level, and here opened a narrow chasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls of stone. The trail down the five hundred feet of sheer depth always tested Vinter's nerve. It was bad going for even a burrow. But wrangle, as Vinter's led him, snorted defiance or disgust rather than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on the jump, lifted his ponderous iron-shod forehoofs and crashed down over the first rough step. Vinter's warmed to greater admiration of the sorrel, and giving him a loose bridle he stepped down foot by foot. Often times the stones and shale started by wrangle buried Vinter's to his knees. Again he was hard put to it to dodge a rolling boulder. There were times when he could not see wrangle for dust, and once he and the horse rode a sliding shelf of yellow weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be no stops, and therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not take long in the descent. Vinter's breathed lighter when that was over and felt a sudden assurance in the success of his enterprise. For at first it had been a reckless determination to achieve something at any cost, and now it resolved itself into an adventure worthy of all his reason and cunning and keenness of eye and ear. Pinyon ponds clustered in little clumps along the level floor of the pass. Twilight had gathered under the walls. Vinter's rode into the trail and up the canyon. Gradually the trees and caves and objects low down turned black, and this blackness moved up the walls till night and folded the pass, while day still lingered above. The sky darkened, and stars began to show. At first pale and then bright. Sharp notches of the rim-wall, biting like teeth into the blue, were landmarks by which Vinter's knew where his camping site lay. He had to feel his way through a thicket of slender oaks to a spring where he watered wrangle and drank himself. Here he unsettled and turned wrangle loose, having no fear that the horse would leave the thick, cool grass adjacent to the spring. Next he satisfied his own hunger, fed ring and whitey, and, with them curled beside him, composed himself to await sleep. There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these Utah uplands had been satisfying to Vinter's, but that was before the oppression of enemies had made the change in his mind. As a rider guarding the herd, he had never thought of the night's wildness and loneliness. As an outcast, now when the full silence set in and the deep darkness and trains of radiant stars shone cold and calm, he lay with an ache in his heart. For a year he had lived as a black fox driven from his kind. He longed for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. In the daytime there was riding from place to place, and the gun practice to which something drove him, and other tasks that at least necessitated action. At night, before he won sleep, there was strife in his soul. He yearned to leave the endless sage slopes, the wilderness of canyons, and it was in the lonely night that this yearning grew unbearable. It was then that he reached forth to feel ring or whitey, immeasurably grateful for the love and companionship of two dogs. On this night the same old loneliness beset Vinter's, the old habit of sad thought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it evolved a conviction that his useless life had undergone a subtle change. He had sensed it first when wrangle swung him up to the high saddle. He knew it now when he lay in the gateway of deception pass. He had no thrill of adventure, rather a gloomy perception of great hazard, perhaps death. He meant to find Old Ring's retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but none that could catch wrangle. Vinter's knew no rustler could creep upon him at night when ring and whitey guarded his hiding place. For the rest he had eyes and ears, and a long rifle and an unerring aim which he meant to use. Strangely, his foreshadowing of change did not hold a thought of the killing of Tall. It related only to what was to happen to him in deception pass, and he could no more lift the veil of that mystery than tell where the trails led to in that unexplored canyon. Moreover, he did not care. And at length, tired out by stress of thought, he fell asleep. When his eyes unclosed, Day had come again, and he saw the rim of the opposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments sufficed for the morning's simple camp duties. Near at hand he found wrangle, and to his surprise the horse came to him. Wrangle was one of the horses that left his viciousness in the home corral. What he wanted was to be free of mules and burrows and steers, to roll in dust patches, and then to run down the wide, open, windy sage plains, and at night browse and sleep in the cool, wet grass of a spring hole. Jerd knew the sorrow when he said of him, wait till he smells the sage. Vinter saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and leaping astride rode up the canyon with ring and whitey trotting behind. An old grass-grown trail followed the course of a shallow wash where flowed a thin stream of water. The canyon was a hundred rods wide, its yellow walls were perpendicular, it had abundant sage, and a scant growth of oak and pinion. For five miles it held to a comparatively straight bearing, and then began a heightening of rugged walls and a deepening of the floor. Beyond this point of sudden change in the character of the canyon, Vinter's had never explored, and here was the real door to the intricacies of deception pass. He reigned wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and then proceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The canyon assumed proportions that dwarfed those of its first ten miles. Vinter's rode on and on, not losing in the interest of his wide surroundings any of his caution or keen search for tracks or sight of living thing. If there ever had been a trail here he could not find it. He rode through sage and clumps of pinion trees, and grassy plots where long peddled purple lilies bloomed. He rode through a dark constriction of the pass no wider than the lane in the grove at Cottonwoods, and he came out into a great amphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a confluence of intersecting canyons. Vinter sat his horse, and with a rider's eye studied this wild cross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided by the course of running water. If he had not been for the main stream of water flowing north he would never have been able to tell which of these many openings was a continuation of the pass. In crossing this amphitheater he went by the mouths of five canyons, forwarding little streams that flowed into the larger one. Gaining the outlet which he took to be the pass, he rode on again under overhanging walls. One side was dark in shade, the other light in sun. This narrow passageway turned and twisted and opened into a valley that amazed ventures. Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the higher levels. The valley was miles long, several wide, and enclosed by unscalable walls. But it was the background of this valley that so forcibly struck him. Once the sage flat rose a strange upflinging of yellow rocks. He could not tell which were close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of stone, like mountain waves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and towers. In this plain of sage ventures flushed birds and rabbits, and when he had proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing white tails of a herd of running antelope. He rode along the edge of the stream which wound toward the western end of the slowly looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated out of sight behind the nearer projection. To ventures the valley appeared to have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone that had hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore ventures quit the dark slit which baffled further search in that direction and rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. It was not long before he came to a low place, but here wrangle readily climbed up. All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smooth, rain-washed rock. Not a tuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull rust yellow. He saw where, to the right, this uneven flow of stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward from the hollow that lay at his feet mounted a gradual, slow-swelling slope to a great height topped by leaning, cracked and ruined crags. Not for some time did he grasp the wonder of that aclivity. It was no less than a mountain-side glistening in the sun like polished granite with cedar trees springing as if by magic out of the denuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale and rains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope its beautiful lines broke to meet the vertical rim wall to lose its grace in a different order and color of rock, a stained yellow cliff of cracks and cave and seemed crags. It straight before Vinter's was a scene less striking but more significant to his keen survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hammock-y rock began the valley of sage and the mouths of canyons, one of which surely was another gateway into the pass. He got off his horse and, giving the bridle to ring to hold, he commenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not successful and concluded the water dropped into an underground passage. Then he returned to where he had left wrangle and led him down off the stone to the sage. It was a short ride to the opening canyons. There was no reason for a choice of which one to enter. The one he rode into was a clear, sharp shaft in yellow stone a thousand feet deep with wonderful wind-worn caves low down and high above buttressed and turreted ramparts. Far their own Vinter's came into a region where deep indentations marked the line of canyon walls. Vinter's were huge, cove-like blind pockets extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth of underbrush and trees. Vinter's penetrated into one of these offshoots and, as he had hoped, he found abundant grass. He had to bend the oak saplings to get his horse through. Deciding to make this a hiding place if he could find water, he worked back to the limit of the shelving walls. In a little cluster of silver spruces he found a spring. This enclosed nook seemed an ideal place to leave his horse and to camp at night and from which to make stealthy trips on foot. The thick grass hid his trail. The dense growth of oaks in the opening would serve as a barrier to keep wrangle in if indeed the luxuriant brows would not suffice for that. So Vinter's, leaving whitey with the horse, called ring to his side, and rifle in hand worked his way out to the open. A careful photographing in mind of the formation of the bold outlines of rim-rock assured him he would be able to return to his retreat even in the dark. Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canyon and among these Vinter's threaded his way with the step of an Indian. At intervals he put his hand on the dog and stopped to listen. There was a drowsy hum of insects but no other sound disturbed the warm midday stillness. Vinter saw ahead a turn, more abrupt than any yet. Finally he rounded this corner once again to halt bewildered. The canyon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and gray growths. It was the hub of an oblong wheel and from it, at regular distances like spokes, ran the outgoing canyons. Here a dull red color predominated over the fading yellow. The corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled to taper into towers and serrated peaks and pinnacle domes. Towers pushed on more heedfully than ever. Toward the center of this circle the sage brush grew smaller and farther apart. He was about to shear off to the right where thickets and jumbles of fallen rock would afford him cover when he ran right upon a broad cattle trail. Like a road it was, more than a trail, and the cattle tracks were fresh. What surprised him more, they were wet. He pondered over this feature. It had not rained. The only solution to this puzzle was that the cattle had been driven through water and water deep enough to wet their legs. Suddenly ring growled low. Ventures rose cautiously and looked over the sage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding across the oval. He sank down, startled and trembling. Rustlers, he muttered. Hurriedly he glanced about for a place to hide. Near at hand there was nothing but sagebrush. He dared not risk crossing the open patches to reach the rocks. Again he peeped over the sage. The rustlers, four, five, seven, eight in all, were approaching, but not directly in line with him. That was relief for a cold deadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his veins. He crouched down with baited breath and held the bristling dog. He heard the click of iron shot hoofs on stone, the coarse laughter of men, and then voices gradually dying away. Long moments passed. Then he rose. The rustlers were riding into a canyon. Their horses were tired, and they had several pack animals. Evidently they had traveled far. Ventures doubted that they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Old Ring's band had split. Ventures watched these horsemen disappear under a bold canyon wall. The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval. Ventures kept a steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there were more, to see from what canyon they rode. A quarter of an hour went by. Reward for his vigilance came when he described three more mounted men far over to the north. But out of what canyon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner where the others had gone. Up that canyon, exclaimed Ventures, Old Ring's den. I've found it. A naughty point for Ventures was the fact that the cattle tracks all pointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of the canyon into which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the cattle had been driven out of it across the oval. There were no tracks pointing the other way. It had been in his mind that Old Ring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous and not from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and where did it lead? Ventures knew he wasted time in pondering the question, but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. For many years Old Ring's mysterious entrance and exit to deception pass had been all absorbing topics to sage riders. All at once the dog put an end to Ventures pondering. Ring sniffed the air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and then growled. Ventures wheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred yards, coming straight at him. One lagging behind the other was Old Ring's masked rider. Ventures cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sagebrush. But guarded as his action was, the first horse detected it. He stopped short, snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler bent forward as if keenly peering ahead. Then with a swift sweep he jerked a gun from its sheath and fired. The bullet zipped through the sagebrush. Flying bits of wood struck Ventures, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in one leap. Like a flash the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level, and he shot once, twice. The foremost rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from the saddle to fall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse snorted wildly and plunged away, dragging the rustler through the sage. The masked rider huddled over his pommel, slowly swaying to one side, and then with a faint, strange cry slipped out of the saddle. End of Chapter 4. CHAPTER V The Masked Rider. Ventures looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyon where the others had disappeared. He calculated on the time needed for running horses to return to the open if their riders heard shots. He waited breathlessly, but the estimated time dragged by, and no riders appeared. Ventures began presently to believe that the rifle reports had not penetrated into the recesses of the canyon and felt safe for the immediate present. He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged by his horse. The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes protruding, a sight that sickened Ventures. The first man at whom he had ever aimed a weapon he had shot through the heart. With the clammy sweat oozing from every pore, Ventures dragged the rustler in among some boulders and covered him with slabs of rock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trail in grass and sage. The rustler's horse had stopped a quarter of a mile off and was grazing. When Ventures rapidly strode toward the masked rider, not even the cold nausea that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For he had shot Aldring's infamous lieutenant whose face had never been seen. Ventures experienced a grim pride in the feet. What would Tull say to this achievement of the outcast who rode too often to deception pass? Ventures' curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him for the shock he received when he stood over a slight dark figure. The rustler wore the black mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons. Ventures glanced at the drooping horse. There were no gun sheaths on the saddle. A rustler who didn't pack guns, muttered Ventures, he wears no belt. He couldn't pack guns in bat-rig, strange. A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told Ventures the rider still lived. He's alive. I've got to stand here and watch him die, and I shot an unarmed man. Shrinkingly, Ventures removed the rider's wadsombrero and the black cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation where the brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun. Oh, he's only a boy. What can he be Oldering's masked rider? The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred. His lips moved. A small, brown hand clenched in his blouse. Ventures knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had entered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands that shook, Ventures untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet blouse. First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, from which welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful, beautiful swell of a woman's breast. A woman, he cried. A girl. Love killed a girl. She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Ventures. They were fathomless blue. Consciousness of death was there, a blended terror and pain. But no consciousness of sight. She did not see Ventures. She stared into the unknown. Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of reviving strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from Ventures grasp. Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. The ungloved hand salt the wound and pressed so hard that her wrist half buried itself in her bosom. Blood trickled between her spread fingers, and she looked at Ventures with eyes that saw him. He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so proud. He had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope which he was about to finish with his knife. But in her it had infinitely more, a revelation of mortal spirit. The instinct of bringing to life was there, and the divining helplessness and the terrible accusation of the stricken. Forgive me, I didn't know, burst out Ventures. You've shot me, you've killed me, she whispered, in panting gasps. Upon her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By that Ventures knew the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. Oh, I knew it would come some day. Oh, the burn! Hold me, I'm sinking. It's all dark. Ah, God, mercy! Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp, still white as snow with closed eyes. Ventures thought then that she died, but the faint pulsation of her breast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed only a matter of moments for the bullet had gone clear through her. Nevertheless he tore sage leaves from a bush and pressing them tightly over her wounds he bound the black scarf round her shoulder, tying it securely under her arm. Then he closed the blouse, hiding from his sight that blood-stained accusing breast. What now, he questioned, with flying mind. I must get out of here. She's dying, but I can't leave her. He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no animate object. Then he picked up the girl's sombrero and the mask. This time the mask gave him as great a shock as when he first removed it from her face, for in the woman he had forgotten the rustler and this black strip of felt-cloth established the identity of Old Ring's masked rider. Ventors had solved the mystery. He slipped his rifle under her and lifting her carefully upon it he began to retrace his steps. The dog trailed in his shadow and the horse that had stood dripping by followed without a call. Ventors chose the deepest tufts of grass and clumps of sage on his return. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder. His concern was to avoid jarring the girl and to hide his trail. Gaining the narrow canyon he turned and held close to the wall till he reached his hiding place. When he entered the dense thicket of oaks he was hard put to it to force a way through. But he held his burden almost up right and by slipping sideways and bending the saplings he got in. Through sage and grass he hurried to the grove of silver spruces. He laid the girl down almost to look at her. Though marble pale and cold she was living. Ventors then appreciated the tax that long carry had been to his strength. He sat down to rest. Whitey sniffed at the pale girl and whined and crept to Ventors feet. Ring lapped the water in the runway of the spring. Presently Ventors went out to the opening, caught the horse and leading him through the thicket unsettled him and tied him with a long halter. Rangel left his pony and tosses head. Ventors felt that he could not rest easily till he had secured the other rustler's horse. So taking his rifle and calling for ring he set out. Swiftly yet watchfully he made his way through the canyon to the oval and out to the cattle trail. What few tracks might have betrayed him he obliterated so only an expert tracker could have trailed him. Then with many owery backward glance across the sage he started to round up the rustler's horse. This was unexpectedly easy. He led the horse to lower ground out of sight from the opposite side of the oval along the shadowy western wall and so on into his canyon and secluded camp. The girl's eyes were open. A feverish spot burned in her cheeks. She moaned something unintelligible to Ventors but he took the movement of her lips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting her head he tipped the canteen in the distance or a weakness which was its counterpart. Ventors noted however that the burning flush had faded into the former pallor. The sun set behind the high canyon rim and a cool shade darkened the walls. Ventors fed the dogs and put a halter on the dead rustler's horse. He allowed wrangle to browse free. This done the other blanket he wrapped about his shoulders and found a comfortable seat against a spruce tree that upheld the little shack. Ring and whitey lay near at hand one asleep the other watchful. Ventors dreaded the night's vigil. At night his mind was active and this time he had to watch and think and feel beside a dying girl whom he had all but murdered. A thousand excuses he invented for himself yet not one made any difference in his act it seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her white face so much more plainly. She'll go presently he said and be out of agony thank God. Every little while certainty of her death came to him with a shock and then he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast her heart still beat. The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight the horses were not moving I'll bury her here thought ventures and let her grave be as much a mystery as her life was for the girls few words the look of her eyes the prayer had strangely touched ventures she was only a girl he soliloquized what wife she to old ring rustlers don't have wives nor sisters nor daughters she was bad that's all but somehow for mercy life is strange and cruel I wonder if other members of old rings gang or women likely enough but what was his game old rings masked rider a name to make villagers hide and lock their doors a name credited with a dozen murders a hundred forays and a thousand steelings of cattle what part did the girl have in this it may have served old ring to create mystery hours passed the white stars a strip of dark blue sky above the silence awoke to the low hum of insects ventures watched the immovable white face and as he watched hour by hour waiting for death the infamy of her passed from his mind he thought only of the sadness the truth of the moment whoever she was whatever she had done she was young and she was dying the after part of the night wore on interminably the starlight failed and the gloom was the darkest hour she'll die at the gray of dawn muttered ventures remembering some old woman's fancy the blackness paled to gray and the gray lightened and day peeped over the eastern rim ventures listened at the breast of the girl she still lived did he only imagine that her heart beat stronger ever so slightly but stronger he pressed his ear closer to her breast and he rose with his own pulse quickening she's got a chance the barest chance to live he said he wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased there was no more film of blood upon her lips but no corpse could have been whiter opening her blouse he untied the scarf and carefully picked away the sage leaves from the wound in her shoulder it had closed lifting her lightly he ascertained that the same was true of the hole where the bullet had come out he reflected the healing upland air he recalled instances of riders who had been cut and shot apparently to fatal issues yet the blood had clotted the wounds closed and they had recovered he had no way to tell if internal hemorrhage still went on but he believed that it had stopped otherwise she would surely not have lived so long he marked the entrance of the bullet and concluded that it had just touched the upper lobe as he began to wash the blood stains from her breast and carefully rebandaged the wound he was vaguely conscious of a strange grave happiness in the thought that she might live broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff rim to the west brought him to consideration of what he had better do and while busy with his few camp tasks he resolved the thing in his mind it would not even try to find the rustlers he had better make a move at once for he knew that rustlers being riders would not make much of a days or nights absence from camp for one or two of their number but when the missing ones failed to show up in reasonable time there would be a search and Venters was afraid of that a good tracker could trail me he muttered he carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns when he rose to go he bent a long glance down upon the unconscious girl then ordering whitey and ring to keep guard he left the camp the safest cover lay close under the wall of the canyon and here through the dense thickets Venters made his slow listening advance toward the oval upon gaining the wide opening he decided to cross it and follow he scanned the oval as keenly as if hunting for antelope then stooping he stole from one cover to another taking advantage of rocks and bunches of sage until he had reached the thickets under the opposite wall once there he exercised extreme caution in his surveys of the ground ahead but increased his speed when moving dodging from bush on the cattle trail it followed the low bank of the wash and keeping it in sight Venters hugged the line of sage and thicket like the curves of a serpent the canyon wound for a mile or more and then opened into a valley patches of red showed clear against the purple of sage and farther out on the level dotted strings of red led away to the wall of rock ha the red herd exclaimed white and black told him there were cattle of other colors in this enclosed valley old ring the rustler was also a rancher Venters calculating I took count of stock that outnumbered the red herd what a range went on Venters water and grass enough for fifty thousand head and no riders needed after his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters lost with a discovery of old rings hidden cattle range had come enlightenment on several problems here the rustler kept his stock here was Jane Witherstein's red herd here were the few cattle that had disappeared from the cotton wood slopes during the last two years until old ring had driven the red herd his thefts of cattle for that time had not been more than enough for the riders had wondered at old ring's inactivity in that particular field he and his band had been active enough in their visits to glaze and cotton woods they always had gold but of late the amount gambled away and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to much conjecture old rings more frequent visits had resulted in new saloons and where further range farther own up the pass and from there drove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he was little known but Vinter's came finally to doubt this and from what he had learned in the last few days a belief began to form in Vinter's mind that old rings intimidations of the villages and the mystery of the masked rider with his alleged evil deeds the rustler chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work in deception pass and like a scouting Indian Vinter's crawled through the sage of the Oval Valley crossed trail after trail on the north side and at last entered the canyon out of which headed the cattle trail and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear if he had used caution before now he strained every nerve to force himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear so hidden that he could not use his eyes except to aid himself in the toilsome progress through the breaks and ruins of cliff wall yet from time to time as he rested he saw the massive red walls growing higher and wilder more looming and broken he made note of the fact that he was turning and climbing the sage and thickets of oak and breaks of alder at first he thought it was thunder then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock but it was incessant and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from a murmur changed into a soft roar falling water he said there's volume to that I wonder if it's the stream I lost the roar bothered him for he could hear nothing else likewise however no rustlers his hands and knees to hurry on an opening in the pinions warned him that he was nearing the height of slope he gained it and dropped low with a burst of astonishment before him stretched a short canyon with rounded stone floor bare of grass or sage or tree and with curved shelving walls a broad rippling stream flowed toward him into a long white sheet if ventors had not been indubitably certain that he had entered the right canyon his astonishment would not have been so great there had been no breaks in the walls no side canyons entering this one where the rustlers treks and the cattle trail had guided him and therefore he could not be wrong but here the canyon ended and presumably the trails also that cattle trail headed out of here but what I want to know is how on earth did cattle ever get in here if he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny he had given that cattle track every hoof mark of which headed straight west he was now looking east at an immense round boxed corner of canyon down which tumbled a thin white veil of water scarcely twenty yards wide somehow somewhere his calculations had gone wrong in finding tracks and his memory of what he had actually seen in his anxiety to keep under cover he must have lost himself in this offshoot of deception pass and thereby in some unaccountable manner missed the canyon with the trails there was nothing else for him to think rustlers could not fly nor cattle jumped down thousand foot precipices he was only proving what the sage riders had long said of this labyrinthine system of deceitful canyons and valleys led down into deception pass but no rider had ever followed them on a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an unusual sound that he could not define he dropped flat behind a stone and listened from the direction he had come swelled something that resembled a strange muffled pounding and splashing and ringing despite his nerve the chill sweat began to dampen his forehead with mystery the unnatural sound passed beyond him as he lay gripping his rifle and fighting for coolness then from the open came the sound now distinct and different ventures recognized a hobble bell of a horse and the cracking of iron on submerged stones and the hollow splash of hooks in water relief surged over him his mind caught again at realities and curiosity prompted him in the middle of the stream waited a long string of packed burrows driven by three superbly mounted men had ventures met these dark clothed dark visaged heavily armed men anywhere in Utah let alone in this robbers retreat he would have recognized them as rustlers the discerning eye of a rider saw the signs of a long arduous trip these men were packing in supplies from one of the northern villages they were tired and their horses were almost plotted on after the manner of their kind when exhausted faithful and patient but as if every weary splashing slipping step would be their last all this ventures noted in one glance after that he watched with the thrilling eagerness straight at the waterfall the rustlers drove the burrows and straight through the middle where the water spread into a fleecy thin film like dissolving smoke cold black relief for an instant and then they vanished ventures drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden utterance good heaven of all the holes for a rustler there's a cavern under that waterfall and a passageway leading out to a canyon beyond old ring hides in there he needs only to guard a trail leading down from the sage flat above little danger of this outlet and now I know the truth of what puzzled me most why that cattle trail was wet he wheeled and ran down the slope and out to the level of the sage brush returning he had no time to spare only now and then between dashes a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyes ahead the abundant grass left no trace of his trail short work he made of the distance to the circle of canyons he doubted that he would ever see it again he knew yet he looked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a rider picturing landmarks never to be forgotten here he spent a panting moment in a slow circling gaze of the sage oval and the gaps between the bluffs nothing stirred except the gentle wave of the tips of the brush then he pressed on past the mouths of several canyons and overground new to him now close under the eastern wall this latter part of the canvas in west and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepening shade of his own canyon then the huge notched bulge of red rim loomed over him a mark by which he knew again the deep cove where his camp lay hidden as he penetrated the thicket safe again for the present his thoughts reverted to the girl he had left there the afternoon had far dark eyes and they dilated when he knelt beside her the flush of fever shown in her cheeks he lifted her and held water to her dry lips and felt an inexplicable sense of lightness as he saw her swallow in a slow choking gulp gently he laid her back who are you she whispered haltingly I'm the man who shot you he replied you'll not kill me now no no what will you do with me when you get better strong enough I'll take you back to the canyon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall as with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead the marble whiteness of her face seem to change don't take me back there end of chapter 5