RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

By Zane Grey

CHAPTER I. LASSITER

A sharp clip-crop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died away, and cloudsof yellow dust drifted from under the cottonwoods out over the sage. 

Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with dreamy andtroubled eyes. A rider had just left her and it was his message thatheld her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting the churchmen who werecoming to resent and attack her right to befriend a Gentile. 

She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to thelittle village of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And then she sighed, remembering that her father had founded this remotest border settlementof southern Utah and that he had left it to her. She owned all theground and many of the cottages. Withersteen House was hers, and thegreat ranch, with its thousands of cattle, and the swiftest horses ofthe sage. To her belonged Amber Spring, the water which gave verdureand beauty to the village and made living possible on that wild purpleupland waste. She could not escape being involved by whatever befellCottonwoods. 

That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually comingin the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border. Glaze--StoneBridge--Sterling, villages to the north, had risen against theinvasion of Gentile settlers and the forays of rustlers. There had beenopposition to the one and fighting with the other. And now Cottonwoodshad begun to wake and bestir itself and grown hard. 

Jane prayed that the tranquillity and sweetness of her life would not bepermanently disrupted. She meant to do so much more for her people thanshe had done. She wanted the sleepy quiet pastoral days to last always. Trouble between the Mormons and the Gentiles of the community wouldmake her unhappy. She was Mormon-born, and she was a friend to poorand unfortunate Gentiles. She wished only to go on doing good and beinghappy. And she thought of what that great ranch meant to her. She lovedit all--the grove of cottonwoods, the old stone house, the amber-tintedwater, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek, clean-limbed, blooded racers, and the browsing herds of cattle and thelean, sun-browned riders of the sage. 

While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward change. Thebray of a lazy burro broke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortinglysuggestive of the drowsy farmyard, and the open corrals, and the greenalfalfa fields. Her clear sight intensified the purple sage-slope as itrolled before her. Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up tothe west. Dark, lonely cedar-trees, few and far between, stood outstrikingly, and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Farther on, up thegradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming dark purpleand stretching its solitary, mystic way, a wavering line that fadedin 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 rosean up-Hinging of the earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purpleuplands, with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs, andgray escarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoonshadows. 

The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question athand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threwtheir bridles. They were seven in number, and Tull, 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 Venters half an hour to come down tothe village. He didn't come. "

"He knows nothing of it;" said Jane. "I didn't tell him. I've beenwaiting here for you. "

"Where is Venters?"

"I left him in the courtyard. "

"Here, Jerry, " called Tull, turning to his men, "take the gang and fetchVenters out here if you have to rope him. "

The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily into the groveof cottonwoods and disappeared in the shade. 

"Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?" demanded Jane. "If you mustarrest Venters you might have the courtesy to wait till he leaves myhome. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It'sabsurd to accuse Venters of being mixed up in that shooting fray in thevillage last night. He was with me at the time. Besides, he let me takecharge of his guns. You're only using this as a pretext. What do youmean to do to Venters?"

"I'll tell you presently, " replied Tull. "But first tell me why youdefend 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'tchampion him and every reason why I should. It's no little shame to me, Elder Tull, that through my friendship he has roused the enmity of mypeople and become an outcast. Besides I owe him eternal gratitude forsaving the life of little Fay. "

"I've heard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend to adopther. But--Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!"

"Yes. But, Elder, I don't love the Mormon children any less because Ilove a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother will give her tome. "

"I'm not so much against that. You can give the child Mormon teaching, "said Tull. "But I'm sick of seeing this fellow Venters hang around you. I'm going to put a stop to it. You've so much love to throw away onthese beggars of Gentiles that I've an idea you might love Venters. "

Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not bebrooked and with the passion of a man in whom jealousy had kindled aconsuming fire. 

"Maybe I do love him, " said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir herheart. "I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow! he certainly needs someone to love him. "

"This'll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that, " returned Tull, grimly. 

Tull's men appeared under the cottonwoods and led a young man out intothe lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood talland straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the muscles of hisbound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent onTull. 

For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters's real spirit. Shewondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooledto the sobering sense of the issue at stake. 

"Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?" asked Tull, tensely. 

"Why?" rejoined the rider. 

"Because I order it. "

Venters laughed in cool disdain. 

The red leaped to Tull's dark cheek. 

"If you don't go it means your ruin, " he said, sharply. 

"Ruin!" exclaimed Venters, passionately. "Haven't you already ruined me?What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses and cattleof my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when I come intothe village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. Youtrail 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 Venters, tauntingly, "it galls you, the idea ofbeautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You wanther all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You have use for her--andWithersteen House and Amber Spring and seven thousand head of cattle!"

Tull's hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of hisneck. 

"Once more. Will you go?"

"NO!"

"Then I'll have you whipped within an inch of your life, " replied Tull, harshly. "I'll turn you out in the sage. And if you ever come backyou'll get worse. "

Venters's agitated face grew coldly set and the bronze changed

Jane impulsively stepped forward. "Oh! Elder Tull!" she cried. "Youwon't do that!"

Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her. 

"That'll do from you. Understand, you'll not be allowed to hold this boyto a friendship that's offensive to your Bishop. Jane Withersteen, yourfather left you wealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven'tyet 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'tcome to your senses. Now, once for all, you can't have any furtherfriendship with Venters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leaveUtah!"

"Oh! Don't whip him! It would be dastardly!" implored Jane, with slowcertainty of her failing courage. 

Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she hadfeigned a boldness which she did not possess. He loomed up now indifferent guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysteriousdespotism she had known from childhood--the power of her creed. 

"Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go outin the sage?" asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was morethan inhuman, yet seemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam ofrighteousness. 

"I'll take it here--if I must, " said Venters. "But by God!--Tull you'dbetter kill me outright. That'll be a dear whipping for you and yourpraying Mormons. You'll make me another Lassiter!"

The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull'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 personaland sinister, a deep of himself, an engulfing abyss. As his religiousmood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate bemerciless. 

"Elder, I--I repent my words, " Jane faltered. The religion in her, thelong habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke inher voice. "Spare the boy!" she whispered. 

"You can't save him now, " replied Tull stridently. 

Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth, when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, a hardening of gentleforces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all thathad been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something newand unintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes. Jane Withersteen loved that wild and purple wilderness. In timesof sorrow it had been her strength, in happiness its beauty was hercontinual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, "Whencecometh my help!" It was a prayer, as if forth from those lonely purplereaches and walls of red and clefts of blue might ride a fearless man, neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraining handin the faces of her ruthless people. 

The restless movements of Tull's men suddenly quieted down. Thenfollowed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation. 

"Look!" said one, pointing to the west. 

"A rider!"

Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against thewestern sky, coming riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from theleft, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till closeat hand. An answer to her prayer!

"Do you know him? Does any one know him?" questioned Tull, hurriedly. 

His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads. 

"He's come from far, " said one. 

"Thet's a fine hoss, " said another. 

"A strange rider. "

"Huh! he wears black leather, " added a fourth. 

With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Tull stepped forward in sucha way that he concealed Venters. 

The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slippingaction appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiarmovement in its quickness and inasmuch that while performing it therider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the groupbefore him. 

"Look!" hoarsely whispered one of Tull's companions. "He packs twoblack-butted guns--low down--they're hard to see--black akin them blackchaps. "

"A gun-man!" whispered another. "Fellers, careful now about movin' yourhands. "

The stranger's slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner ofgait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking; yet, aswell, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chanceswith men. 

"Hello, stranger!" called Tull. No welcome was in this greeting only agruff curiosity. 

The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrerocast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tulland his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed torelax. 

"Evenin', ma'am, " he said to Jane, and removed his sombrero with quaintgrace. 

Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctivelyand which riveted her attention. It had all the characteristics ofthe range rider's--the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the setchangelessness that came from years of silence and solitude. But it wasnot these which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strainedweariness, a piercing wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the manwas forever looking for that which he never found. Jane's subtle woman'sintuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, asecret. 

"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 mebbe if you knew who I was--" He hesitated, with his glance onthe listening men. "Mebbe you wouldn't let me water him--though I ain'taskin' none for myself. "

"Stranger, it doesn't matter who you are. Water your horse. And if youare 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 onthe part of Tull's men broke up the little circle, exposing the prisonerVenters. 

"Mebbe I've kind of hindered somethin'--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 thebound Venters, and at the men who held him, and their leader. 

"In this here country all the rustlers an' thieves an' cut-throatsan' gun-throwers an' all-round no-good men jest 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 Tull as well as for JaneWithersteen, 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, measuredstride in which he had approached, and the fact that his action placedher wholly to one side, and him no nearer to Tull and his men, had apenetrating significance. 

"Young feller, speak up, " he said to Venters. 

"Here stranger, this's none of your mix, " began Tull. "Don't try anyinterference. You've been asked to drink and eat. That's more than you'dhave got in any other village of the Utah border. Water your horse andbe on your way. "

"Easy--easy--I ain't interferin' yet, " replied the rider. The tone ofhis voice had undergone a change. A different man had spoken. Where, inaddressing Jane, he had been mild and gentle, now, with his first speechto Tull, he was dry, cool, biting. "I've lest stumbled onto a queerdeal. Seven Mormons all packin' guns, an' a Gentile tied with a rope, an' a woman who swears by his honesty! Queer, ain't that?"

"Queer or not, it's none of your business, " retorted Tull. 

"Where I was raised a woman's word was law. I ain't quite outgrowed thatyet. "

Tull fumed between amaze and anger. 

"Meddler, we have a law here something different from woman'swhim--Mormon law!. .. Take care you don't transgress it. "

"To hell with your Mormon law!"

The deliberate speech marked the rider's further change, this time fromkindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a transformation inTull and his companions. The leader gasped and staggered backward ata blasphemous affront to an institution he held most sacred. The manJerry, holding the horses, dropped the bridles and froze in his tracks. Like posts the other men stood watchful-eyed, arms hanging rigid, allwaiting. 

"Speak up now, young man. What have you done to be roped that way?"

"It's a damned outrage!" burst out Venters. "I've done no wrong. I'veoffended this Mormon Elder by being a friend to that woman. "

"Ma'am, is it true--what he says?" asked the rider of Jane, but hisquiveringly alert eyes never left the little knot of quiet men. 

"True? Yes, perfectly true, " she answered. 

"Well, young man, it seems to me that bein' a friend to such a womanwould be what you wouldn't want to help an' couldn't help. .. . What's tobe 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 restive bit-champingof the horses, with Jane failing to repress her mounting agitations, with Venters standing pale and still, the tension of the momenttightened. Tull broke the spell with a laugh, a laugh without mirth, alaugh that was only a sound betraying fear. 

"Come on, men!" he called. 

Jane Withersteen turned again to the rider. 

"Stranger, can you do nothing to save Venters?"

"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 askin'. "

"Oh, sir, I pray you--save him!"

"These are Mormons, an' I. .. "

"At--at any cost--save him. For I--I care for him!"

Tull snarled. "You love-sick fool! Tell your secrets. There'll be a wayto 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 Tull. 

"What!"

"Who'll keep him? He's my prisoner!" cried Tull, hotly. "Stranger, againI 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'slow voice. 

"Who are you? We are seven here. "

The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular inthat it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the bigblack gun-sheaths swung round to the fore. 

"LASSITER!"

It was Venters's wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the fatefulconnection between the rider's singular position and the dreaded name. 

Tull put out a groping hand. The life of his eyes dulled to the gloomwith which men of his fear saw the approach of death. But death, whileit hovered over him, did not descend, for the rider waited for thetwitching fingers, the downward flash of hand that did not come. Tull, gathering himself together, turned to the horses, attended by his palecomrades. 

CHAPTER II. COTTONWOODS

Venters appeared too deeply moved to speak the gratitude his faceexpressed. And Jane turned upon the rescuer and gripped his hands. Her smiles and tears seemingly dazed him. Presently as something likecalmness returned, she went to Lassiter's weary horse. 

"I will water him myself, " she said, and she led the horse to a troughunder a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers she loosened the bridleand removed the bit. The horse snorted and bent his head. The trough wasof 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 woodenpipe. 

"He has brought you far to-day?"

"Yes, ma'am, a matter of over sixty miles, mebbe seventy. "

"A long ride--a ride that--Ah, he is blind!"

"Yes, ma'am, " replied Lassiter. 

"What blinded him?"

"Some men once roped an' tied him, an' then held white-iron close to hiseyes. "

"Oh! Men? You mean devils. .. . Were they your enemies--Mormons?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"To take revenge on a horse! Lassiter, the men of my creed areunnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess it. They have beendriven, hated, scourged till their hearts have hardened. But we womenhope and pray for the time when our men will soften. "

"Beggin' your pardon, ma'am--that time will never come. "

"Oh, it will!. .. Lassiter, do you think Mormon women wicked? Has yourhand been against them, too?"

"No. I believe Mormon women are the best and noblest, the mostlong-sufferin', and the blindest, unhappiest women on earth. "

"Ah!" She gave him a grave, thoughtful look. "Then you will break breadwith me?"

Lassiter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his weightfrom one leg to another, and turned his sombrero round and round in hishands. "Ma'am, " he began, presently, "I reckon your kindness of heartmakes you overlook things. Perhaps I ain't well known hereabouts, butback up North there's Mormons who'd rest uneasy in their graves at theidea of me sittin' to table with you. "

"I dare say. But--will you do it, anyway?" she asked. 

"Mebbe you have a brother or relative who might drop in an' be offended, an' I wouldn't want to--"

"I've not a relative in Utah that I know of. There's no one with a rightto question my actions. " She turned smilingly to Venters. "You will comein, Bern, and Lassiter will come in. We'll eat and be merry while wemay. "

"I'm only wonderin' if Tull an' his men'll raise a storm down in thevillage, " said Lassiter, 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 Lassiter's horse over her arm. They entered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by greatlow-branching cottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun sent goldenbars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrastto sage-tired eyes. Twittering quail darted across the path, and from atree-top somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still airfloated the freshness and murmur of flowing water. 

The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cottonwoods, and wasa flat, long, red-stone structure with a covered court in the centerthrough which flowed a lively stream of amber-colored water. In themassive blocks of stone and heavy timbers and solid doors and shuttersshowed the hand of a man who had builded against pillage and time; andin the flowers and mosses lining the stone-bedded stream, in the brightcolors of rugs and blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner withhammock and books and the clean-linened table, showed the grace of adaughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand. 

Jane turned Lassiter's horse loose in the thick grass. "You will wanthim to be near you, " she said, "or I'd have him taken to the alfalfafields. " 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 ceiled chamber, like the inside of a fort, and into a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed in an old openfireplace, and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort aswas manifested in the home-like outer court; moreover, it was warm andrich in soft hues. 

Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking into hermirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty which sinceearly childhood she had never been allowed to forget. Her relatives andfriends, and later a horde of Mormon and Gentile suitors, had fannedthe flame of natural vanity in her. So that at twenty-eight she scarcelythought at all of her wonderful influence for good in the littlecommunity where her father had left her practically its beneficentlandlord, but cared most for the dream and the assurance and theallurement of her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into herglass with more than the usual happy motive, without the usual slightconscious smile. For she was thinking of more than the desire to be fairin her own eyes, in those of her friend; she wondered if she were toseem fair in the eyes of this Lassiter, this man whose name had crossedthe long, wild brakes of stone and plains of sage, this gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a killer of Mormons. It was notnow her usual half-conscious vain obsession that actuated her as shehurriedly changed her riding-dress to one of white, and then looked longat the stately form with its gracious contours, at the fair facewith its strong chin and full firm lips, at the dark-blue, proud, andpassionate eyes. 

"If by some means I can keep him here a few days, a week--he will neverkill another Mormon, " she mused. "Lassiter!. .. I shudder when I thinkof that name, of him. But when I look at the man I forget who he is--Ialmost like him. I remember only that he saved Bern. He has suffered. Iwonder what it was--did he love a Mormon woman once? How splendidly hechampioned us poor misunderstood souls! Somehow he knows--much. "

Jane Withersteen joined her guests and bade them to her board. Dismissing her woman, she waited upon them with her own hands. It was abountiful supper and a strange company. On her right sat the raggedand half-starved Venters; and though blind eyes could have seen whathe counted for in the sum of her happiness, yet he looked the gloomyoutcast his allegiance had made him, and about him there was the shadowof the ruin presaged by Tull. On her left sat black-leather-garbedLassiter looking like a man in a dream. Hunger was not with him, norcomposure, nor speech, and when he twisted in frequent unquiet movementsthe heavy guns that he had not removed knocked against the table-legs. If it had been otherwise possible to forget the presence of Lassiterthose telling little jars would have rendered it unlikely. And JaneWithersteen talked and smiled and laughed with all the dazzling playof lips and eyes that a beautiful, daring woman could summon to herpurpose. 

When the meal ended, and the men pushed back their chairs, she leanedcloser to Lassiter and looked square into his eyes. 

"Why did you come to Cottonwoods?"

Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as if he had justremembered himself and had tarried longer than his wont. 

"Ma'am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevadafor--somethin'. An' through your name I learned where to find it--herein Cottonwoods. "

"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 fifty miles ormore west of here. An' I heard it from a Gentile, a rider who said you'dknow where to tell me to find--"

"What?" she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off. 

"Milly Erne's grave, " he answered low, and the words came with a wrench. 

Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Janeslowly raised herself in white, still wonder. 

"Milly Erne's grave?" she echoed, in a whisper. "What do you know ofMilly Erne, my best-beloved friend--who died in my arms? What were youto her?"

"Did I claim to be anythin'?" he inquired. "I knowpeople--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 shotin Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne's grave is in a secret burying-ground onmy property. "

"Will you take me there?. .. You'll be offendin' Mormons worse than bybreakin' bread with me. "

"Indeed yes, but I'll do it. Only we must go unseen. To-morrow, perhaps. "

"Thank you, Jane Withersteen, " replied the rider, and he bowed to herand stepped backward out of the court. 

"Will you not stay--sleep under my roof?" she asked. 

"No, ma'am, an' thanks again. I never sleep indoors. An' even if I didthere's that gatherin' storm in the village below. No, no. I'll go tothe sage. I hope you won't suffer none for your kindness to me. "

"Lassiter, " said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, "my bed too, is thesage. Perhaps we may meet out there. "

"Mebbe so. But the sage is wide an' I won't be near. Good night. "

At Lassiter's low whistle the black horse whinnied, and carefully pickedhis blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walkedbeside him, leading him by touch of hand and together they passed slowlyinto the shade of the cottonwoods. 

"Jane, I must be off soon, " said Venters. "Give me my guns. If I'd hadmy guns--"

"Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead, " sheinterposed. 

"Tull would be--surely. "

"Oh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can't I teach you forebearance, mercy? Bern, it's divine to forgive your enemies. 'Let not the sun godown upon thy wrath. '"

"Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion--after to-day. To-daythis strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I'll die aman!. .. Give me my guns. "

Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy cartridge-beltand gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed to him, and ashe 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 tomurder your churchman. I'll try to avoid him and all his men. But can'tyou 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 oneway. .. . 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 nightshift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talk there. "

It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading cottonwoodsshadows were obscuring the lanes. Venters drew Jane off from one ofthese into a shrub-lined trail, just wide enough for the two to walkabreast, and in a roundabout way led her far from the house to a knollon the edge of the grove. Here in a secluded nook was a bench fromwhich, through an opening in the tree-tops, could be seen the sage-slopeand the wall of rock and the dim lines of canyons. Jane had not spokensince Venters had shocked her with his first harsh speech; but all theway she had clung to his arm, and now, as he stopped and laid his rifleagainst the bench, she still clung to him. 

"Jane, I'm afraid I must leave you. "

"Bern!" she cried. 

"Yes, it looks that way. My position is not a happy one--I can't feelright--I've lost all--"

"I'll give you anything you--"

"Listen, please. When I say loss I don't mean what you think. I meanloss of good-will, good name--that which would have enabled me to standup in this village without bitterness. Well, it's too late. .. . Now, as tothe 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. Yourblindness--your damned religion!. .. Jane, forgive me--I'm sore within andsomething rankles. Well, I fear that invisible hand will turn its hiddenwork to your ruin. "

"Invisible hand? Bern!"

"I mean your Bishop. " Venters said it deliberately and would not releaseher as she started back. "He'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 theChurch. "

"You wrong Bishop Dyer. Tull is hard, I know. But then he has been inlove with me for years. "

"Oh, your faith and your excuses! You can't see what I know--and if youdid see it you'd not admit it to save your life. That's the Mormonof you. These elders and bishops will do absolutely any deed to go onbuilding up the power and wealth of their church, their empire. Thinkof what they've done to the Gentiles here, to me--think of Milly Erne'sfate!"

"What do you know of her story?"

"I know enough--all, perhaps, except the name of the Mormon who broughther here. But I must stop this kind of talk. "

She pressed his hand in response. He helped her to a seat beside himon the bench. And he respected a silence that he divined was full ofwoman's deep emotion beyond his understanding. 

It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset brightenedmomentarily before yielding to twilight. And for Venters the outlookbefore him was in some sense similar to a feeling of his future, andwith searching eyes he studied the beautiful purple, barren waste ofsage. Here was the unknown and the perilous. The whole scene impressedVenters as a wild, austere, and mighty manifestation of nature. Andas it somehow reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenlyresembled the woman near him, only in her there were greater beauty andperil, a mystery more unsolvable, and something nameless that numbed hisheart and dimmed his eye. 

"Look! A rider!" exclaimed Jane, breaking the silence. "Can that beLassiter?"

Venters moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman showed darkon the sky-line, then merged into the color of the sage. 

"It might be. But I think not--that fellow was coming in. One of yourriders, 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 fiveyesterday 'way down near the trail to Deception Pass. They were with thewhite herd. "

"You still go to that canyon? Bern, I wish you wouldn't. Oldring and hisrustlers live somewhere down there. "

"Well, what of that?"

"Tull has already hinted to your frequent trips into Deception Pass. "

"I know. " Venters uttered a short laugh. "He'll make a rustler of menext. 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 are going out. "

"The red herd is on the slope, toward the Pass. "

Twilight was fast falling. A group of horsemen crossed the dark lineof low ground to become more distinct as they climbed the slope. Thesilence broke to a clear call from an incoming rider, and, almost likethe peal of a hunting-horn, floated back the answer. The outgoing ridersmoved swiftly, came sharply into sight as they topped a ridge to showwild and black above the horizon, and then passed down, dimming into thepurple of the sage. 

"I hope they don't meet Lassiter, " said Jane. 

"So do I, " replied Venters. "By this time the riders of the night shiftknow what happened to-day. But Lassiter will likely keep out of theirway. "

"Bern, who is Lassiter? 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 alittle like a Texan, like Milly Erne. Did you note that?"

"Yes. How strange of him to know of her! And she lived here ten yearsand has been dead two. Bern, what do you know of Lassiter? Tell me whathe has done--why you spoke of him to Tull--threatening to become anotherLassiter yourself?"

"Jane, I only heard things, rumors, stories, most of which Idisbelieved. At Glaze his name was known, but none of the riders orranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stone Bridge I never heard himmentioned. But at Sterling and villages north of there he was spoken ofoften. 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 saidhe had shot up this and that Mormon village, and others denied it. I'minclined to believe he has, and you know how Mormons hide the truth. Butthere was one feature about Lassiter upon which all agree--that he waswhat riders in this country call a gun-man. He's a man with a marvelousquickness and accuracy in the use of a Colt. And now that I've seen himI know more. Lassiter was born without fear. I watched him with eyeswhich saw him my friend. I'll never forget the moment I recognized himfrom what had been told me of his crouch before the draw. It was then Iyelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull's life. At any rate, Iknow this, between Tull and death then there was not the breadth of thelittlest hair. If he or any of his men had moved a finger downward--"

Venters left his meaning unspoken, but at the suggestion Jane shuddered. 

The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging of twilightinto night. The sage now spread out black and gloomy. One dim starglimmered in the southwest sky. The sound of trotting horses hadceased, and there was silence broken only by a faint, dry pattering ofcottonwood 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 atrailing mate. 

"Hello! the sage-dogs are barking, " said Venters. 

"I don't like to hear them, " replied Jane. "At night, sometimes when Ilie awake, listening to the long mourn or breaking bark or wild howl, Ithink of you asleep somewhere in the sage, and my heart aches. "

"Jane, you couldn't listen to sweeter music, nor could I have a betterbed. "

"Just think! Men like Lassiter and you have no home, no comfort, norest, no place to lay your weary heads. Well!. .. Let us be patient. Tull's anger may cool, and time may help us. You might do some serviceto the village--who can tell? Suppose you discovered the long-unknownhiding-place of Oldring and his band, and told it to my riders? Thatwould disarm Tull's ugly hints and put you in favor. For years my ridershave trailed the tracks of stolen cattle. You know as well as I howdearly we've paid for our ranges in this wild country. Oldring drivesour cattle down into the network of deceiving canyons, and somewhere farto the north or east he drives them up and out to Utah markets. If youwill spend time in Deception Pass 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 youagain. But to-morrow, Bern?"

"To-morrow surely. I'll watch for Lassiter and ride in with him. "

"Good night. "

Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape that soonvanished in the shadows. 

Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she hadreached the house, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly slippedthrough the bushes, down the knoll, and on under the dark trees to theedge of the grove. The sky was now turning from gray to blue; stars hadbegun to lighten the earlier blackness; and from the wide flat sweepbefore him blew a cool wind, fragrant with the breath of sage. Keepingclose to the edge of the cottonwoods, he went swiftly and silentlywestward. The grove was long, and he had not reached the end when heheard something that brought him to a halt. Low padded thuds toldhim horses were coming this way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting, listening. Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to hisamazement he descried horsemen near at hand. They were riding along theborder of the sage, and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses weremuffled. Then the pale starlight afforded him indistinct sight of theriders. But his eyes were keen and used to the dark, and by peeringclosely he recognized the huge bulk and black-bearded visage of Oldringand the lithe, supple form of the rustler's lieutenant, a masked rider. They passed on; the darkness swallowed them. Then, farther out on thesage, a dark, compact body of horsemen went by, almost without sound, almost like specters, and they, too, melted into the night. 

CHAPTER III. AMBER SPRING

No unusual circumstances was it for Oldring and some of his men to visitCottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to prowl about inthe dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled meant that mischief wasbrewing. Moreover, to Venters the presence of the masked rider withOldring seemed especially ominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode through the village, and when he did ride through itwas swiftly; riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rodethere always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore. Oldring's band did not confine themselves to the rustling of cattle. 

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this chancemeeting, 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 alongthe grove. When he reached the path leading to Jane's home he decidedto 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 waswide, lined with tall poplars, and under each row of trees, inside thefoot-path, were ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen'sspring. 

Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far downflared bright windows of the village stores. When Venters got closer tothese he saw knots of men standing together in earnest conversation. Theusual lounging on the corners and benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadow Venters went closer and closer until he could hearvoices. But he could not distinguish what was said. He recognized manyMormons, and looked hard for Tull and his men, but looked in vain. Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the villagestreet. No doubt these earnest men were discussing Lassiter's coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull's intention toward himself that dayhad not been and would not be revealed. 

So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracinghis steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next to it was alsodark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any night at this hourthere 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 oncemore slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently he descriedtwo mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Againthe starlight, brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull's stalwartfigure, and beside him the short, froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, and they rode on to disappear. 

Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events ofthe day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughtsoverwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been hisfriend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a gun stealthily as anIndian, a man without place or people or purpose. Above her hovered theshadow of grim, hidden, secret power. No queen could have given moreroyally out of a bounteous store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked onlythe divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her heartwilled. And yet prayer and her hope were vain. 

"For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village ofCottonwoods, " muttered Venters, as he strode on. "Soon it'll burst. Idon't like the prospects. " That night the villagers whispered in thestreet--and night-riding rustlers muffled horses--and Tull was at workin secret--and out there in the sage hid a man who meant somethingterrible--Lassiter!

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage, climbedthe 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 familiarbark of coyote and sweep of wind and rustle of sage. Presently a lowjumble of rocks loomed up darkly somewhat to his right, and, turningthat way, he whistled softly. Out of the rocks glided a dog that leapedand whined about him. He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking hisway carefully, and then went down. Here it was darker, and shelteredfrom the wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and thisone was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animalawoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle for apillow, rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the stars. Thewhite dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and pattered a fewyards to the rise of ground and there crouched on guard. And in thatwild covert Venters shut his eyes under the great white stars andintense 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 andstretched his cramped body, and then, gathering together bunches of deadsage sticks, he lighted a fire. Strips of dried beef held to the blazefor a moment served him and the dogs. He drank from a canteen. There wasnothing else in his outfit; he had grown used to a scant fire. Then hesat over the fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been hischief occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited forunless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action in theimmediate present; the day promised another meeting with Lassiter andLane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he meant to take thetrail to Deception Pass. 

And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring andWhitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound, superb inbuild, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen fortunes thesedogs understood the nature of their value to him, and governed theiraffection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitie watched him with sombereyes 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 ofthe other, and Ring went to sleep at his master's feet. 

By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his meagerpack 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 thatcountry, where every rider boasted of a fine mount and was eager for arace, where thoroughbreds dotted the wonderful grazing ranges, Ventersrode a horse that was sad proof of his misfortunes. 

Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and, stickin hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight filled thevalley with purple fire. Before him, to left, to right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like low swells of a purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods, a green patch on the purple, gleamedthe dull red of Jane Withersteen's old stone house. And from thereextended the wide green of the village gardens and orchards marked bythe graceful poplars; and farther down shone the deep, dark richness ofthe alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dots speckled thesage, and these were cattle and horses. 

So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At length hesaw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be Lassiter'sblack. Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would show against thesky-line, he stood and waved his hat. The almost instant turning ofLassiter's horse attested to the quickness of that rider's eye. ThenVenters climbed down, saddled his horse, tied on his pack, and, witha word to his dogs, was about to ride out to meet Lassiter, when heconcluded to wait for him there, on higher ground, where the outlook wascommanding. 

It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting froma man. Lassiter's warmed in him something that had grown cold fromneglect. And when he had returned it, with a strong grip of the ironhand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he knew that Lassiter and hewere to be friends. 

"Venters, let's talk awhile before we go down there, " said Lassiter, slipping his bridle. "I ain't in no hurry. Them's sure fine dogs you'vegot. " With a rider's eye he took in the points of Venter's horse, butdid not speak his thought. "Well, did anythin' come off after I left youlast night?"

Venters told him about the rustlers. 

"I was snug hid in the sage, " replied Lassiter, "an' didn't see or hearno one. Oldrin's got a high hand here, I reckon. It's no news up inUtah how he holes in canyons an' leaves no track. " Lassiter was silent amoment. "Me an' Oldrin' wasn't exactly strangers some years back when hedrove cattle into Bostil's Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But hegot harassed there an' now he drives some place else. "

"Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?"

"I can't say. I've knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles. "

"No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler, " declaredVenters. 

"Mebbe so. "

"It's a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. Did you everknow or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon community?"

"I never did. "

"Well, I want to get out of Utah. I've a mother living in Illinois. Iwant to go home. It's eight years now. "

The older man's sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had leftQuincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had never gottenany farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over the divide and across thebarrens and up the rugged plateau through the passes to the last bordersettlements. 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 JaneWithersteen. 

"Lassiter, I needn't tell you the rest. "

"Well, it'd be no news to me. I know Mormons. I've seen their women'sstrange love en' patience en' sacrifice an' silence en' whet I callmadness for their idea of God. An' over against that I've seen thetricks of men. They work hand in hand, all together, an' in the dark. No man can hold out against them, unless he takes to packin' guns. ForMormons are slow to kill. That's the only good I ever seen in theirreligion. Venters, take this from me, these Mormons ain't just right intheir minds. Else could a Mormon marry one woman when he already has awife, an' call it duty?"

"Lassiter, you think as I think, " returned Venters. 

"How'd it come then that you never throwed a gun on Tull or some ofthem?" inquired the rider, curiously. 

"Jane pleaded with me, begged me to be patient, to overlook. She eventook my guns from me. I lost all before I knew it, " replied Venters, with the red color in his face. "But, Lassiter, listen. Out of thewreck I saved a Winchester, two Colts, and plenty of shells. I packedthese down into Deception Pass. There, almost every day for six months, I have practiced with my rifle till the barrel burnt my hands. Practisedthe draw--the firing of a Colt, hour after hour!"

"Now that's interestin' to me, " said Lassiter, with a quick uplift ofhis head and a concentration of his gray gaze on Venters. "Could youthrow a gun before you began that practisin'?"

"Yes. And now. .. " Venters made a lightning-swift movement. 

Lassiter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till his eyesseemed mere gray slits. "You'll kill Tull!" He did not question; heaffirmed. 

"I promised Jane Withersteen I'd try to avoid Tull. I'll keep my word. But sooner or later Tull and I will meet. As I feel now, if he evenlooks at me I'll draw!"

"I reckon so. There'll be hell down there, presently. " He paused amoment and flicked a sage-brush with his quirt. "Venters, seein' asyou're considerable worked up, tell me Milly Erne's story. "

Venters's agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eagerness inLassiter's query. 

"Milly Erne's story? Well, Lassiter, I'll tell you what I know. MillyErne had been in Cottonwoods years when I first arrived there, and mostof what I tell you happened before my arrival. I got to know her prettywell. She was a slip of a woman, and crazy on religion. I conceived anidea that I never mentioned--I thought she was at heart more Gentilethan Mormon. But she passed as a Mormon, and certainly she had theMormon woman's locked lips. You know, in every Mormon village there arewomen who seem mysterious to us, but about Milly there was more thanthe ordinary mystery. When she came to Cottonwoods she had a beautifullittle girl whom she loved passionately. Milly was not known openly inCottonwoods as a Mormon wife. That she really was a Mormon wife I haveno doubt. Perhaps the Mormon's other wife or wives would not acknowledgeMilly. Such things happen in these villages. Mormon wives wearyokes, but they get jealous. Well, whatever had brought Milly to thiscountry--love or madness of religion--she repented of it. She gave upteaching the village school. She quit the church. And she began tofight Mormon upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormons put on thescrews--slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared. 'Lost'was the report. The child was stolen, I know that. So do you. Thatwrecked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She became a slave. Sheworked her heart and soul and life out to get back her child. She neverheard of it again. Then she sank. .. . I can see her now, a frail thing, sotransparent you could almost look through her--white like ashes--and hereyes!. .. Her eyes have always haunted me. She had one real friend--JaneWithersteen. But Jane couldn't mend a broken heart, and Milly died. "

For moments Lassiter did not speak, or turn his head. 

"The man!" he exclaimed, presently, in husky accents. 

"I haven't the slightest idea who the Mormon was, " replied Venters; "norhas any Gentile in Cottonwoods. "

"Does Jane Withersteen know?"

"Yes. But a red-hot running-iron couldn't burn that name out of her!"

Without further speech Lassiter started off, walking his horse andVenters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope they entereda luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came into an open space carpetedwith grass like deep green velvet. The rushing of water and singing ofbirds filled their ears. Venters led his comrade to a shady bower andshowed him Amber Spring. It was a magnificent outburst of clear, amberwater pouring from a dark, stone-lined hole. Lassiter knelt and drank, lingered there to drink again. He made no comment, but Venters did notneed words. Next to his horse a rider of the sage loved a spring. Andthis spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known to the uplandriders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made old Withersteen afeudal lord and now enabled his daughter to return the toll which herfather had exacted from the toilers of the sage. 

The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down joyouslyto make its swift way along a willow-skirted channel. Moss and ferns andlilies overhung its green banks. Except for the rough-hewn stones thatheld and directed the water, this willow thicket and glade had been leftas nature had made it. 

Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the otherin banks of raised earth, and round about them rose the loftygreen-foliaged shafts of poplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy surfaceof the lakes; a blue heron stood motionless on a water-gate; kingfishersdarted with shrieking flight along the shady banks; a white hawksailed above; and from the trees and shrubs came the song of robinsand cat-birds. It was all in strange contrast to the endless slopes oflonely sage and the wild rock environs beyond. Venters thought of thewoman who loved the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur ofthe water. 

Next on the slope, just below the third and largest lake, were corralsand a wide stone barn and open sheds and coops and pens. Here wereclouds of dust, and cracking sounds of hoofs, and romping colts andheehawing burros. Neighing horses trampled to the corral fences. Andon the little windows of the barn projected bobbing heads of bays andblacks and sorrels. When the two men entered the immense barnyard, fromall around the din increased. This welcome, however, was not seconded bythe several men and boys who vanished on sight. 

Venters and Lassiter were turning toward the house when Jane appeared inthe lane leading a horse. In riding-skirt and blouse she seemed to havelost some of her statuesque proportions, and looked more like a girlrider than the mistress of Withersteen. She was brightly smiling, andher 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 hasridden out on his way to Glaze. "

"Tull gone?" inquired Venters, with surprise. He was wondering whatcould have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another meeting withLassiter that he went? Could it have any connection with the probablenearness of Oldring and his gang?

"Gone, yes, thank goodness, " replied Jane. "Now I'll have peace for awhile. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You are a rider, andyou must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of mine have Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in Nevada from Indians who claimed theirhorses were bred down from the original stock left by the Spaniards. "

"Well, ma'am, the one you've been ridin' takes my eye, " said Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, and fine-pointed roan. 

"Where are the boys?" she asked, looking about. "Jerd, Paul, where areyou? Here, bring out the horses. "

The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the horsesto jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp. Then they camepounding out of the door, a file of thoroughbreds, to plunge aboutthe barnyard, heads and tails up, manes flying. They halted afar off, squared away to look, came slowly forward with whinnies for theirmistress, 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, Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!"

Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black Star. Ventersnever looked at them without delight. The first was soft dead black, theother glittering black, and they were perfectly matched in size, bothbeing high and long-bodied, wide through the shoulders, with lithe, powerful legs. That they were a woman's pets showed in the gloss ofskin, the fineness of mane. It showed, too, in the light of big eyes andthe gentle reach of eagerness. 

"I never seen their like, " was Lassiter's encomium, "an' in my day I'veseen a sight of horses. Now, ma'am, if you was wantin' to make a longan' fast ride across the sage--say to elope--"

Lassiter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was meaning. Janeblushed and made arch eyes at him. 

"Take care, Lassiter, 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 Erne'sgrave. The day-riders have gone, and the night-riders haven't come in. Bern, what do you make of that? Need I worry? You know I have to be madeto worry. "

"Well, it's not usual for the night shift to ride in so late, " repliedVenters, slowly, and his glance sought Lassiter's. "Cattle are usuallyquiet after dark. Still, I've known even a coyote to stampede your whiteherd. "

"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's dogstrotted behind them. On this side of the ranch the outlook was differentfrom that on the other; the immediate foreground was rough and the sagemore rugged and less colorful; there were no dark-blue lines of canyonsto hold the eye, nor any uprearing rock walls. It was a long roll andslope into gray obscurity. Soon Jane left the trail and rode into thesage, and presently she dismounted and threw her bridle. The men didlikewise. Then, on foot, they followed her, coming out at length on therim of a low escarpment. She passed by several little ridges of earth tohalt before a faintly defined mound. It lay in the shade of a sweepingsage-brush close to the edge of the promontory; and a rider could havejumped his horse over it without recognizing a grave. 

"Here!"

She looked sad as she spoke, but she offered no explanation for theneglect of an unmarked, uncared-for grave. There was a little bunch ofpale, sweet lavender daisies, doubtless planted there by Jane. 

"I only come here to remember and to pray, " she said. "But I leave notrail!"

A grave in the sage! How lonely this resting-place of Milly Erne! Thecottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was there anyrock 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 heseemed a figure of bronze. 

Jane touched Venters's arm and led him back to the horses. 

"Bern!" cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. "Suppose Lassiterwere Milly'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'llcome. "

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, Venterslooked back. He did not see Lassiter, but his glance, drawn irresistiblyfarther out on the gradual slope, caught sight of a moving cloud ofdust. 

"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 hiscourse. 

"He's short-cut on us--he's making straight for the corrals. "

Venters and Jane galloped their steeds and reined in at the turning ofthe lane. This lane led down to the right of the grove. Suddenly intoits lower entrance flashed a bay horse. Then Venters caught the fastrhythmic beat of pounding hoofs. Soon his keen eye recognized the swingof the rider in his saddle. 

"It's Judkins, your Gentile rider!" he cried. "Jane, when Judkins rideslike that it means hell!"

CHAPTER IV. DECEPTION PASS

The rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flecked horse in thesudden stop. He was a giant form, and with fearless eyes. 

"Judkins, you're all bloody!" cried Jane, in affright. "Oh, you've beenshot!"

"Nothin' much Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the shoulder. I'm somewet an' the hoss's been throwin' lather, so all this ain't blood. "

"What's up?" queried Venters, sharply. 

"Rustlers sloped off with the red herd. "

"Where are my riders?" demanded Jane. 

"Miss Withersteen, I was alone all night with the herd. At daylight thismornin' the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot at me on sight. Theychased me hard an' far, burnin' powder all the time, but I got away. "

"Jud, they meant to kill you, " declared Venters. 

"Now I wonder, " returned Judkins. "They wanted me bad. An' it ain'tregular for rustlers to waste time chasin' 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 rodedown, en' this mornin' I met no day-riders. "

"Judkins! Bern, they've been set upon--killed by Oldring's men!"

"I don't think so, " replied Venters, decidedly. "Jane, your ridershaven't gone out in the sage. "

"Bern, what do you mean?" Jane Withersteen turned deathly pale. 

"You remember what I said about the unseen hand?"

"Oh!. .. Impossible!"

"I hope so. But I fear--" Venters finished, with a shake of his head. 

"Bern, you're bitter; but that's only natural. We'll wait to see what'shappened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house with me. Your woundmust be attended to. "

"Jane, I'll find out where Oldring drives the herd, " vowed Venters. 

"No, no! Bern, don't risk it now--when the rustlers are in such shootingmood. "

"I'm going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?"

"Twenty-five hundred head. "

"Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? Why, a hundredhead is a big steal. I've got to find out. "

"Don't go, " implored Jane. 

"Bern, you want a hoss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, if it's not toobold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don't let him go. "

"Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can't be caught. Whichone--Black Star--Night?"

"Jane, I won't take either, " said Venters, emphatically. "I wouldn'trisk losing one of your favorites. "

"Wrangle, then?"

"Thet's the hoss, " replied Judkins. "Wrangle can outrun Black Star an'Night. You'd never believe it, Miss Withersteen, but I know. Wrangle'sthe biggest en' fastest hoss on the sage. "

"Oh no, Wrangle can't beat Black Star. But, Bern, take Wrangle if youwill go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful careful. .. . Godspeed you. "

She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with therider. 

Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The boycame running. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits, tobe packed in saddlebags. His own horse he turned loose into the nearestcorral. Then he went for Wrangle. The giant sorrel had earned his namefor a trait the opposite of amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard he broke from Venters, and plunged about with earslaid back. Venters had to rope him, and then he kicked down a sectionof fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down and fought the rope. Jerdreturned to lend a hand. 

"Wrangle don't git enough work, " said Jerd, as the big saddle went on. "He's unruly when he's corralled, an' wants to run. Wait till he smellsthe sage!"

"Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him butonce. Run? Say, he's swift as wind!"

When Venters's boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, giving himthe rider's flying mount. The swing of this fiery horse recalled toVenters days that were not really long past, when he rode into the sageas the leader of Jane Withersteen's riders. Wrangle pulled hard on atight rein. He galloped out of the lane, down the shady border ofthe grove, and hauled up at the watering-trough, where he pranced andchamped his bit. Venters got off and filled his canteen while the horsedrank. The dogs, Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink. ThenVenters remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage. 

A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping glancetold Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within thelimit of his vision, unless they were lying down in the sage. Ring lopedin the lead and Whitie loped in the rear. Wrangle settled gradually intoan easy swinging canter, and Venters's thoughts, now that the rush andflurry of the start were past, and the long miles stretched before him, reverted to a calm reckoning of late singular coincidences. 

There was the night ride of Tull's, which, viewed in the light ofsubsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; Oldring andhis Masked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses; the reportthat Tull had ridden out that morning with his man Jerry on the trailto Glaze, the strange disappearance of Jane Withersteen's riders, the unusually determined attempt to kill the one Gentile still in heremploy, an intention frustrated, no doubt, only by Judkin's magnificentriding of her racer, and lastly the driving of the red herd. Theseevents, to Venters's color of mind, had a dark relationship. RememberingJane's accusation of bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancorin judging Tull. But it was bitter knowledge that made him see thetruth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand; he had watched till hesaw its dim outline, and then he had traced it to a man's hate, tothe 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 itsfirst move against Jane Withersteen. Her riders had been called in, leaving her without help to drive seven thousand head of cattle. But toVenters it seemed extraordinary that the power which had called in theseriders had left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers and harried bywolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate greed; theywere one and the same. 

"What can Oldring do with twenty-five hundred head of cattle?" mutteredVenters. "Is he a Mormon? Did he meet Tull last night? It looks likea black plot to me. But Tull and his churchmen wouldn't ruin JaneWithersteen unless the Church was to profit by that ruin. Where doesOldring come in? I'm going to find out about these things. "

Wrangle did the twenty-five miles in three hours and walked little ofthe way. When he had gotten warmed up he had been allowed to choose hisown gait. The afternoon had well advanced when Venters struck the trailof the red herd and found where it had grazed the night before. ThenVenters rested the horse and used his eyes. Near at hand were a cowand a calf and several yearlings, and farther out in the sage somestraggling steers. He caught a glimpse of coyotes skulking near thecattle. The slow sweeping gaze of the rider failed to find other livingthings within the field of sight. The sage about him was breast-high tohis horse, oversweet with its warm, fragrant breath, gray where itwaved to the light, darker where the wind left it still, and beyond thewonderful haze-purple lent by distance. Far across that wide waste beganthe slow lift of uplands through which Deception Pass cut its tortuousmany-canyoned way. 

Venters raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad cattletrail. The crushed sage resembled the path of a monster snake. In a fewmiles of travel he passed several cows and calves that had escaped thedrive. Then he stood on the last high bench of the slope with the floorof the valley beneath. The opening of the canyon showed in a break ofthe sage, and the cattle trail paralleled it as far as he could see. That trail led to an undiscovered point where Oldring drove cattleinto the pass, and many a rider who had followed it had never returned. Venters satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated from theirusual course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle trailand made for the head of the pass. 

The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, where itchanged from white to gold and rested like a huge ball about to roll onits golden shadows down the slope. Venters watched the lengthening ofthe rays and bars, and marveled at his own league-long shadow. The sunsank. There was instant shading of brightness about him, and he saw akind of cold purple bloom creep ahead of him to cross the canyon, tomount the opposite slope and chase and darken and bury the last goldenflare of sunlight. 

Venters rode into a trail that he always took to get down into thecanyon. He dismounted and found no tracks but his own made daysprevious. Nevertheless he sent the dog Ring ahead and waited. In alittle while Ring returned. Whereupon Venters led his horse on to thebreak in the ground. 

The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable naturalphenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of sage, uplandsinsulated by gigantic red walls, and deep canyons of mysterious sourceand outlet. Here the valley floor was level, and here opened a narrowchasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls of stone. The trail down the fivehundred feet of sheer depth always tested Venters's nerve. It wasbad going for even a burro. But Wrangle, as Venters led him, snorteddefiance or disgust rather than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on thejump, lifted his ponderous iron-shod fore hoofs and crashed down overthe first rough step. Venters warmed to greater admiration of thesorrel; and, giving him a loose bridle, he stepped down foot by foot. Oftentimes the stones and shale started by Wrangle buried Venters tohis knees; again he was hard put to it to dodge a rolling boulder, therewere times when he could not see Wrangle for dust, and once he and thehorse rode a sliding shelf of yellow, weathered cliff. It was a trailon which there could be no stops, and, therefore, if perilous, it was atleast one that did not take long in the descent. 

Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a sudden assurancein the success of his enterprise. For at first it had been a recklessdetermination to achieve something at any cost, and now it resolveditself into an adventure worthy of all his reason and cunning, andkeenness of eye and ear. 

Pinyon pines clustered in little clumps along the level floor of thepass. Twilight had gathered under the walls. Venters rode into the trailand up the canyon. Gradually the trees and caves and objects low downturned black, and this blackness moved up the walls till night enfoldedthe pass, while day still lingered above. The sky darkened; and starsbegan to show, at first pale and then bright. Sharp notches of therim-wall, biting like teeth into the blue, were landmarks by whichVenters knew where his camping site lay. He had to feel his way througha thicket of slender oaks to a spring where he watered Wrangle and drankhimself. Here he unsaddled and turned Wrangle loose, having no fear thatthe horse would leave the thick, cool grass adjacent to the spring. Nexthe satisfied his own hunger, fed Ring and Whitie and, with them curledbeside him, composed himself to await sleep. 

There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these Utahuplands had been satisfying to Venters. But that was before theoppression of enemies had made the change in his mind. As a riderguarding the herd he had never thought of the night's wildness andloneliness; as an outcast, now when the full silence set in, and thedeep darkness, and trains of radiant stars shone cold and calm, helay 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 ofa hand. In the daytime there was riding from place to place, and thegun practice to which something drove him, and other tasks that at leastnecessitated action, at night, before he won sleep, there was strife inhis soul. He yearned to leave the endless sage slopes, the wildernessof canyons, and it was in the lonely night that this yearning grewunbearable. It was then that he reached forth to feel Ring or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love and companionship of two dogs. 

On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old habitof sad thought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it evolved aconviction that his useless life had undergone a subtle change. He hadsensed it first when Wrangle swung him up to the high saddle, he knewit now when he lay in the gateway of Deception Pass. He had no thrill ofadventure, rather a gloomy perception of great hazard, perhaps death. Hemeant to find Oldring's retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but nonethat could catch Wrangle. Venters knew no rustler could creep upon himat night when Ring and Whitie guarded his hiding-place. For the rest, hehad eyes and ears, and a long rifle and an unerring aim, which he meantto use. Strangely his foreshadowing of change did not hold a thoughtof the killing of Tull. It related only to what was to happen to him inDeception Pass; and he could no more lift the veil of that mystery thantell where the trails led to in that unexplored canyon. Moreover, he didnot 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 theopposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments sufficedfor 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 horsesthat left his viciousness in the home corral. What he wanted was to befree of mules and burros and steers, to roll in dust-patches, and thento run down the wide, open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse andsleep in the cool wet grass of a springhole. Jerd knew the sorrel whenhe said of him, "Wait till he smells the sage!"

Venters saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and, leapingastride, rode up the canyon, with Ring and Whitie trotting behind. Anold grass-grown trail followed the course of a shallow wash where floweda thin stream of water. The canyon was a hundred rods wide, its yellowwalls were perpendicular; it had abundant sage and a scant growth of oakand pinon. For five miles it held to a comparatively straight bearing, and then began a heightening of rugged walls and a deepening of thefloor. Beyond this point of sudden change in the character of thecanyon Venters had never explored, and here was the real door to theintricacies of Deception Pass. 

He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and thenproceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The canyon assumedproportions that dwarfed those of its first ten miles. Venters rode onand on, not losing in the interest of his wide surroundings any of hiscaution or keen search for tracks or sight of living thing. If thereever had been a trail here, he could not find it. He rode through sageand clumps of pinon trees and grassy plots where long-petaled purplelilies bloomed. He rode through a dark constriction of the pass no widerthan the lane in the grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into a greatamphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a confluences ofintersecting canyons. 

Venters sat his horse, and, with a rider's eye, studied this wildcross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided by the courseof running water. If it had not been for the main stream of waterflowing north he would never have been able to tell which of those manyopenings was a continuation of the pass. In crossing this amphitheaterhe went by the mouths of five canyons, fording little streams thatflowed into the larger one. Gaining the outlet which he took to be thepass, he rode on again under over hanging walls. One side was dark inshade, the other light in sun. This narrow passageway turned and twistedand opened into a valley that amazed Venters. 

Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the higherlevels. The valley was miles long, several wide, and inclosed byunscalable walls. But it was the background of this valley that soforcibly struck him. Across the sage-flat rose a strange up-flinging ofyellow rocks. He could not tell which were close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of stone, like mountain waves, seemed to roll up tosteep bare slopes and towers. 

In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when he hadproceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing white tails ofa herd of running antelope. He rode along the edge of the stream whichwound toward the western end of the slowly looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated out of sight behind the nearer protection. To Venters the valley appeared to have been filled in by a mountain ofmelted stone that had hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Ventersquit the dark slit which baffled further search in that direction, androde out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. It wasnot long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle readily climbedup. 

All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed rock. Not atuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull rust-yellow. He sawwhere, to the right, this uneven flow of stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward, from the hollow that lay at his feet, mounted a gradualslow-swelling slope to a great height topped by leaning, cracked, and ruined crags. Not for some time did he grasp the wonder of thatacclivity. It was no less than a mountain-side, glistening in the sunlike polished granite, with cedar-trees springing as if by magic out ofthe denuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale, andrains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope its beautifullines broke to meet the vertical rim-wall, to lose its grace in adifferent order and color of rock, a stained yellow cliff of cracks andcaves and seamed crags. And straight before Venters was a scene lessstriking but more significant to his keen survey. For beyond a mileof the bare, hummocky rock began the valley of sage, and the mouths ofcanyons, one of which surely was another gateway into the pass. 

He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, hecommenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was notsuccessful and concluded the water dropped into an underground passage. Then he returned to where he had left Wrangle, and led him down off thestone to the sage. It was a short ride to the opening canyons. There wasno reason for a choice of which one to enter. The one he rode into was aclear, sharp shaft in yellow stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderfulwind-worn caves low down and high above buttressed and turretedramparts. Farther on Venters came into a region where deep indentationsmarked the line of canyon walls. These were huge, cove-like blindpockets extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth ofunderbrush and trees. 

Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had hoped, hefound abundant grass. He had to bend the oak saplings to get his horsethrough. Deciding to make this a hiding-place if he could find water, heworked back to the limit of the shelving walls. In a little cluster ofsilver spruces he found a spring. This inclosed nook seemed an idealplace to leave his horse and to camp at night, and from which to makestealthy trips on foot. The thick grass hid his trail; the dense growthof oaks in the opening would serve as a barrier to keep Wrangle in, if, indeed, the luxuriant browse would not suffice for that. So Venters, leaving Whitie with the horse, called Ring to his side, and, rifle inhand, worked his way out to the open. A careful photographing in mindof the formation of the bold outlines of rimrock assured him he would beable to return to his retreat even in the dark. 

Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canyon, and amongthese Venters threaded his way with the step of an Indian. At intervalshe put his hand on the dog and stopped to listen. There was a drowsyhum of insects, but no other sound disturbed the warm midday stillness. Venters saw ahead a turn, more abrupt than any yet. Warily he roundedthis corner, once again to halt bewildered. 

The canyon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and graygrowths. It was the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, at regulardistances, like spokes, ran the outgoing canyons. Here a dull red colorpredominated over the fading yellow. The corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled, to taper into towers and serrated peaks andpinnacled domes. 

Venters pushed on more heedfully than ever. Toward the center of thiscircle the sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart He was about tosheer off to the right, where thickets and jumbles of fallen rock wouldafford him cover, when he ran right upon a broad cattle trail. Like aroad it was, more than a trail, and the cattle tracks were fresh. Whatsurprised him more, they were wet! He pondered over this feature. Ithad not rained. The only solution to this puzzle was that the cattle hadbeen driven through water, and water deep enough to wet their legs. 

Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and looked over thesage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding across the oval. Hesank down, startled and trembling. "Rustlers!" he muttered. Hurriedlyhe glanced about for a place to hide. Near at hand there wasnothing but sage-brush. He dared not risk crossing the openpatches to reach the rocks. Again he peeped over the sage. Therustlers--four--five--seven--eight in all, were approaching, but notdirectly in line with him. That was relief for a cold deadness whichseemed to be creeping inward along his veins. He crouched down withbated breath and held the bristling dog. 

He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse laughter ofmen, and then voices gradually dying away. Long moments passed. Then herose. The rustlers were riding into a canyon. Their horses were tired, and they had several pack animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters doubted that they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Olding's band had split. Venters watched these horsemen disappear undera bold canyon wall. 

The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval. Venters kepta steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there were more, to seefrom what canyon they rode. A quarter of an hour went by. Reward for hisvigilance came when he descried three more mounted men, far over to thenorth. 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 redcorner where the others had gone. 

"Up that canyon!" exclaimed Venters. "Oldring's den! I've found it!"

A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks allpointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of the canyoninto which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the cattle had beendriven out of it across the oval. There were no tracks pointing theother way. It had been in his mind that Oldring had driven the red herdtoward the rendezvous, and not from it. Where did that broad trail comedown into the pass, and where did it lead? Venters knew he wastedtime in pondering the question, but it held a fascination not easilydispelled. For many years Oldring's mysterious entrance and exit toDeception Pass had been all-absorbing topics to sage-riders. 

All at once the dog put an end to Venters's pondering. Ring sniffed theair, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and then growled. Venterswheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred yards, coming straight athim. One, lagging behind the other, was Oldring's Masked Rider. 

Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage-brush. But, guarded as his action was, the first horse detected it. He stoppedshort, snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler bent forward, as ifkeenly peering ahead. Then, with a swift sweep, he jerked a gun from itssheath and fired. 

The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of wood struckVenters, 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 shotonce--twice. 

The foremost rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from his saddle, tofall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse snorted wildly andplunged away, dragging the rustler through the sage. 

The Masked Rider huddled over his pommel slowly swaying to one side, andthen, with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the saddle. 

CHAPTER V. THE MASKED RIDER

Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyon where theothers had disappeared. He calculated on the time needed for runninghorses to return to the open, if their riders heard shots. He waitedbreathlessly. But the estimated time dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently to believe that the rifle reports had notpenetrated into the recesses of the canyon, and felt safe for theimmediate present. 

He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged by hishorse. The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes protruding--asight that sickened Venters. The first man at whom he had ever aimed aweapon he had shot through the heart. With the clammy sweat oozingfrom every pore Venters dragged the rustler in among some boulders andcovered him with slabs of rock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trailin grass and sage. The rustler's horse had stopped a quarter of a mileoff and was grazing. 

When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even the coldnausea that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For he had shotOldring's infamous lieutenant, whose face had never been seen. Ventersexperienced a grim pride in the feat. What would Tull say to thisachievement of the outcast who rode too often to Deception Pass?

Venters's curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him for theshock he received when he stood over a slight, dark figure. The rustlerwore the black mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at the drooping horse, there were no gun-sheaths on thesaddle. 

"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears no belt. He couldn't pack guns in that rig. .. . Strange!"

A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body toldVenters the rider still lived. 

"He's alive!. .. I've got to stand here and watch him die. And I shot anunarmed man. "

Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and the blackcloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined tocurl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jawwas a clear demarcation, where the brown of tanned skin met the whitethat had been hidden from the sun. 

"Oh, he's only a boy!. .. What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"

The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lipsmoved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse. 

Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet hadentered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With handsthat shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wetblouse. 

First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, fromwhich welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful, beautiful swell ofa woman's breast!

"A woman!" he cried. "A girl!. .. I've killed a girl!"

She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They were fathomlessblue. Consciousness of death was there, a blended terror and pain, butno consciousness of sight. She did not see Venters. She stared into theunknown. 

Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of revivingstrength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from Ventner's grasp. Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. The ungloved hand sought thewound, and pressed so hard that her wrist half buried itself in herbosom. Blood trickled between her spread fingers. And she looked atVenters with eyes that saw him. 

He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so proud. Hehad seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope which he wasabout to finish with his knife. But in her it had infinitely more--arevelation of mortal spirit. The instinctive bringing to life wasthere, and the divining helplessness and the terrible accusation of thestricken. 

"Forgive me! I didn't know!" burst out Venters. 

"You shot me--you've killed me!" she whispered, in panting gasps. Uponher lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By that Venters knewthe air in her lungs was mixing with blood. "Oh, I knew--itwould--come--some day!. .. Oh, the burn!. .. Hold me--I'm sinking--it's alldark. .. . Ah, God!. .. Mercy--"

Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp, still, white as snow, with closed eyes. 

Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation of herbreast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed only a matterof moments, for the bullet had gone clear through her. Nevertheless, hetore sageleaves from a bush, and, pressing them tightly over her wounds, he bound the black scarf round her shoulder, tying it securely underher arm. Then he closed the blouse, hiding from his sight thatblood-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 animateobject. Then he picked up the girl's sombrero and the mask. This timethe mask gave him as great a shock as when he first removed it fromher face. For in the woman he had forgotten the rustler, and this blackstrip of felt-cloth established the identity of Oldring's Masked Rider. Venters had solved the mystery. He slipped his rifle under her, and, lifting her carefully upon it, he began to retrace his steps. Thedog trailed in his shadow. And the horse, that had stood drooping by, followed without a call. Venters chose the deepest tufts of grass andclumps of sage on his return. From time to time he glanced over hisshoulder. He did not rest. His concern was to avoid jarring the girl andto hide his trail. Gaining the narrow canyon, he turned and held closeto the wall till he reached his hiding-place. When he entered the densethicket of oaks he was hard put to it to force a way through. But heheld his burden almost upright, and by slipping side wise and bendingthe saplings he got in. Through sage and grass he hurried to the groveof silver spruces. 

He laid the girl down, almost fearing to look at her. Though marble paleand cold, she was living. Venters then appreciated the tax that longcarry had been to his strength. He sat down to rest. Whitie sniffed atthe pale girl and whined and crept to Venters's feet. Ring lapped thewater in the runway of the spring. 

Presently Venters went out to the opening, caught the horse and, leadinghim through the thicket, unsaddled him and tied him with a long halter. Wrangle left his browsing long enough to whinny and toss his head. Venters felt that he could not rest easily till he had secured the otherrustler'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 ovaland out to the cattle trail. What few tracks might have betrayed himhe obliterated, so only an expert tracker could have trailed him. Then, with many a wary backward glance across the sage, he started to roundup the rustler's horse. This was unexpectedly easy. He led the horse tolower ground, out of sight from the opposite side of the oval along theshadowy western wall, and so on into his canyon and secluded camp. 

The girl's eyes were open; a feverish spot burned in her cheeks shemoaned something unintelligible to Venters, but he took the movement ofher lips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting her head, he tipped thecanteen to her lips. After that she again lapsed into unconsciousness ora weakness which was its counterpart. Venters noted, however, that theburning flush had faded into the former pallor. 

The sun set behind the high canyon rim, and a cool shade darkened thewalls. Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on the dead rustlers horse. He allowed Wrangle to browse free. This done, he cut spruce boughs andmade a lean-to for the girl. Then, gently lifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides over her. The other blanket he wrapped about hisshoulders and found a comfortable seat against a spruce-tree that upheldthe little shack. Ring and Whitie lay near at hand, one asleep, theother watchful. 

Venters dreaded the night's vigil. At night his mind was active, andthis time he had to watch and think and feel beside a dying girl whomhe had all but murdered. A thousand excuses he invented for himself, yetnot one made any difference in his act or his self-reproach. 

It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her white faceso 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; andthen he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast. Her heart stillbeat. 

The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. The horses werenot moving, and no sound disturbed the deathly silence of the canyon. 

"I'll bury her here, " thought Venters, "and let her grave be as much amystery as her life was. "

For the girl's few words, the look of her eyes, the prayer, hadstrangely touched Venters. 

"She was only a girl, " he soliloquized. "What was she to Oldring?Rustlers don't have wives nor sisters nor daughters. She was bad--that'sall. But somehow. .. Well, she may not have willingly become the companionof rustlers. That prayer of hers to God for mercy!. .. Life is strangeand cruel. I wonder if other members of Oldring's gang are women? Likelyenough. But what was his game? Oldring's Mask Rider! A name to makevillagers hide and lock their doors. A name credited with a dozenmurders, a hundred forays, and a thousand stealings of cattle. Whatpart did the girl have in this? It may have served Oldring to createmystery. "

Hours passed. The white stars moved across the narrow strip of dark-bluesky above. The silence awoke to the low hum of insects. Venters watchedthe immovable white face, and as he watched, hour by hour waiting fordeath, the infamy of her passed from his mind. He thought only of thesadness, the truth of the moment. Whoever she was--whatever she haddone--she was young and she was dying. 

The after-part of the night wore on interminably. The starlight failedand the gloom blackened to the darkest hour. "She'll die at the grayof dawn, " muttered Venters, remembering some old woman's fancy. Theblackness paled to gray, and the gray lightened and day peeped overthe eastern rim. Venters listened at the breast of the girl. Shestill lived. Did he only imagine that her heart beat stronger, ever soslightly, but stronger? He pressed his ear closer to her breast. And herose with his own pulse quickening. 

"If she doesn't die soon--she's got a chance--the barest chance tolive, " he said. 

He wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased. There was no more filmof blood upon her lips. But no corpse could have been whiter. Openingher blouse, he untied the scarf, and carefully picked away the sageleaves from the wound in her shoulder. It had closed. Lifting herlightly, he ascertained that the same was true of the hole where thebullet had come out. He reflected on the fact that clean wounds closedquickly in the healing upland air. He recalled instances of riders whohad been cut and shot apparently to fatal issues; yet the blood hadclotted, the wounds closed, and they had recovered. He had no way totell if internal hemorrhage still went on, but he believed that it hadstopped. Otherwise she would surely not have lived so long. He markedthe entrance of the bullet, and concluded that it had just touched theupper lobe of her lung. Perhaps the wound in the lung had also closed. As he began to wash the blood stains from her breast and carefullyrebandage the wound, he was vaguely conscious of a strange, gravehappiness in the thought that she might live. 

Broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff-rim to the westbrought him to consideration of what he had better do. And while busywith his few camp tasks he revolved the thing in his mind. It would notbe wise for him to remain long in his present hiding-place. And if heintended to follow the cattle trail and try to find the rustlers he hadbetter make a move at once. For he knew that rustlers, being riders, would not make much of a day's or night's absence from camp for oneor two of their number; but when the missing ones failed to show up inreasonable time there would be a search. And Venters was afraid of that. 

"A good tracker could trail me, " he muttered. "And I'd be cornered here. Let's see. Rustlers are a lazy set when they're not on the ride. I'llrisk it. Then I'll change my hiding-place. "

He carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns. When he rose to go he benta long glance down upon the unconscious girl. Then ordering Whitie andRing to keep guard, he left the camp. 

The safest cover lay close under the wall of the canyon, and herethrough the dense thickets Venters made his slow, listening advancetoward the oval. Upon gaining the wide opening he decided to cross itand follow the left wall till he came to the cattle trail. He scannedthe oval as keenly as if hunting for antelope. Then, stooping, he stolefrom one cover to another, taking advantage of rocks and bunches ofsage, until he had reached the thickets under the opposite wall. Oncethere, he exercised extreme caution in his surveys of the ground ahead, but increased his speed when moving. Dodging from bush to bush, hepassed the mouths of two canyons, and in the entrance of a third canyonhe crossed a wash of swift clear water, to come abruptly upon the cattletrail. 

It followed the low bank of the wash, and, keeping it in sight, Ventershugged the line of sage and thicket. Like the curves of a serpent thecanyon wound for a mile or more and then opened into a valley. Patchesof red showed clear against the purple of sage, and farther out on thelevel dotted strings of red led away to the wall of rock. 

"Ha, the red herd!" exclaimed Venters. 

Then dots of white and black told him there were cattle of other colorsin this inclosed valley. Oldring, the rustler, was also a rancher. Venters's calculating eye took count of stock that outnumbered the redherd. 

"What a range!" went on Venters. "Water and grass enough for fiftythousand head, and no riders needed!"

After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters lost notime there, but slunk again into the sage on his back trail. With thediscovery of Oldring's hidden cattle-range had come enlightenmenton several problems. Here the rustler kept his stock, here was JaneWithersteen's red herd; here were the few cattle that had disappearedfrom the Cottonwoods slopes during the last two years. Until Oldring haddriven the red herd his thefts of cattle for that time had not beenmore than enough to supply meat for his men. Of late no drives had beenreported from Sterling or the villages north. And Venters knew that theriders had wondered at Oldring's inactivity in that particular field. He and his band had been active enough in their visits to Glaze andCottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late the amount gambledaway and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to muchconjecture. Oldring's more frequent visits had resulted in new saloons, and where there had formerly been one raid or shooting fray in thelittle hamlets there were now many. Perhaps Oldring had another rangefarther on up the pass, and from there drove the cattle to distant Utahtowns where he was little known But Venters came finally to doubt this. And, from what he had learned in the last few days, a belief began toform in Venters's mind that Oldring's intimidations of the villages andthe mystery of the Masked Rider, with his alleged evil deeds, and thefierce resistance offered any trailing riders, and the rustling ofcattle--these things were only the craft of the rustler-chief to concealhis real life and purpose and work in Deception Pass. 

And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage of the ovalvalley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, and at last enteredthe canyon out of which headed the cattle trail, and into which he hadwatched the rustlers disappear. 

If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to forcehimself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He crawledalong so hidden that he could not use his eyes except to aid himself inthe toilsome progress through the brakes and ruins of cliff-wall. Yetfrom time to time, as he rested, he saw the massive red walls growinghigher and wilder, more looming and broken. He made note of the factthat he was turning and climbing. The sage and thickets of oak andbrakes of alder gave place to pinyon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low, dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought itwas thunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But it wasincessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from a murmurchanged into a soft roar. 

"Falling water, " he said. "There's volume to that. I wonder if it's thestream I lost. "

The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise, however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this and sure thatnothing but a bird could see him, he arose from his hands and knees tohurry on. An opening in the pinyons warned him that he was nearing theheight of slope. 

He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment. Before himstretched a short canyon with rounded stone floor bare of grass or sageor tree, and with curved, shelving walls. A broad rippling stream flowedtoward him, and at the back of the canyon waterfall burst from a widerent in the cliff, and, bounding down in two green steps, spread into along white sheet. 

If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had entered theright canyon his astonishment would not have been so great. There hadbeen no breaks in the walls, no side canyons entering this one where therustlers' tracks and the cattle trail had guided him, and, therefore, hecould not be wrong. But here the canyon ended, and presumably the trailsalso. 

"That cattle trail headed out of here, " Venters kept saying to himself. "It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earth did cattle everget in here?"

If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny he hadgiven that cattle track, every hoofmark of which headed straight west. He was now looking east at an immense round boxed corner of canyon downwhich tumbled a thin, white veil of water, scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his calculations had gone wrong. For the first timein years he found himself doubting his rider's skill in finding tracks, and his memory of what he had actually seen. In his anxiety to keepunder cover he must have lost himself in this offshoot of DeceptionPass, and thereby in some unaccountable manner, missed the canyon withthe trails. There was nothing else for him to think. Rustlers could notfly, nor cattle jump down thousand-foot precipices. He was only provingwhat the sage-riders had long said of this labyrinthine system ofdeceitful canyons and valleys--trails led down into Deception Pass, butno rider had ever followed them. 

On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an unusualsound that he could not define. He dropped flat behind a stone andlistened. From the direction he had come swelled something thatresembled a strange muffled pounding and splashing and ringing. Despitehis nerve the chill sweat began to dampen his forehead. What might notbe possible in this stonewalled maze of mystery? The unnatural soundpassed beyond him as he lay gripping his rifle and fighting forcoolness. Then from the open came the sound, now distinct and different. Venters recognized a hobble-bell of a horse, and the cracking of iron onsubmerged stones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water. 

Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, andcuriosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock. 

In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burros drivenby three superbly mounted men. Had Venters met these dark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men anywhere in Utah, let alone in thisrobbers' retreat, he would have recognized them as rustlers. Thediscerning eye of a rider saw the signs of a long, arduous trip. Thesemen were packing in supplies from one of the northern villages. Theywere tired, and their horses were almost played out, and the burrosplodded on, after the manner of their kind when exhausted, faithful andpatient, but as if every weary, splashing, slipping step would be theirlast. 

All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched with athrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers drove theburros, and straight through the middle, where the water spread into afleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke. Following closely, the rustlersrode into this white mist, showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then they vanished. 

Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and suddenutterance. 

"Good Heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler!. .. There's a cavern underthat waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a canyon beyond. Oldringhides in there. He needs only to guard a trail leading down fromthe sage-flat above. Little danger of this outlet to the pass beingdiscovered. I stumbled on it by luck, after I had given up. And now Iknow 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 thesage-brush. Returning, he had no time to spare, only now and then, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyes ahead. Theabundant grass left no trace of his trail. Short work he made of thedistance to the circle of canyons. He doubted that he would ever see itagain; he knew he never wanted to; yet he looked at the red cornersand towers with the eyes of a rider picturing landmarks never to beforgotten. 

Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of the sage-ovaland the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred except the gentle waveof the tips of the brush. Then he pressed on past the mouths of severalcanyons and over ground new to him, now close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved to be easy traveling, well screened frompossible observation from the north and west, and he soon covered itand 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 againthe deep cove where his camp lay hidden. As he penetrated the thicket, safe again for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl he hadleft there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he find her? Heran into camp, frightening the dogs. 

The girl lay with wide-open, dark eyes, and they dilated when he kneltbeside her. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. He lifted her andheld water to her dry lips, and felt an inexplicable sense of lightnessas 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 canyonwhere the rustlers ride through the waterfall. "

As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the marblewhiteness of her face seemed to change. 

"Don't--take--me--back--there!"

CHAPTER VI. THE MILL-WHEEL OF STEERS

Meantime, at the ranch, when Judkins's news had sent Venters on thetrail of the rustlers, Jane Withersteen led the injured man to her houseand with skilled fingers dressed the gunshot wound in his arm. 

"Judkins, what do you think happened to my riders?"

"I--I d rather not say, " he replied. 

"Tell me. Whatever you'll tell me I'll keep to myself. I'm beginningto worry about more than the loss of a herd of cattle. Venters hintedof--but tell me, Judkins. "

"Well, Miss Withersteen, I think as Venters thinks--your riders havebeen called in. "

"Judkins!. .. By whom?"

"You know who handles the reins of your Mormon riders. "

"Do you dare insinuate that my churchmen have ordered in my riders?"

"I ain't insinuatin' nothin', Miss Withersteen, " answered Judkins, withspirit. "I know what I'm talking about. I didn't want to tell you. "

"Oh, I can't believe that! I'll not believe it! Would Tull leave myherds at the mercy of rustlers and wolves just because--because--? No, no! It's unbelievable. "

"Yes, thet particular thing's onheard of around Cottonwoods But, beggin'pardon, Miss Withersteen, there never was any other rich Mormon womanhere on the border, let alone one thet's taken the bit between herteeth. "

That was a bold thing for the reserved Judkins to say, but it did notanger her. This rider's crude hint of her spirit gave her a glimpse ofwhat others might think. Humility and obedience had been hers always. But had she taken the bit between her teeth? Still she wavered. Andthen, with quick spurt of warm blood along her veins, she thought ofBlack Star when he got the bit fast between his iron jaws and ran wildin the sage. If she ever started to run! Jane smothered the glow andburn within her, ashamed of a passion for freedom that opposed her duty. 

"Judkins, go to the village, " she said, "and when you have learnedanything definite about my riders please come to me at once. "

When he had gone Jane resolutely applied her mind to a number of tasksthat of late had been neglected. Her father had trained her in themanagement of a hundred employees and the working of gardens and fields;and to keep record of the movements of cattle and riders. And beside themany duties she had added to this work was one of extreme delicacy, suchas required all her tact and ingenuity. It was an unobtrusive, almostsecret aid which she rendered to the Gentile families of the village. Though Jane Withersteen never admitted so to herself, it amounted to noless than a system of charity. But for her invention of numberless kindsof employment, for which there was no actual need, these families ofGentiles, who had failed in a Mormon community, would have starved. 

In aiding these poor people Jane thought she deceived her keenchurchmen, but it was a kind of deceit for which she did not pray to beforgiven. Equally as difficult was the task of deceiving the Gentiles, for they were as proud as they were poor. It had been a great grief toher to discover how these people hated her people; and it had been asource of great joy that through her they had come to soften in hatred. At any time this work called for a clearness of mind that precludedanxiety and worry; but under the present circumstances it required allher vigor and obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon her task. 

Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor a patient calmness andpower to wait that had not been hers earlier in the day. She expectedJudkins, but he did not appear. Her house was always quiet; to-night, however, it seemed unusually so. At supper her women served her with asilent assiduity; it spoke what their sealed lips could not utter--thesympathy of Mormon women. Jerd came to her with the key of the greatdoor of the stone stable, and to make his daily report about the horses. One of his daily duties was to give Black Star and Night and the otherracers a ten-mile run. This day it had been omitted, and the boy grewconfused in explanations that she had not asked for. She did inquire ifhe would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in mingled surprise and relief, assured her he would always work for her. Jane missed the rattle andtrot, canter and gallop of the incoming riders on the hard trails. Duskshaded the grove where she walked; the birds ceased singing; the windsighed through the leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running watermurmured down its stone-bedded channel. The glimmering of the first starwas like the peace and beauty of the night. Her faith welled up in herheart and said that all would soon be right in her little world. Shepictured Venters about his lonely camp-fire sitting between his faithfuldogs. She prayed for his safety, for the success of his undertaking. 

Early the next morning one of Jane's women brought in word that Judkinswished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in her surprise to see himarmed with rifle and revolver, she forgot her intention to inquire abouthis wound. 

"Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns. "

"It's high time, Miss Withersteen, " he replied. "Will you come into thegrove? It ain't jest exactly safe for me to be seen here. "

She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods. 

"What do you mean?"

"Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother's house last night. While there, some one knocked, an' a man asked for me. I went to the door. He worea mask. He said I'd better not ride any more for Jane Withersteen. Hisvoice was hoarse an' strange, disguised I reckon, like his face. He saidno more, an' ran off in the dark. "

"Did you know who he was?" asked Jane, in a low voice. 

"Yes. "

Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she feared to know. All her calmness fled at a single thought. 

"Thet's why I'm packin' guns, " went on Judkins. "For I'll never quitridin' for you, Miss Withersteen, till you let me go. "

"Judkins, do you want to leave me?"

"Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss--a fast hoss, an' send me out on thesage. "

"Oh, thank you, Judkins! You're more faithful than my own people. Iought not accept your loyalty--you might suffer more through it. Butwhat in the world can I do? My head whirls. The wrong to Venters--thestolen herd--these masks, threats, this coil in the dark! I can'tunderstand! But I feel something dark and terrible closing in aroundme. "

"Miss Withersteen, it's all simple enough, " said Judkins, earnestly. "Now please listen--an' beggin' your pardon--jest turn thet deaf Mormonear aside, an' let me talk clear an' plain in the other. I went aroundto the saloons an' the stores an' the loafin' places yesterday. All yourriders are in. There's talk of a vigilance band organized to hunt downrustlers. They call themselves 'The Riders. ' Thet's the report--thet'sthe reason given for your riders leavin' you. Strange thet only afew riders of other ranchers joined the band! An' Tull's man, JerryCard--he's the leader. I seen him en' his hoss. He 'ain't been to Glaze. I'm not easy to fool on the looks of a hoss thet's traveled the sage. Tull an' Jerry didn't ride to Glaze!. .. Well, I met Blake en' Dorn, bothgood friends of mine, usually, as far as their Mormon lights will let'em go. But these fellers couldn't fool me, an' they didn't try veryhard. I asked them, straight out like a man, why they left you likethet. I didn't forget to mention how you nursed Blake's poor old motherwhen she was sick, an' how good you was to Dorn's kids. They lookedashamed, Miss Withersteen. An' they jest froze up--thet dark set lookthet makes them strange an' different to me. But I could tell thedifference between thet first natural twinge of conscience an' the laterlook of some secret thing. An' the difference I caught was thet theycouldn't help themselves. They hadn't no say in the matter. They lookedas if their bein' unfaithful to you was bein' faithful to a higher duty. An' there's the secret. Why it's as plain as--as sight of my gun here. "

"Plain!. .. My herds to wander in the sage--to be stolen! Jane Withersteena poor woman! Her head to be brought low and her spirit broken!. .. Why, Judkins, it's plain enough. "

"Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an' hold the whiteherd. It's on the slope now, not ten miles out--three thousand head, an' all steers. They're wild, an' likely to stampede at the pop of ajack-rabbit's ears. We'll camp right with them, en' try to hold them. "

"Judkins, I'll reward you some day for your service, unless all istaken from me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you pick of my horses, except Black Star and Night. But--do not shed blood for my cattle norheedlessly risk your lives. "

Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room, andthere could not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath. She wentstone-blind in the fury of a passion that had never before showed itspower. Lying upon her bed, sightless, voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossed there while her fury burned and burned, andfinally burned itself out. 

Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression that wouldbreak her, but of this new revelation of self. Until the last few daysthere had been little in her life to rouse passions. Her forefathershad been Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no cross and brooked nohindrance to their will. Her father had inherited that temper; and attimes, like antelope fleeing before fire on the slope, his people fledfrom his red rages. Jane Withersteen realized that the spirit of wrathand war had lain dormant in her. She shrank from black depths hithertounsuspected. The one thing in man or woman that she scorned above allscorn, and which she could not forgive, was hate. Hate headed a flamingpathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her control therehad been in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man who had dragged herpeaceful and loving spirit to this degradation was a minister of God'sword, an Elder of her church, the counselor of her beloved Bishop. 

The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the Old StoneHouse, no longer concerned Jane Withersteen, she faced the foremostthought of her life, what she now considered the mightiest problem--thesalvation of her soul. 

She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had never prayedin all her life--prayed to be forgiven for her sin to be immune fromthat dark, hot hate; to love Tull as her minister, though she could notlove him as a man; to do her duty by her church and people and thosedependent upon her bounty; to hold reverence of God and womanhoodinviolate. 

When Jane Withersteen rose from that storm of wrath and prayer for helpshe was serene, calm, sure--a changed woman. She would do her duty asshe saw it, live her life as her own truth guided her. She might neverbe able to marry a man of her choice, but she certainly never wouldbecome the wife of Tull. Her churchmen might take her cattle and horses, ranges and fields, her corrals and stables, the house of Withersteen andthe water that nourished the village of Cottonwoods; but they could notforce her to marry Tull, they could not change her decision or breakher spirit. Once resigned to further loss, and sure of herself, JaneWithersteen attained a peace of mind that had not been hers for a year. She forgave Tull, and felt a melancholy regret over what she knew heconsidered duty, irrespective of his personal feeling for her. Firstof all, Tull, as he was a man, wanted her for himself; and secondly, he hoped to save her and her riches for his church. She did not believethat Tull had been actuated solely by his minister's zeal to save hersoul. She doubted her interpretation of one of his dark sayings--thatif she were lost to him she might as well be lost to heaven. JaneWithersteen's common sense took arms against the binding limits of herreligion; and she doubted that her Bishop, whom she had been taught haddirect communication with God--would damn her soul for refusing to marrya Mormon. As for Tull and his churchmen, when they had harassed her, perhaps made her poor, they would find her unchangeable, and then shewould get back most of what she had lost. So she reasoned, true at lastto her faith in all men, and in their ultimate goodness. 

The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her hurriedlyfrom her retirement. There, beside his horse, stood Lassiter, his darkapparel and the great black gun-sheaths contrasting singularly with hisgentle smile. Jane's active mind took up her interest in him and herhalf-determined desire to use what charm she had to foil his evidentdesign in visiting Cottonwoods. If she could mitigate his hatred ofMormons, or at least keep him from killing more of them, not only wouldshe be saving her people, but also be leading back this bloodspiller tosome semblance of the human. 

"Mornin', ma'am, " he said, black sombrero in hand. 

"Lassiter I'm not an old woman, or even a madam, " she replied, with herbright smile. "If you can't say Miss Withersteen--call me Jane. "

"I reckon Jane would be easier. First names are always handy for me. "

"Well, use mine, then. Lassiter, I'm glad to see you. I'm in trouble. "

Then she told him of Judkins's return, of the driving of the red herd, of Venters's departure on Wrangle, and the calling-in of her riders. 

"'Pears to me you're some smilin' an' pretty for a woman with so muchtrouble, " he remarked. 

"Lassiter! Are you paying me compliments? But, seriously I've made upmy mind not to be miserable. I've lost much, and I'll lose more. Nevertheless, I won't be sour, and I hope I'll never be unhappy--again. "

Lassiter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, and took histime in replying. 

"Women are strange to me. I got to back-trailin' myself from them longago. But I'd like a game woman. Might I ask, seein' as how you take thistrouble, if you're goin' to fight?"

"Fight! How? Even if I would, I haven't a friend except that boy whodoesn't dare stay in the village. "

"I make bold to say, ma'am--Jane--that there's another, if you wanthim. "

"Lassiter!. .. Thank you. But how can I accept you as a friend? Think!Why, you'd ride down into the village with those terrible guns and killmy enemies--who are also my churchmen. "

"I reckon I might be riled up to jest about that, " he replied, dryly. 

She held out both hands to him. 

"Lassiter! I'll accept your friendship--be proud of it--return it--if Imay keep you from killing another Mormon. "

"I'll tell you one thing, " he said, bluntly, as the gray lightningformed in his eyes. "You're too good a woman to be sacrificed as you'regoin' to be. .. . No, I reckon you an' me can't be friends on such terms. "

In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet fascinated bythe sudden transition of his moods. That he would fight for her was atonce horrible and wonderful. 

"You came here to kill a man--the man whom Milly Erne--"

"The man who dragged Milly Erne to hell--put it that way!. .. JaneWithersteen, yes, that's why I came here. I'd tell so much to no otherlivin' soul. .. . There're things such a woman as you'd never dream of--sodon't mention her again. Not till you tell me the name of the man!"

"Tell you! I? Never!"

"I reckon you will. An' I'll never ask you. I'm a man of strange beliefsan' ways of thinkin', an' I seem to see into the future an' feel thingshard to explain. The trail I've been followin' for so many yearswas twisted en' tangled, but it's straightenin' out now. An', JaneWithersteen, you crossed it long ago to ease poor Milly's agony. That, whether you want or not, makes Lassiter your friend. But you cross itnow strangely to mean somethin to me--God knows what!--unless by yournoble blindness to incite me to greater hatred of Mormon men. "

Jane felt swayed by a strength that far exceeded her own. In a clash ofwills with this man she would go to the wall. If she were to influencehim it must be wholly through womanly allurement. There was that aboutLassiter which commanded her respect. She had abhorred his name; faceto face with him, she found she feared only his deeds. His mysticsuggestion, his foreshadowing of something that she was to mean to him, pierced deep into her mind. She believed fate had thrown in her way thelover or husband of Milly Erne. She believed that through her an evilman might be reclaimed. His allusion to what he called her blindnessterrified her. Such a mistaken idea of his might unleash the bitter, fatal mood she sensed in him. At any cost she must placate this man; sheknew the die was cast, and that if Lassiter did not soften to a woman'sgrace and beauty and wiles, then it would be because she could not makehim. 

"I reckon you'll hear no more such talk from me, " Lassiter went on, presently. "Now, Miss Jane, I rode in to tell you that your herd ofwhite steers is down on the slope behind them big ridges. An' I seensomethin' goin' on that'd be mighty interestin' to you, if you could seeit. Have you a field-glass?"

"Yes, I have two glasses. I'll get them and ride out with you. Wait, Lassiter, please, " she said, and hurried within. Sending word to Jerd tosaddle Black Star and fetch him to the court, she then went to her roomand changed to the riding-clothes she always donned when going intothe sage. In this male attire her mirror showed her a jaunty, handsomerider. If she expected some little need of admiration from Lassiter, shehad no cause for disappointment. The gentle smile that she liked, whichmade of him another person, slowly overspread his face. 

"If I didn't take you for a boy!" he exclaimed. "It's powerful queerwhat difference clothes make. Now I've been some scared of your dignity, like when the other night you was all in white but in this rig--"

Black Star came pounding into the court, dragging Jerd half off hisfeet, and he whistled at Lassiter's black. But at sight of Jane all hisdefiant lines seemed to soften, and with tosses of his beautiful head hewhipped his bridle. 

"Down, Black Star, down, " said Jane. 

He dropped his head, and, slowly lengthening, he bent one foreleg, thenthe other, and sank to his knees. Jane slipped her left foot in thestirrup, swung lightly into the saddle, and Black Star rose with aringing stamp. It was not easy for Jane to hold him to a canter throughthe grove, and like the wind he broke when he saw the sage. Jane let himhave a couple of miles of free running on the open trail, and then shecoaxed him in and waited for her companion. Lassiter was not long incatching up, and presently they were riding side by side. It remindedher how she used to ride with Venters. Where was he now? She gazedfar down the slope to the curved purple lines of Deception Pass andinvoluntarily shut her eyes with a trembling stir of nameless fear. 

"We'll turn off here, " Lassiter said, "en' take to the sage a mile orso. The white herd is behind them big ridges. "

"What are you going to show me?" asked Jane. "I'm prepared--don't beafraid. "

He smiled as if he meant that bad news came swiftly enough without beingpresaged by speech. 

When they reached the lee of a rolling ridge Lassiter dismounted, motioning to her to do likewise. They left the horses standing, bridlesdown. Then Lassiter, carrying the field-glasses began to lead the wayup the slow rise of ground. Upon nearing the summit he halted her with agesture. 

"I reckon we'd see more if we didn't show ourselves against the sky, "he said. "I was here less than an hour ago. Then the herd was seven oreight miles south, an' if they ain't bolted yet--"

"Lassiter!. .. Bolted?"

"That's what I said. Now let's see. "

Jane climbed a few more paces behind him and then peeped over the ridge. Just beyond began a shallow swale that deepened and widened into avalley and then swung to the left. Following the undulating sweep ofsage, Jane saw the straggling lines and then the great body of the whiteherd. She knew enough about steers, even at a distance of four orfive miles, to realize that something was in the wind. Bringing herfield-glass into use, she moved it slowly from left to right, whichaction swept the whole herd into range. The stragglers were restless;the more compactly massed steers were browsing. Jane brought the glassback to the big sentinels of the herd, and she saw them trot with quicksteps, stop short and toss wide horns, look everywhere, and then trot inanother direction. 

"Judkins hasn't been able to get his boys together yet, " said Jane. "Buthe'll be there soon. I hope not too late. Lassiter, what's frighteningthose big leaders?"

"Nothin' jest on the minute, " replied Lassiter. "Them steers arequietin' down. They've been scared, but not bad yet. I reckon the wholeherd has moved a few miles this way since I was here. "

"They didn't browse that distance--not in less than an hour. Cattlearen't sheep. "

"No, they jest run it, en' that looks bad. "

"Lassiter, what frightened them?" repeated Jane, impatiently. 

"Put down your glass. You'll see at first better with a naked eye. Nowlook along them ridges on the other side of the herd, the ridges wherethe sun shines bright on the sage. .. . That's right. Now look en' lookhard en' wait. "

Long-drawn moments of straining sight rewarded Jane with nothing savethe low, purple rim of ridge and the shimmering sage. 

"It's begun again!" whispered Lassiter, and he gripped her arm. "Watch. .. . There, did you see that?"

"No, no. Tell me what to look for?"

"A white flash--a kind of pin-point of quick light--a gleam as from sunshinin' on somethin' white. "

Suddenly Jane's concentrated gaze caught a fleeting glint. Quickly shebrought her glass to bear on the spot. Again the purple sage, magnifiedin color and size and wave, for long moments irritated her with itsmonotony. Then from out of the sage on the ridge flew up a broad, whiteobject, flashed in the sunlight and vanished. Like magic it was, andbewildered Jane. 

"What on earth is that?"

"I reckon there's some one behind that ridge throwin' up a sheet or awhite blanket to reflect the sunshine. "

"Why?" queried Jane, more bewildered than ever. 

"To stampede the herd, " replied Lassiter, and his teeth clicked. 

"Ah!" She made a fierce, passionate movement, clutched the glasstightly, shook as with the passing of a spasm, and then dropped herhead. Presently she raised it to greet Lassiter with something like asmile. "My righteous brethren are at work again, " she said, in scorn. She had stifled the leap of her wrath, but for perhaps the first timein her life a bitter derision curled her lips. Lassiter's cool gray eyesseemed to pierce her. "I said I was prepared for anything; but that washardly true. But why would they--anybody stampede my cattle?"

"That's a Mormon's godly way of bringin' a woman to her knees. "

"Lassiter, I'll die before I ever bend my knees. I might be led I won'tbe driven. Do you expect the herd to bolt?"

"I don't like the looks of them big steers. But you can never tell. Cattle sometimes stampede as easily as buffalo. Any little flash or movewill start them. A rider gettin' down an' walkin' toward them sometimeswill make them jump an' fly. Then again nothin' seems to scare them. But I reckon that white flare will do the biz. It's a new one on me, an' I've seen some ridin' an' rustlin'. It jest takes one of themGod-fearin' Mormons to think of devilish tricks. "

"Lassiter, might not this trick be done by Oldring's men?" asked Jane, ever grasping at straws. 

"It might be, but it ain't, " replied Lassiter. "Oldring's an honestthief. He don't skulk behind ridges to scatter your cattle to the fourwinds. He rides down on you, an' if you don't like it you can throw agun. "

Jane bit her tongue to refrain from championing men who at the verymoment were proving to her that they were little and mean compared evenwith rustlers. 

"Look!. .. Jane, them leadin' steers have bolted. They're drawin' thestragglers, an' that'll pull the whole herd. "

Jane was not quick enough to catch the details called out by Lassiter, but she saw the line of cattle lengthening. Then, like a stream of whitebees pouring from a huge swarm, the steers stretched out from the mainbody. In a few moments, with astonishing rapidity, the whole herd gotinto motion. A faint roar of trampling hoofs came to Jane's ears, andgradually swelled; low, rolling clouds of dust began to rise above thesage. 

"It's a stampede, an' a hummer, " said Lassiter. 

"Oh, Lassiter! The herd's running with the valley! It leads into thecanyon! There's a straight jump-off!"

"I reckon they'll run into it, too. But that's a good many miles yet. An', Jane, this valley swings round almost north before it goes east. That stampede will pass within a mile of us. "

The long, white, bobbing line of steers streaked swiftly through thesage, and a funnel-shaped dust-cloud arose at a low angle. A dullrumbling filled Jane's ears. 

"I'm thinkin' of millin' that herd, " said Lassiter. His gray glanceswept up the slope to the west. "There's some specks an' dust way offtoward the village. Mebbe that's Judkins an' his boys. It ain't likelyhe'll get here in time to help. You'd better hold Black Star here onthis high ridge. "

He ran to his horse and, throwing off saddle-bags and tightening thecinches, he leaped astride and galloped straight down across the valley. 

Jane went for Black Star and, leading him to the summit of the ridge, she mounted and faced the valley with excitement and expectancy. She hadheard of milling stampeded cattle, and knew it was a feat accomplishedby only the most daring riders. 

The white herd was now strung out in a line two miles long. The dullrumble of thousands of hoofs deepened into continuous low thunder, andas the steers swept swiftly closer the thunder became a heavy roll. Lassiter crossed in a few moments the level of the valley to the easternrise of ground and there waited the coming of the herd. Presently, asthe head of the white line reached a point opposite to where Jane stood, Lassiter spurred his black into a run. 

Jane saw him take a position on the off side of the leaders of thestampede, and there he rode. It was like a race. They swept on down thevalley, and when the end of the white line neared Lassiter's firststand the head had begun to swing round to the west. It swung slowly andstubbornly, yet surely, and gradually assumed a long, beautiful curve ofmoving white. To Jane's amaze she saw the leaders swinging, turning tillthey headed back toward her and up the valley. Out to the right ofthese wild plunging steers ran Lassiter's black, and Jane's keen eyeappreciated the fleet stride and sure-footedness of the blind horse. Then it seemed that the herd moved in a great curve, a huge half-moonwith the points of head and tail almost opposite, and a mile apart ButLassiter relentlessly crowded the leaders, sheering them to the left, turning them little by little. And the dust-blinded wild followersplunged on madly in the tracks of their leaders. This ever-moving, ever-changing curve of steers rolled toward Jane and when below her, scarce half a mile, it began to narrow and close into a circle. Lassiterhad ridden parallel with her position, turned toward her, then aside, and now he was riding directly away from her, all the time pushing thehead of that bobbing line inward. 

It was then that Jane, suddenly understanding Lassiter's feat staredand gasped at the riding of this intrepid man. His horse was fleet andtireless, but blind. He had pushed the leaders around and around tillthey were about to turn in on the inner side of the end of that lineof steers. The leaders were already running in a circle; the end of theherd was still running almost straight. But soon they would be wheeling. Then, when Lassiter had the circle formed, how would he escape? WithJane Withersteen prayer was as ready as praise; and she prayed for thisman's safety. A circle of dust began to collect. Dimly, as through ayellow veil, Jane saw Lassiter press the leaders inward to close the gapin the sage. She lost sight of him in the dust, again she thought shesaw the black, riderless now, rear and drag himself and fall. Lassiterhad been thrown--lost! Then he reappeared running out of the dust intothe sage. He had escaped, and she breathed again. 

Spellbound, Jane Withersteen watched this stupendous millwheel ofsteers. Here was the milling of the herd. The white running circleclosed in upon the open space of sage. And the dust circles closed aboveinto a pall. The ground quaked and the incessant thunder of poundinghoofs rolled on. Jane felt deafened, yet she thrilled to a new sound. Asthe circle of sage lessened the steers began to bawl, and when it closedentirely there came a great upheaval in the center, and a terriblethumping of heads and clicking of horns. Bawling, climbing, goring, thegreat mass of steers on the inside wrestled in a crashing din, heavedand groaned under the pressure. Then came a deadlock. The inner strifeceased, and the hideous roar and crash. Movement went on in the outercircle, and that, too, gradually stilled. The white herd had come to astop, and the pall of yellow dust began to drift away on the wind. 

Jane Withersteen waited on the ridge with full and grateful heart. Lassiter appeared, making his weary way toward her through the sage. Andup on the slope Judkins rode into sight with his troop of boys. For thepresent, at least, the white herd would be looked after. 

When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on Black Star's mane, Janecould not find speech. 

"Killed--my--hoss, " he panted. 

"Oh! I'm sorry, " cried Jane. "Lassiter! I know you can't replace him, but I'll give you any one of my racers--Bells, or Night, even BlackStar. "

"I'll take a fast hoss, Jane, but not one of your favorites, " hereplied. "Only--will you let me have Black Star now an' ride him overthere an' head off them fellers who stampeded the herd?"

He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of dust in thepurple sage. 

"I can head them off with this hoss, an' then--"

"Then, Lassiter?"

"They'll never stampede no more cattle. "

"Oh! No! No!. .. Lassiter, I won't let you go!"

But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling hands shookBlack Star's bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter's. 

CHAPTER VII. THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN

"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him. 

"I reckon so, " he had replied. 

Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they implied. Shewanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges, and savethem if that were possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloudall she meant, she was perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the priceto be paid, she must keep Lassiter close to her; she must shield fromhim the man who had led Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she socontrolled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to herown soul, she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing sheregarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of ahelper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she couldrule this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep himfrom shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and his presenceagainst the game of oppression her churchmen were waging against her?Never would she forget the effect on Tull and his men when Ventersshouted Lassiter's name. If she could not wholly control Lassiter, thenwhat she could do might put off the fatal day. 

One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells becauseof the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When Jerd led outthis slender, beautifully built horse Lassiter suddenly became all eyes. A rider's love of a thoroughbred shone in them. Round and round Bells hewalked, plainly weakening all the time in his determination not to takeone of Jane's favorite racers. 

"Lassiter, you're half horse, and Bells sees it already, " said Jane, laughing. "Look at his eyes. He likes you. He'll love you, too. Howcan you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run! It's nip and tuckbetween him and Wrangle, and only Black Star can beat him. He's toospirited a horse for a woman. Take him. He's yours. "

"I jest am weak where a hoss's concerned, " said Lassiter. "I'll takehim, an' I'll take your orders, ma'am. "

"Well, I'm glad, but never mind the ma'am. Let it still be Jane. "

From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, ridingearly and late, and coincident with his part in Jane's affairs the daysassumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligence told her this was onlythe lull before the storm, but her faith would not have it so. 

She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these sheencountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any trouble camebetween them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick to forget, methim halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regretted the loss of hercattle; he assured her that the vigilantes which had been organizedwould soon rout the rustlers; when that had been accomplished her riderswould likely return to her. 

"You've done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter, " Tull wenton, severely. "He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent. "

"I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my rider may turn outbest in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods. "

"You mean to stay his hand?"

"I do--if I can. "

"A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well, andwould atone in some measure for the errors you have made. "

He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflicting thoughts. She resented Elder Tull's cold, impassive manner that looked down uponher as one who had incurred his just displeasure. Otherwise he wouldhave been the same calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had knownfor ten years. In fact, except when he had revealed his passion in thematter of the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could beother than the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a strange, secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he had pickedup the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. Was Tull whathe appeared to be? The question flung itself in-voluntarily over JaneWithersteen's inhibitive habit of faith without question. And sherefused to answer it. Tull could not fight in the open Venters had said, Lassiter had said, that her Elder shirked fight and worked in the dark. Just now in this meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued, exhorted, demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of Venters. His manner was that of the minister who had been outraged, butwho overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemedunutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to bearupon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret power overriders, with night journeys, with rustlers and stampedes of cattle. Andthat convinced her again of unjust suspicions. But it was convincementthrough an obstinate faith. She shuddered as she accepted it, and thatshudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt. 

Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main street andentered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling clover, alfalfa, flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy confusion. And like thesefresh green things were the dozens of babies, tots, toddlers, noisyurchins, laughing girls, a whole multitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, the father of all this numerous progeny, was aMormon with four wives. 

The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque the lowerpart built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with vines growingup the outside stone chimneys. There were many wooden-shuttered windows, and one pretentious window of glass proudly curtained in white. As thishouse had four mistresses, it likewise had four separate sections, notone of which communicated with another, and all had to be entered fromthe outside. 

In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found Brandt's wivesentertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly women, of comparativelysimilar ages, and plain-featured, and just at this moment anything butgrave. The Bishop was rather tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hairand beard, and eyes of light blue. They were merry now; but Jane hadseen them when they were not, and then she feared him as she had fearedher father. 

The women flocked around her in welcome. 

"Daughter of Withersteen, " said the Bishop, gaily, as he took her hand, "you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late. A Sabbathwithout you at service! I shall reprove Elder Tull. "

"Bishop, the guilt is mine. I'll come to you and confess, " Jane replied, lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words. 

"Mormon love-making!" exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his hands. "Tullkeeps you all to himself. "

"No. He is not courting me. "

"What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I'll go a-courting myselfup to Withersteen House. "

There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and then mildtalk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, and Jane wasleft with her friend, Mary Brandt. 

"Jane, you're not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of thecattle? But you have so many, you are so rich. "

Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back her doubts offear. 

"Oh, why don't you marry Tull and be one of us?

"But, Mary, I don't love Tull, " said Jane, stubbornly. 

"I don't blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you've got to choosebetween the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormon women have todo that. It's not easy. The kind of happiness you want I wanted once. Inever got it, nor will you, unless you throw away your soul. We've allwatched your affair with Venters in fear and trembling. Some dreadfulthing will come of it. You don't want him hanged or shot--or treatedworse, as that Gentile boy was treated in Glaze for fooling round aMormon woman. Marry Tull. It's your duty as a Mormon. You'll feel norapture as his wife--but think of Heaven! Mormon women don't marry forwhat they expect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane. Remember your fatherfound Amber Spring, built these old houses, brought Mormons here, andfathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!"

Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. They receivedher with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished upon her thepent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her go with her ears ringingof Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty to God and glory in Heaven. 

"Verily, " murmured Jane, "I don't know myself when, through all this, Iremain unchanged--nay, more fixed of purpose. "

She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps toward thecenter of the village. A string of wagons drawn by oxen was lumberingalong. These "sage-freighters, " as they were called, hauled grain andflour and merchandise from Sterling, and Jane laughed suddenly in themidst of her humility at the thought that they were her property, as wasone of the three stores for which they freighted goods. The water thatflowed along the path at her feet, and turned into each cottage-yard tonourish garden and orchard, also was hers, no less her private propertybecause she chose to give it free. Yet in this village of Cottonwoods, which her father had founded and which she maintained she was not herown mistress; she was not able to abide by her own choice of a husband. She was the daughter of Withersteen. Suppose she proved it, imperiously!But she quelled that proud temptation at its birth. 

Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village people hadfor her; no power could have made her happy as the pleasure her presencegave. As she went on down the street past the stores with their rudeplatform entrances, and the saloons where tired horses stood withbridles dragging, she was again assured of what was the bread and wineof life to her--that she was loved. Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters, riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on dustyhorses little girls running errands, and women hurrying to the storesall looked up at her coming with glad eyes. 

Jane's various calls and wandering steps at length led her to theGentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern end, and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts and shacks andlog-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The fortunes of theseinhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in their abodes. Water they hadin abundance, and therefore grass and fruit-trees and patches of alfalfaand vegetable gardens. Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle, others obtained such intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantlytendered them. But none of the families was prosperous, many were verypoor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen's beneficence. 

As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened her tocome in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not because she wasunwelcome; here she was gratefully received by the women, passionatelyby the children. But poverty and idleness, with their attendantwretchedness and sorrow, always hurt her. That she could alleviate thisdistress more now than ever before proved the adage that it was an illwind that blew nobody good. While her Mormon riders were in her employshe had found few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was ableto find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock was it tohave man after man tell her that he dare not accept her kind offer. 

"It won't do, " said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seen betterdays. "We've had our warning. Plain and to the point! Now there'sJudkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can the daredevilboys he's hired. But they've little responsibility. Can we risk havingour homes burned in our absence?"

Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as theblood left it. 

"Carson, you and the others rent these houses?" she asked. 

"You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours. "

"I know?. .. Carson, I never in my life took a day's labor for rent or ayearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold. "

"Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that. "

"Look here, Carson, " went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheekswere burning. "You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move yourfamilies up to my cabins in the grove. They're far more comfortable thanthese. Then go to work for me. And if aught happens to you there I'llgive you money--gold enough to leave Utah!"

The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could everhave equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what he felt for JaneWithersteen. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter!

"No, it won't do, " he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself. "Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don't know, and there's nota soul among us who can tell you. "

"I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you let meaid you--say till better times?"

"Yes, I will, " he replied, with his face lighting up. "I see what itmeans to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And if bettertimes ever come, I'll be only too happy to work for you. "

"Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day, Carson. "

The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, and the lasthabitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the meanest. Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. The broad leaves of awide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor. Round about it were a few scantyrows of vegetables, such as the hand of a weak woman had time andstrength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside thevillage limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her waterfrom the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered theunfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearingtoward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of fourcalled Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, acreature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly. 

"Muvver sended for oo, " cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, "an' oo nevertome. "

"I didn't know, Fay; but I've come now. "

Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and shewas dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. Theone thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slimbody. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips; her eyes were violetblue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling goldenhair. All the children of Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen's friends, she loved them all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and theMormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild, lonely child. 

"Muvver's sick, " said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the hut. 

Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it wasclean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed. 

"Mrs. Larkin, how are you?" asked Jane, anxiously. 

"I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now. "

"You haven't been here all alone--with no one to wait on you?"

"Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in. "

"Did you send for me?"

"Yes, several times. "

"But I had no word--no messages ever got to me. "

"I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill andwould you please come. "

A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as shefought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving herconscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spiritrebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of dark underhanddomination, running its secret lines this time into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand had begun to runthese dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plaitand weave a web. Jane Withersteen knew it now, and in the realizationfurther coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage ofher ancestors. 

"Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad, " said Jane. "But may Inot do something for you--a turn at nursing, or send you things, or takecare of Fay?"

"You're so good. Since my husband's been gone what would have become ofFay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak to you. This time I thought surely I'd die, and I was worried about Fay. Well, I'll be around all right shortly, but my strength's gone and I won'tlive long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you've been askingme to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?"

"Indeed yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hope theday--"

"Never mind that. The day'll come--sooner or later. I refused youroffer, and now I'll tell you why. "

"I know why, " interposed Jane. "It's because you don't want her broughtup as a Mormon. "

"No, it wasn't altogether that. " Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand andlaid it appealingly on Jane's. "I don't like to tell you. But--it'sthis: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care foryou, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women will talk, youknow. It got to the ears of Mormons--gossip of your love for Fay andyour wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn't take Fay as much for love of her as because of yourreligious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to marry. "

"That's a damnable lie!" cried Jane Withersteen. 

"It was what made me hesitate, " went on Mrs. Larkin, "but I neverbelieved it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you--"

"Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, butnever a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me. I lovelittle Fay. If I had her near me I'd grow to worship her. When I askedfor her I thought only of that love. .. . Let me prove this. You and Faycome to live with me. I've such a big house, and I'm so lonely. I'llhelp nurse you, take care of you. When you're better you can work forme. I'll keep little Fay and bring her up--without Mormon teaching. When she's grown, if she should want to leave me, I'll send her, and notempty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you. "

"I knew it was a lie, " replied the mother, and she sank back uponher pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. "JaneWithersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful to you. Butbecause you're a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don't knowmuch about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the same. "

CHAPTER VIII. SURPRISE VALLEY

Back in that strange canyon, which Venters had found indeed a valley ofsurprises, the wounded girl's whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not totake her back to the rustlers crowned the events of the last few dayswith a confounding climax. That she should not want to return to themstaggered Venters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appealconfirmed his first impression--that she was more unfortunate thanbad--and he experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known beforethat Oldring's Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have beenformed and he would have considered her abandoned. But his firstknowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a convulsionof agony; he had heard God's name whispered by blood-stained lips;through her solemn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpseof her soul. And just now had come the entreaty to him, "Don't--take--me--back--there!"

Once for all Venters's quick mind formed a permanent conception of thispoor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon afew pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning toevil. 

"What's your name?" he inquired. 

"Bess, " she answered. 

"Bess what?"

"That's enough--just Bess. "

The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever. Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler's girl, but she was still capable of shame, she might be dying, but she stillclung to some little remnant of honor. 

"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter, " he said. "But this matters--whatshall I do with you?"

"Are--you--a rider?" she whispered. 

"Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost myplace--lost all I owned--and now I'm--I'm a sort of outcast. My name'sBern Venters. "

"You won't--take me--to Cottonwoods--or Glaze? I'd be--hanged. "

"No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it's not safe forme here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he'llbe found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where Ican't be trailed. "

"Leave me--here. "

"Alone--to die!"

"Yes. "

"I will not. " Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his voice. 

"What--do you want--to do--with me?" Her whispering grew difficult, solow and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear her. 

"Why, let's see, " he replied, slowly. "I'd like to take you some placewhere I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all right. "

"And--then?"

"Well, it'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your wound. It's a bad one. And--Bess, if you don't want to live--if you don't fightfor life--you'll never--"

"Oh! I want--to live! I'm afraid--to die. But I'd rather--die--than goback--to--to--"

"To Oldring?" asked Venters, interrupting her in turn. 

Her lips moved in an affirmative. 

"I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to Glaze. "

The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterablegratitude and wonder. And as suddenly Venters found her eyes beautifulas he had never seen or felt beauty. They were as dark blue as the skyat night. Then the flashing changed to a long, thoughtful look, in whichthere was a wistful, unconscious searching of his face, a look thattrembled on the verge of hope and trust. 

"I'll try--to live, " she said. The broken whisper just reached his ears. "Do what--you want--with me. "

"Rest then--don't worry--sleep, " he replied. 

Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and with asharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp. Venters was consciousof an indefinite conflict of change within him. It seemed to be avague passing of old moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment ofinexplicable transition. He was both cast down and uplifted. He wantedto think and think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative need at present was to find a safe retreat, and thiscalled for action. 

So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This trip heturned to the left and wended his skulking way southward a mile or moreto the opening of the valley, where lay the strange scrawled rocks. Hedid not, however, venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung tothe right-hand wall and went along that till its perpendicular linebroke into the long incline of bare stone. 

Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange character ofthis slope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen faragainst such background. Before him ascended a gradual swell of smoothstone. It was hard, polished, and full of pockets worn by centuriesof eddying rain-water. A hundred yards up began a line of grotesquecedar-trees, and they extended along the slope clear to its mostsoutherly end. Beyond that end Venters wanted to get, and he concludedthe cedars, few as they were, would afford some cover. 

Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than hehad estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance for thedeceiving nature of distances in that country. When he gained the coverof cedars he paused to rest and look, and it was then he saw how thetrees sprang from holes in the bare rock. Ages of rain had run down theslope, circling, eddying in depressions, wearing deep round holes. There had been dry seasons, accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, andcedars rose wonderfully out of solid rock. But these were not beautifulcedars. They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as if growthwere torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs hadbeen a bitter fight, and Venters felt a strange sympathy for them. Thiscountry was hard on trees--and men. 

He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the openvalley. As he progressed, the belt of trees widened and he kept to itsupper margin. He passed shady pockets half full of water, and, as hemarked the location for possible future need, he reflected that therehad been no rain since the winter snows. From one of these shady holes arabbit hopped out and squatted down, laying its ears flat. 

Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself tothink of. But it would not do to fire his rifle there. So he broke offa cedar branch and threw it. He crippled the rabbit, which started toflounder up the slope. Venters did not wish to lose the meat, andhe never allowed crippled game to escape, to die lingeringly in somecovert. So after a careful glance below, and back toward the canyon, hebegan to chase the rabbit. 

The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him. Butit presently seemed singular why this rabbit, that might have escapeddownward, chose to ascend the slope. Venters knew then that it had aburrow higher up. More than once he jerked over to seize it, only invain, for the rabbit by renewed effort eluded his grasp. Thus the chasecontinued on up the bare slope. The farther Venters climbed the moredetermined he grew to catch his quarry. At last, panting and sweating, he captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade. Laying his rifleon the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slung it from hisbelt. 

Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had climbedfar up that wonderful smooth slope, and had almost reached the baseof yellow cliff that rose skyward, a huge scarred and cracked bulk. Itfrowned down upon him as if to forbid further ascent. Venters bent overfor his rifle, and, as he picked it up from where it leaned against thesteeper grade, he saw several little nicks cut in the solid stone. 

They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. Venters beganto count them--one--two--three--four--on up to sixteen. That numbercarried his glance to the top of his first bulging bench of cliff-base. Above, after a more level offset, was still steeper slope, and the lineof nicks kept on, to wind round a projecting corner of wall. 

A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if Venters hadnot known what they signified he would never have bestowed upon them thesecond glance. But he knew they had been cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, he recognized them as steps cut in the rock by thecliff-dwellers. With a pulse beginning to beat and hammer away hiscalmness, he eyed that indistinct line of steps, up to where thebuttress of wall hid further sight of them. He knew that behindthe corner of stone would be a cave or a crack which could never besuspected from below. Chance, that had sported with him of late, nowdirected him to a probable hiding-place. Again he laid aside his rifle, and, removing boots and belt, he began to walk up the steps. Like amountain goat, he was agile, sure-footed, and he mounted the first benchwithout bending to use his hands. The next ascent took grip of fingersas well as toes, but he climbed steadily, swiftly, to reach theprojecting corner, and slipped around it. Here he faced a notch in thecliff. At the apex he turned abruptly into a ragged vent that split theponderous wall clear to the top, showing a narrow streak of blue sky. 

At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, musty dust. It zigzagged so that he could not see ahead more than a few yards at atime. He noticed tracks of wildcats and rabbits in the dusty floor. Atevery turn he expected to come upon a huge cavern full of little squarestone houses, each with a small aperture like a staring dark eye. Thepassage lightened and widened, and opened at the foot of a narrow, steep, ascending chute. 

Venters had a moment's notice of the rock, which was of the samesmoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his gaze wentirresistibly upward to the precipitous walls of this wide ladder ofgranite. These were ruined walls of yellow sandstone, and so split andsplintered, so overhanging with great sections of balancing rim, soimpending with tremendous crumbling crags, that Venters caught hisbreath sharply, and, appalled, he instinctively recoiled as if a stepupward might jar the ponderous cliffs from their foundation. Indeed, itseemed that these ruined cliffs were but awaiting a breath of windto collapse and come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It would be afoolhardy man who risked his life under the leaning, waiting avalanchesof rock in that gigantic split. Yet how many years had they leaned therewithout falling! At the bottom of the incline was an immense heap ofweathered sandstone all crumbling to dust, but there were no huge rocksas large as houses, such as rested so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently and inevitably to crash down. Slowly split from theparent rock by the weathering process, and carved and sculptured by agesof wind and rain, they waited their moment. Venters felt how foolishit was for him to fear these broken walls; to fear that, after they hadendured for thousands of years, the moment of his passing should be theone for them to slip. Yet he feared it. 

"What a place to hide!" muttered Venters. "I'll climb--I'll see wherethis thing goes. If only I can find water!"

With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline. And as he climbed he benthis eyes downward. This, however, after a little grew impossible; he hadto look to obey his eager, curious mind. He raised his glance and sawlight between row on row of shafts and pinnacles and crags that stoodout from the main wall. Some leaned against the cliff, others againsteach other; many stood sheer and alone; all were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It was a place of yellow, ragged ruin. The passage narrowed ashe went up; it became a slant, hard for him to stick on; it was smoothas marble. Finally he surmounted it, surprised to find the walls stillseveral hundred feet high, and a narrow gorge leading down on the otherside. This was a divide between two inclines, about twenty yards wide. At one side stood an enormous rock. Venters gave it a second glance, because it rested on a pedestal. It attracted closer attention. It waslike a colossal pear of stone standing on its stem. Around the bottomwere thousands of little nicks just distinguishable to the eye. Theywere marks of stone hatchets. The cliff-dwellers had chipped and chippedaway at this boulder fill it rested its tremendous bulk upon a merepin-point of its surface. Venters pondered. Why had the little stone-menhacked away at that big boulder? It bore no semblance to a statue or anidol or a godhead or a sphinx. Instinctively he put his hands on itand pushed; then his shoulder and heaved. The stone seemed to groan, tostir, to grate, and then to move. It tipped a little downward and hungbalancing for a long instant, slowly returned, rocked slightly, groaned, and settled back to its former position. 

Venters divined its significance. It had been meant for defense. Thecliff-dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this last stand, hadcunningly cut the rock until it balanced perfectly, ready to bedislodged by strong hands. Just below it leaned a tottering crag thatwould have toppled, starting an avalanche on an acclivity where nosliding mass could stop. Crags and pinnacles, splintered cliffs, andleaning shafts and monuments, would have thundered down to block foreverthe outlet to Deception Pass. 

"That was a narrow shave for me, " said Venters, soberly. "A balancingrock! The cliff-dwellers never had to roll it. They died, vanished, and here the rock stands, probably little changed. .. . But it might serveanother lonely dweller of the cliffs. I'll hide up here somewhere, if Ican only find water. "

He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was gradual, thespace narrow, the course straight for many rods. A gloom hung betweenthe up-sweeping walls. In a turn the passage narrowed to scarce a dozenfeet, and here was darkness of night. But light shone ahead; anotherabrupt turn brought day again, and then wide open space. 

Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging the canyon rims, and through the enormous round portal gleamed and glistened a beautifulvalley shining under sunset gold reflected by surrounding cliffs. Hegave a start of surprise. The valley was a cove a mile long, halfthat wide, and its enclosing walls were smooth and stained, and curvedinward, forming great caves. He decided that its floor was far higherthan the level of Deception Pass and the intersecting canyons. No purplesage colored this valley floor. Instead there were the white of aspens, streaks of branch and slender trunk glistening from the green of leaves, and the darker green of oaks, and through the middle of this forest, from wall to wall, ran a winding line of brilliant green which markedthe course of cottonwoods and willows. 

"There's water here--and this is the place for me, " said Venters. "Onlybirds can peep over those walls, I've gone Oldring one better. "

Venters waited no longer, and turned swiftly to retrace his steps. Henamed the canyon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder that guarded theoutlet Balancing Rock. Going down he did not find himself attended bysuch fears as had beset him in the climb; still, he was not easy inmind and could not occupy himself with plans of moving the girl and hisoutfit until he had descended to the notch. There he rested a moment andlooked about him. The pass was darkening with the approach of night. Atthe corner of the wall, where the stone steps turned, he saw a spur ofrock that would serve to hold the noose of a lasso. He needed no moreaid to scale that place. As he intended to make the move under coverof darkness, he wanted most to be able to tell where to climb up. So, taking several small stones with him, he stepped and slid down to theedge of the slope where he had left his rifle and boots. He placed thestones some yards apart. He left the rabbit lying upon the bench wherethe steps began. Then he addressed a keen-sighted, remembering gaze tothe rim-wall above. It was serrated, and between two spears of rock, directly in line with his position, showed a zigzag crack that at nightwould let through the gleam of sky. This settled, he put on his beltand boots and prepared to descend. Some consideration was necessary todecide whether or not to leave his rifle there. On the return, carryingthe girl and a pack, it would be added encumbrance; and after debatingthe matter he left the rifle leaning against the bench. As he wentstraight down the slope he halted every few rods to look up at his markon the rim. It changed, but he fixed each change in his memory. When hereached the first cedar-tree, he tied his scarf upon a dead branch, andthen hurried toward camp, having no more concern about finding his trailupon the return trip. 

Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. It occurred to him, as he glided into the grassy glade near camp and head the whinny of ahorse, that he had forgotten Wrangle. The big sorrel could not be gotteninto Surprise Valley. He would have to be left here. 

Venters determined at once to lead the other horses out through thethicket and turn them loose. The farther they wandered from this canyonthe better it would suit him. He easily descried Wrangle through thegloom, but the others were not in sight. Venters whistled low for thedogs, and when they came trotting to him he sent them out to search forthe horses, and followed. It soon developed that they were not in theglade nor the thicket. Venters grew cold and rigid at the thought ofrustlers having entered his retreat. But the thought passed, for thedemeanor of Ring and Whitie reassured him. The horses had wandered away. 

Under the clump of silver spruces a denser mantle of darkness, yet notso thick that Venter's night-practiced eyes could not catch the whiteoval of a still face. He bent over it with a slight suspension of breaththat was both caution lest he frighten her and chill uncertainty offeeling lest he find her dead. But she slept, and he arose to renewedactivity. 

He packed his saddle-bags. The dogs were hungry, they whined abouthim and nosed his busy hands; but he took no time to feed them nor tosatisfy his own hunger. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulders andmade them secure with his lasso. Then he wrapped the blankets closerabout the girl and lifted her in his arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumpedthe ground as Venters passed him with the dogs. The sorrel knew he wasbeing left behind, and was not sure whether he liked it or not. Venterswent on and entered the thicket. Here he had to feel his way in pitchblackness and to wedge his progress between the close saplings. Timemeant little to him now that he had started, and he edged along withslow side movement till he got clear of the thicket. Ring and Whitiestood waiting for him. Taking to the open aisles and patches of thesage, he walked guardedly, careful not to stumble or step in dust orstrike against spreading sage-branches. 

If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time, when hepassed out of the black lines of shade into the wan starlight, heglanced at the white face of the girl lying in his arms. She had notawakened from her sleep or stupor. He did not rest until he cleared theblack gate of the canyon. Then he leaned against a stone breast-high tohim and gently released the girl from his hold. His brow and hairand the palms of his hands were wet, and there was a kind of nervouscontraction of his muscles. They seemed to ripple and string tense. Hehad a desire to hurry and no sense of fatigue. A wind blew the scentof sage in his face. The first early blackness of night passed with thebrightening of the stars. Somewhere back on his trail a coyote yelped, splitting the dead silence. Venters's faculties seemed singularly acute. 

He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley better travelingthan the canyon. It was lighter, freer of sage, and there were no rocks. Soon, out of the pale gloom shone a still paler thing, and that was thelow swell of slope. Venters mounted it and his dogs walked beside him. Once upon the stone he slowed to snail pace, straining his sight toavoid the pockets and holes. Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars, like great demons and witches chained to the rock and writhing in silentanguish, loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. Venters crossedthis belt of cedars, skirted the upper border, and recognized the treehe had marked, even before he saw his waving scarf. 

Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently, feet first and slowly laidher out full length. What he feared was to reopen one of her wounds. If he gave her a violent jar, or slipped and fell! But the supremeconfidence so strangely felt that night admitted no such blunders. 

The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity to lose its definiteoutline in a misty, opaque cloud that shaded into the over-shadowingwall. He scanned the rim where the serrated points speared the sky, andhe found the zigzag crack. It was dim, only a shade lighter than thedark ramparts, but he distinguished it, and that served. 

Lifting the girl, he stepped upward, closely attending to the nature ofthe path under his feet. After a few steps he stopped to mark his linewith the crack in the rim. The dogs clung closer to him. While chasingthe rabbit this slope had appeared interminable to him; now, burdened ashe was, he did not think of length or height or toil. He rememberedonly to avoid a misstep and to keep his direction. He climbed on, withfrequent stops to watch the rim, and before he dreamed of gaining thebench he bumped his knees into it, and saw, in the dim gray light, hisrifle and the rabbit. He had come straight up without mishap or swervingoff his course, and his shut teeth unlocked. 

As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little ridge withher white face upturned, she opened her eyes. Wide, staring black, atonce like both the night and the stars, they made her face seem stillwhiter. 

"Is--it--you?" she asked, faintly. 

"Yes, " replied Venters. 

"Oh! Where--are we?"

"I'm taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find you. I mustclimb a little here and call the dogs. Don't be afraid. I'll soon comefor you. "

She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a moment and thenclosed. Venters pulled off his boots and then felt for the little stepsin the rock. The shade of the cliff above obscured the point he wantedto gain, but he could see dimly a few feet before him. What he hadattempted with care he now went at with surpassing lightness. Buoyant, rapid, sure, he attained the corner of wall and slipped around it. Herehe could not see a hand before his face, so he groped along, found alittle flat space, and there removed the saddle-bags. The lasso he tookback with him to the corner and looped the noose over the spur of rock. 

"Ring--Whitie--come, " he called, softly. 

Low whines came up from below. 

"Here! Come, Whitie--Ring, " he repeated, this time sharply. 

Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet; and out of thegray gloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to reach his side and passbeyond. 

Venters descended, holding to the lasso. He tested its strength bythrowing all his weight upon it. Then he gathered the girl up, and, holding her securely in his left arm, he began to climb, at every fewsteps jerking his right hand upward along the lasso. It sagged at eachforward movement he made, but he balanced himself lightly during theinterval when he lacked the support of a taut rope. He climbed as if hehad wings, the strength of a giant, and knew not the sense of fear. Thesharp corner of cliff seemed to cut out of the darkness. He reachedit and the protruding shelf, and then, entering the black shade of thenotch, he moved blindly but surely to the place where he had left thesaddle-bags. He heard the dogs, though he could not see them. Once morehe carefully placed the girl at his feet. Then, on hands and knees, he went over the little flat space, feeling for stones. He removed anumber, and, scraping the deep dust into a heap, he unfolded the outerblanket from around the girl and laid her upon this bed. Then he wentdown the slope again for his boots, rifle, and the rabbit, and, bringingalso his lasso with him, he made short work of that trip. 

"Are--you--there?" The girl's voice came low from the blackness. 

"Yes, " he replied, and was conscious that his laboring breast madespeech difficult. 

"Are we--in a cave?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, listen!. .. The waterfall!. .. I hear it! You've brought me back!"

Venters heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled to a pitch almostsoftly shrill and the next lulled to a low, almost inaudible sigh. 

"That's--wind blowing--in the--cliffs, " he panted. "You're far fromOldring's--canyon. "

The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme lassitudefollowing upon great exertion. It seemed that when he lay down and drewhis blanket over him the action was the last before utter prostration. He stretched inert, wet, hot, his body one great strife of throbbing, stinging nerves and bursting veins. And there he lay for a long whilebefore he felt that he had begun to rest. 

Rest came to him that night, but no sleep. Sleep he did not want. Thehours of strained effort were now as if they had never been, and hewanted to think. Earlier in the day he had dismissed an inexplicablefeeling of change; but now, when there was no longer demand on hiscunning and strength and he had time to think, he could not catch theillusive thing that had sadly perplexed as well as elevated his spirit. 

Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the cliff, shonethe lustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers for a long, longyear. To-night they were different. He studied them. Larger, whiter, more radiant they seemed; but that was not the difference he meant. Gradually it came to him that the distinction was not one he saw, butone he felt. In this he divined as much of the baffling change as hethought would be revealed to him then. And as he lay there, with thesinging of the cliff-winds in his ears, the white stars above the dark, bold vent, the difference which he felt was that he was no longer alone. 

CHAPTER IX. SILVER SPRUCE AND ASPENS

The rest of that night seemed to Venters only a few moments ofstarlight, a dark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of gray gloom, andthen the lighting of dawn. 

When he had bestirred himself, feeding the hungry dogs and breakinghis long fast, and had repacked his saddle-bags, it was clear daylight, though the sun had not tipped the yellow wall in the east. He concludedto make the climb and descent into Surprise Valley in one trip. To thatend he tied his blanket upon Ring and gave Whitie the extra lasso andthe rabbit to carry. Then, with the rifle and saddle-bags slung upon hisback, he took up the girl. She did not awaken from heavy slumber. 

That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the broken cliffs, in the face of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed to be weary of itsage-long wavering, was a tax on strength and nerve that Ventersfelt equally with something sweet and strangely exulting in itsaccomplishment. He did not pause until he gained the narrow divide andthere he rested. Balancing Rock loomed huge, cold in the gray lightof dawn, a thing without life, yet it spoke silently to Venters: "I amwaiting to plunge down, to shatter and crash, roar and boom, to buryyour trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass!"

On the descent of the other side Venters had easy going, but wassomewhat concerned because Whitie appeared to have succumbed totemptation, and while carrying the rabbit was also chewing on it. AndRing evidently regarded this as an injury to himself, especially as hehad carried the heavier load. Presently he snapped at one end of therabbit and refused to let go. But his action prevented Whitie fromfurther misdoing, and then the two dogs pattered down, carrying therabbit between them. 

Venters turned out of the gorge, and suddenly paused stock-still, astounded at the scene before him. The curve of the great stone bridgehad caught the sunrise, and through the magnificent arch burst aglorious stream of gold that shone with a long slant down into thecenter of Surprise Valley. Only through the arch did any sunlightpass, so that all the rest of the valley lay still asleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level into walls as misty and soft asmorning clouds. 

Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking up at itstremendous height and sweep. It spanned the opening to Surprise Valley, stretching in almost perfect curve from rim to rim. Even in his hurryand concern Venters could not but feel its majesty, and the thought cameto him that the cliff-dwellers must have regarded it as an object ofworship. 

Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling the weight of hisburden as he descended, and still the valley lay below him. As allother canyons and coves and valleys had deceived him, so had this deep, nestling oval. At length he passed beyond the slope of weathered stonethat spread fan-shape from the arch, and encountered a grassy terracerunning to the right and about on a level with the tips of the oaks andcottonwoods below. Scattered here and there upon this shelf were clumpsof aspens, and he walked through them into a glade that surpassed inbeauty and adaptability for a wild home, any place he had ever seen. Silver spruces bordered the base of a precipitous wall that roseloftily. Caves indented its surface, and there were no detached ledgesor weathered sections that might dislodge a stone. The level ground, beyond the spruces, dropped down into a little ravine. This was onedense line of slender aspens from which came the low splashing of water. And the terrace, lying open to the west, afforded unobstructed view ofthe valley of green treetops. 

For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between the silverspruces and the cliff. Here, in the stone wall, had been wonderfullycarved by wind or washed by water several deep caves above the level ofthe terrace. They were clean, dry, roomy. 

He cut spruce boughs and made a bed in the largest cave and laid thegirl there. The first intimation that he had of her being aroused fromsleep or lethargy was a low call for water. 

He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was a shallow, grass-green place with aspens growing up everywhere. To his delighthe found a tiny brook of swift-running water. Its faint tinge of amberreminded him of the spring at Cottonwoods, and the thought gave him alittle shock. The water was so cold it made his fingers tingle as hedipped the canteen. Having returned to the cave, he was glad to see thegirl drink thirstily. This time he noted that she could raise her headslightly without his help. 

"You were thirsty, " he said. "It's good water. I've found a fine place. Tell me--how do you feel?"

"There's pain--here, " she replied, and moved her hand to her left side. 

"Why, that's strange! Your wounds are on your right side. I believeyou're hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache--a gnawing?"

"It's like--that. "

"Then it's hunger. " Venters laughed, and suddenly caught himself with aquick breath and felt again the little shock. When had he laughed? "It'shunger, " he went on. "I've had that gnaw many a time. I've got it now. But you mustn't eat. You can have all the water you want, but no foodjust yet. "

"Won't I--starve?"

"No, people don't starve easily. I've discovered that. You must lieperfectly still and rest and sleep--for days. "

"My hands--are dirty; my face feels--so hot and sticky; my boots hurt. "It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed off in a whisper. 

"Well, I'm a fine nurse!"

It annoyed him that he had never thought of these things. But then, awaiting her death and thinking of her comfort were vastly differentmatters. He unwrapped the blanket which covered her. What a slender girlshe was! No wonder he had been able to carry her miles and pack her upthat slippery ladder of stone. Her boots were of soft, fine leather, reaching clear to her knees. He recognized the make as one of aboot-maker in Sterling. Her spurs, that he had stupidly neglected toremove, consisted of silver frames and gold chains, and the rowels, large as silver dollars, were fancifully engraved. The boots slipped offrather hard. She wore heavy woollen rider's stockings, half length, andthese were pulled up over the ends of her short trousers. Venters tookoff the stockings to note her little feet were red and swollen. Hebathed them. Then he removed his scarf and bathed her face and hands. 

"I must see your wounds now, " he said, gently. 

She made no reply, but watched him steadily as he opened her blouse anduntied the bandage. His strong fingers trembled a little as he removedit. If the wounds had reopened! A chill struck him as he saw the angryred bullet-mark, and a tiny stream of blood winding from it down herwhite breast. Very carefully he lifted her to see that the wound in herback had closed perfectly. Then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed the wound, and left it unbandaged, open to the air. 

Her eyes thanked him. 

"Listen, " he said, earnestly. "I've had some wounds, and I've seen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your back has closed. If you liestill three days the one in your breast will close and you'll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will be over. "

He had spoken with earnest sincerity, almost eagerness. 

"Why--do you--want me--to get well?" she asked, wonderingly. 

The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds of humanity. But the circumstances under which he had shot this strange girl, theshock and realization, the waiting for death, the hope, had resulted ina condition of mind wherein Venters wanted her to live more than he hadever wanted anything. Yet he could not tell why. He believed the killingof the rustler and the subsequent excitement had disturbed him. For howelse could he explain the throbbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, the undefined sense of full hours, charged, vibrant with pulsatingmystery where once they had dragged in loneliness?

"I shot you, " he said, slowly, "and I want you to get well so I shallnot have killed a woman. But--for your own sake, too--"

A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes, and her lips quivered. 

"Hush, " said Venters. "You've talked too much already. "

In her unutterable bitterness he saw a darkness of mood that could nothave been caused by her present weak and feverish state. She hated thelife she had led, that she probably had been compelled to lead. Shehad suffered some unforgivable wrong at the hands of Oldring. With thatconviction Venters felt a shame throughout his body, and it marked therekindling of fierce anger and ruthlessness. In the past long year hehad nursed resentment. He had hated the wilderness--the loneliness ofthe uplands. He had waited for something to come to pass. It had come. Like an Indian stealing horses he had skulked into the recesses of thecanyons. He had found Oldring's retreat; he had killed a rustler; he hadshot an unfortunate girl, then had saved her from this unwitting act, and he meant to save her from the consequent wasting of blood, fromfever and weakness. Starvation he had to fight for her and for himself. Where he had been sick at the letting of blood, now he remembered it ingrim, cold calm. And as he lost that softness of nature, so he lost hisfear of men. He would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he wouldkill this great black-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, who had used her to his infamous ends. 

Venters surmised this much of the change in him--idleness had passed;keen, fierce vigor flooded his mind and body; all that had happened tohim at Cottonwoods seemed remote and hard to recall; the difficultiesand perils of the present absorbed him, held him in a kind of spell. 

First, then, he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl's roomfor his own comfort and use. His next work was to build a fireplace ofstones and to gather a store of wood. That done, he spilled the contentsof his saddle-bags upon the grass and took stock. His outfit consistedof a small-handled axe, a hunting-knife, a large number of cartridgesfor rifle or revolver, a tin plate, a cup, and a fork and spoon, a quantity of dried beef and dried fruits, and small canvas bagscontaining tea, sugar, salt, and pepper. For him alone this supply wouldhave been bountiful to begin a sojourn in the wilderness, but he was nolonger alone. Starvation in the uplands was not an unheard-of thing;he did not, however, worry at all on that score, and feared only hispossible inability to supply the needs of a woman in a weakened andextremely delicate condition. 

If there was no game in the valley--a contingency he doubted--it wouldnot be a great task for him to go by night to Oldring's herd and packout a calf. The exigency of the moment was to ascertain if there weregame in Surprise Valley. Whitie still guarded the dilapidated rabbit, and Ring slept near by under a spruce. Venters called Ring and went tothe edge of the terrace, and there halted to survey the valley. 

He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances had made itappear; for more than a casual idea of dimensions and a hasty conceptionof oval shape and singular beauty he had not had time. Again thefelicity of the name he had given the valley struck him forcibly. Aroundthe red perpendicular walls, except under the great arc of stone, rana terrace fringed at the cliff-base by silver spruces; below that firstterrace sloped another wider one densely overgrown with aspens, and thecenter of the valley was a level circle of oaks and alders, with theglittering green line of willows and cottonwood dividing it in half. Venters saw a number and variety of birds flitting among the trees. To his left, facing the stone bridge, an enormous cavern opened in thewall; and low down, just above the tree-tops, he made out a long shelfof cliff-dwellings, with little black, staring windows or doors. Likeeyes they were, and seemed to watch him. The few cliff-dwellings he hadseen--all ruins--had left him with haunting memory of age and solitudeand of something past. He had come, in a way, to be a cliff-dwellerhimself, and those silent eyes would look down upon him, as if insurprise that after thousands of years a man had invaded the valley. Venters felt sure that he was the only white man who had ever walkedunder the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge, down into that wonderfulvalley with its circle of caves and its terraced rings of silver spruceand aspens. 

The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Venters ran down thedeclivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked with sunshine. Theoak-trees were slender, none more than half a foot thick, and they grewclose together, intermingling their branches. Ring came running backwith a rabbit in his mouth. Venters took the rabbit and, holding thedog near him, stole softly on. There were fluttering of wings among thebranches and quick bird-notes, and rustling of dead leaves and rapidpatterings. Venters crossed well-worn trails marked with fresh tracks;and when he had stolen on a little farther he saw many birds and runningquail, and more rabbits than he could count. He had not penetrated theforest of oaks for a hundred yards, had not approached anywhere near theline of willows and cottonwoods which he knew grew along a stream. Buthe had seen enough to know that Surprise Valley was the home of manywild creatures. 

Venters returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits, and gave the dogs theone they had quarreled over, and the skin of this he dressed and hungup to dry, feeling that he would like to keep it. It was a particularlyrich, furry pelt with a beautiful white tail. Venters remembered thatbut for the bobbing of that white tail catching his eye he would nothave espied the rabbit, and he would never have discovered SurpriseValley. Little incidents of chance like this had turned him hereand there in Deception Pass; and now they had assumed to him thesignificance and direction of destiny. 

His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to his mind thenecessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he took the axe and cutbundles of aspens and willows, and packed them up under the bridge tothe narrow outlet of the gorge. Here he began fashioning a fence, bydriving aspens into the ground and lacing them fast with willows. Tripafter trip he made down for more building material, and the afternoonhad passed when he finished the work to his satisfaction. Wildcats mightscale the fence, but no coyote could come in to search for prey, and norabbits or other small game could escape from the valley. 

Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease, around afine fire, without hurry or fear of discovery. After hard work thathad definite purpose, this freedom and comfort gave him peculiarsatisfaction. He caught himself often, as he kept busy round thecamp-fire, stopping to glance at the quiet form in the cave, and atthe dogs stretched cozily near him, and then out across the beautifulvalley. The present was not yet real to him. 

While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved wall. Asthe morning sun burst wondrously through a grand arch into this valley, in a golden, slanting shaft, so the evening sun, at the moment ofsetting, shone through a gap of cliffs, sending down a broad red burstto brighten the oval with a blaze of fire. To Venters both sunrise andsunset were unreal. 

A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, and whilethe light lasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millions of facets ofred, and sweeping the graceful spruces. Then with the wind soon camea shade and a darkening, and suddenly the valley was gray. Night camethere quickly after the sinking of the sun. Venters went softly to lookat the girl. She slept, and her breathing was quiet and slow. He liftedRing into the cave, with stern whisper for him to stay there onguard. Then he drew the blanket carefully over her and returned to thecamp-fire. 

Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude, butthis night it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; it was froma desire to realize his position. The details of his wild environmentseemed the only substance of a strange dream. He saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, the undulating surface of forest, like arippling lake, and the spear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutterof aspen leaves and the soft, continuous splash of falling water. Themelancholy note of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the highcliffs. Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seenone, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were asfamiliar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased, and the rustleof leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound that Ventersfancied was not of earth. Neither had he a name for this, only it wasinexpressibly wild and sweet. The thought came that it might be a moanof the girl in her last outcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! This sound was not human, though it was like despair. He beganto doubt his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamed whathe thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with the strengtheningof the breeze, and he realized it was the singing of the wind in thecliffs. 

By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod, halfasleep, with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself and callingWhitie, he went to the cave. The girl lay barely visible in the dimness. Ring crouched beside her, and the patting of his tail on the stoneassured Venters that the dog was awake and faithful to his duty. Venterssought his own bed of fragrant boughs; and as he lay back, somehowgrateful for the comfort and safety, the night seemed to steal away fromhim and he sank softly into intangible space and rest and slumber. 

Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only thehaunting echo of dream music. He opened his eyes to another surpriseof this valley of beautiful surprises. Out of his cave he saw theexquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces crossing a round spaceof blue morning sky; and in this lacy leafage fluttered a number ofgray birds with black and white stripes and long tails. They weremocking-birds, and they were singing as if they wanted to burst theirthroats. Venters listened. One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almostto his cave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of thegraceful birds. Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its throatin song. He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave the birdsfluttered and flew farther away. 

Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked in. Thegirl was awake, with wide eyes and listening look, and she had a hand onRing's neck. 

"Mocking-birds!" she said. 

"Yes, " replied Venters, "and I believe they like our company. "

"Where are we?"

"Never mind now. After a little I'll tell you. "

"The birds woke me. When I heard them--and saw the shiny trees--and theblue sky--and then a blaze of gold dropping down--I wondered--"

She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he understood hermeaning. She appeared to be wandering in mind. Venters felt her face andhands and found them burning with fever. He went for water, and was gladto find it almost as cold as if flowing from ice. That water was theonly medicine he had, and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he made her swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and cooledher wrists. 

The day began with the heightening of the fever. Venters spent the timereducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks and temples. He keptclose watch over her, and at the least indication of restlessness, thathe knew led to tossing and rolling of the body, he held her tightly, sono violent move could reopen her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled andlaughed and cried and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret wasshe did not reveal it. Attended by something somber for Venters, the daypassed. At night in the cool winds the fever abated and she slept. 

The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third he seemed tosee her wither and waste away before his eyes. That day he scarcely wentfrom her side for a moment, except to run for fresh, cool water; and hedid not eat. The fever broke on the fourth day and left her spent andshrunken, a slip of a girl with life only in her eyes. They hung uponVenters with a mute observance, and he found hope in that. 

To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish thelittle life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters's problem. But he had little resource other than the meat of the rabbits and quail;and from these he made broths and soups as best he could, and fed herwith a spoon. It came to him that the human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capable of recovering from terrible shocks. Foralmost immediately she showed faint signs of gathering strength. Therewas one more waiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long hours byher side as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of her breast riseand fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangled chestnut curls. Onthe next day he knew that she would live. 

Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his accustomedseat against the trunk of a big spruce, where once more he let hisglance stray along the sloping terraces. She would live, and the sombergloom lifted out of the valley, and he felt relief that was pain. Thenhe roused to the call of action, to the many things he needed to doin the way of making camp fixtures and utensils, to the necessity ofhunting food, and the desire to explore the valley. 

But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from camp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she could see himnear at hand. And on the first day her languor appeared to leave her ina renewed grip of life. She awoke stronger from each short slumber; sheate greedily, and she moved about in her bed of boughs; and always, itseemed to Venters, her eyes followed him. He knew now that her recoverywould be rapid. She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about how hungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to putoff further talk till another time. She obeyed, but she sat up in herbed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him. 

Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and would notpermit him to bathe her face and feed her, which actions she performedfor herself. She spoke little, however, and Venters was quick tocatch in her the first intimations of thoughtfulness and curiosity andappreciation of her situation. He left camp and took Whitie out tohunt for rabbits. Upon his return he was amazed and somewhat anxiouslyconcerned to see his invalid sitting with her back to a corner of thecave and her bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, intendingto advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she mightovertax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on the littlehead with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval face with itspallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue circles. She lookedat him and he looked at her. In that exchange of glances he imaginedeach saw the other in some different guise. It seemed impossible toVenters that this frail girl could be Oldring's Masked Rider. It flashedover him that he had made a mistake which presently she would explain. 

"Help me down, " she said. 

"But--are you well enough?" he protested. "Wait--a little longer. "

"I'm weak--dizzy. But I want to get down. "

He lifted her--what a light burden now!--and stood her upright besidehim, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting steps. Shewas like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small head scarcely reachedhis shoulder. But now, as she clung to his arm, the rider's costume shewore did not contradict, as it had done at first, his feeling of herfemininity. She might be the famous Masked Rider of the uplands, shemight resemble a boy; but her outline, her little hands and feet, herhair, her big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something thatVenters felt as a subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed hersex. 

She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the sprucethat overspread the camp-fire. 

"Now tell me--everything, " she said. 

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of therustlers in the canyon up to the present moment. 

"You shot me--and now you've saved my life?"

"Yes. After almost killing you I've pulled you through. "

"Are you glad?"

"I should say so!"

Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily; shewas unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions and they shone withgratefulness and interest and wonder and sadness. 

"Tell me--about yourself?" she asked. 

He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, hisvarious occupations till he became a rider, and then how the Mormons hadpractically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast. 

Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, hequestioned her in turn. 

"Are you Oldring's Masked Rider?"

"Yes, " she replied, and dropped her eyes. 

"I knew it--I recognized your figure--and mask, for I saw you once. Yet I can't believe it!. .. But you never were really that rustler, as weriders knew him? A thief--a marauder--a kidnapper of women--a murdererof sleeping riders!"

"No! I never stole--or harmed any one--in all my life. I only rode androde--"

"But why--why?" he burst out. "Why the name? I understand Oldring madeyou ride. But the black mask--the mystery--the things laid to yourhands--the threats in your infamous name--the night-riding creditedto you--the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you and acknowledged byrustlers--even Oldring himself! Why? Tell me why?"

"I never knew that, " she answered low. Her drooping head straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters's with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It verified his own conviction. 

"Never knew? That's strange! Are you a Mormon?"

"No. "

"Is Oldring a Mormon?"

"No. "

"Do you--care for him?"

"Yes. I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hate him!"

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self toask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which heseemed driven to hear. 

"What are--what were you to Oldring?"

Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girlwilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept thered of shame. 

Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It seemedso different--his thought when spoken. Yet her shame established in hismind something akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering tofeel for her. 

"D--n that question!--forget it!" he cried, in a passion of pain for herand anger at himself. "But once and for all--tell me--I know it, yet Iwant to hear you say so--you couldn't help yourself?"

"Oh no. "

"Well, that makes it all right with me, " he went on, honestly. "I--Iwant you to feel that. .. You see--we've been thrown together--and--and Iwant to help you--not hurt you. I thought life had been cruel to me, butwhen I think of yours I feel mean and little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast. And now!. .. I don't see very clearly what it allmeans. Only we are here--together. We've got to stay here, for long, surely till you are well. But you'll never go back to Oldring. And I'msure helping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There's somethingnow for me to do. And if I can win back your strength--then get youaway, out of this wild country--help you somehow to a happier life--justthink how good that'll be for me!"

CHAPTER X. LOVE

During all these waiting days Venters, with the exception of theafternoon when he had built the gate in the gorge, had scarcely goneout of sight of camp and never out of hearing. His desire to exploreSurprise Valley was keen, and on the morning after his long talk withthe girl he took his rifle and, calling Ring, made a move to start. Thegirl lay back in a rude chair of boughs he had put together for her. Shehad been watching him, and when he picked up the gun and called the dogVenters thought she gave a nervous start. 

"I'm only going to look over the valley, " he said. 

"Will you be gone long?"

"No, " he replied, and started off. The incident set him thinking of hisformer impression that, after her recovery from fever, she did not seemat ease unless he was close at hand. It was fear of being alone, due, heconcluded, most likely to her weakened condition. He must not leave hermuch alone. 

As he strode down the sloping terrace, rabbits scampered before him, and the beautiful valley quail, as purple in color as the sage on theuplands, ran fleetly along the ground into the forest. It was pleasantunder the trees, in the gold-flecked shade, with the whistle of quailand twittering of birds everywhere. Soon he had passed the limit of hisformer excursions and entered new territory. Here the woods began toshow open glades and brooks running down from the slope, and presentlyhe emerged from shade into the sunshine of a meadow. The shaking of thehigh grass told him of the running of animals, what species he couldnot tell, but from Ring's manifest desire to have a chase they wereevidently some kind wilder than rabbits. Venters approached the willowand cottonwood belt that he had observed from the height of slope. He penetrated it to find a considerable stream of water and greathalf-submerged mounds of brush and sticks, and all about him were oldand new gnawed circles at the base of the cottonwoods. 

"Beaver!" he exclaimed. "By all that's lucky! The meadow's full ofbeaver! How did they ever get here?"

Beaver had not found a way into the valley by the trail of thecliff-dwellers, of that he was certain; and he began to have more thancuriosity as to the outlet or inlet of the stream. When he passed somedead water, which he noted was held by a beaver dam, there was a currentin the stream, and it flowed west. Following its course, he soon enteredthe oak forest again, and passed through to find himself before massedand jumbled ruins of cliff wall. There were tangled thickets ofwild plum-trees and other thorny growths that made passage extremelylaborsome. He found innumerable tracks of wildcats and foxes. Rustlingsin the thick undergrowth told him of stealthy movements of theseanimals. At length his further advance appeared futile, for the reasonthat the stream disappeared in a split at the base of immense rocks overwhich he could not climb. To his relief he concluded that though beavermight work their way up the narrow chasm where the water rushed, itwould be impossible for men to enter the valley there. 

This western curve was the only part of the valley where the walls hadbeen split asunder, and it was a wildly rough and inaccessible corner. Going back a little way, he leaped the stream and headed toward thesouthern wall. Once out of the oaks he found again the low terrace ofaspens, and above that the wide, open terrace fringed by silver spruces. This side of the valley contained the wind or water worn caves. As hepressed on, keeping to the upper terrace, cave after cave opened out ofthe cliff; now a large one, now a small one. Then yawned, quite suddenlyand wonderfully above him, the great cavern of the cliff-dwellers. 

It was still a goodly distance, and he tried to imagine, if it appearedso huge from where he stood, what it would be when he got there. Heclimbed the terrace and then faced a long, gradual ascent of weatheredrock and dust, which made climbing too difficult for attention toanything else. At length he entered a zone of shade, and looked up. He stood just within the hollow of a cavern so immense that he had noconception of its real dimensions. The curved roof, stained by agesof leakage, with buff and black and rust-colored streaks, swept up andloomed higher and seemed to soar to the rim of the cliff. Here again wasa magnificent arch, such as formed the grand gateway to the valley, onlyin this instance it formed the dome of a cave instead of the span of abridge. 

Venters passed onward and upward. The stones he dislodged rolled downwith strange, hollow crack and roar. He had climbed a hundred rodsinward, and yet he had not reached the base of the shelf where thecliff-dwellings rested, a long half-circle of connected stone house, with little dark holes that he had fancied were eyes. At length hegained the base of the shelf, and here found steps cut in the rock. These facilitated climbing, and as he went up he thought how easily thisvanished race of men might once have held that stronghold against anarmy. There was only one possible place to ascend, and this was narrowand steep. 

Venters had visited cliff-dwellings before, and they had been in ruins, and of no great character or size but this place was of proportions thatstunned him, and it had not been desecrated by the hand of man, nor hadit been crumbled by the hand of time. It was a stupendous tomb. It hadbeen a city. It was just as it had been left by its builders. The littlehouses were there, the smoke-blackened stains of fires, the pieces ofpottery scattered about cold hearths, the stone hatchets; and stonepestles and mealing-stones lay beside round holes polished by yearsof grinding maize--lay there as if they had been carelessly droppedyesterday. But the cliff-dwellers were gone!

Dust! They were dust on the floor or at the foot of the shelf, and theirhabitations and utensils endured. Venters felt the sublimity of thatmarvelous vaulted arch, and it seemed to gleam with a glory of somethingthat was gone. How many years had passed since the cliff-dwellers gazedout across the beautiful valley as he was gazing now? How long had itbeen since women ground grain in those polished holes? What time hadrolled by since men of an unknown race lived, loved, fought, and diedthere? Had an enemy destroyed them? Had disease destroyed them, or onlythat greatest destroyer--time? Venters saw a long line of blood-redhands painted low down upon the yellow roof of stone. Here was strangeportent, if not an answer to his queries. The place oppressed him. Itwas light, but full of a transparent gloom. It smelled of dust and mustystone, of age and disuse. It was sad. It was solemn. It had the lookof a place where silence had become master and was now irrevocable andterrible and could not be broken. Yet, at the moment, from high up inthe carved crevices of the arch, floated down the low, strange wail ofwind--a knell indeed for all that had gone. 

Venters, sighing, gathered up an armful of pottery, such pieces as hethought strong enough and suitable for his own use, and bent his stepstoward camp. He mounted the terrace at an opposite point to which hehad left. He saw the girl looking in the direction he had gone. Hisfootsteps made no sound in the deep grass, and he approached closewithout her being aware of his presence. Whitie lay on the ground nearwhere she sat, and he manifested the usual actions of welcome, but thegirl did not notice them. She seemed to be oblivious to everything nearat hand. She made a pathetic figure drooping there, with her sunny haircontrasting so markedly with her white, wasted cheeks and her handslistlessly clasped and her little bare feet propped in the framework ofthe rude seat. Venters could have sworn and laughed in one breath at theidea of the connection between this girl and Oldring's Masked Rider. Shewas the victim of more than accident of fate--a victim to some deepplot the mystery of which burned him. As he stepped forward with ahalf-formed thought that she was absorbed in watching for his return, she turned her head and saw him. A swift start, a change rather thanrush of blood under her white cheeks, a flashing of big eyes that fixedtheir glance upon him, transformed her face in that single instant ofturning, and he knew she had been watching for him, that his return wasthe one thing in her mind. She did not smile; she did not flush; shedid not look glad. All these would have meant little compared to herindefinite expression. Venters grasped the peculiar, vivid, vitalsomething that leaped from her face. It was as if she had been in adead, hopeless clamp of inaction and feeling, and had been suddenly shotthrough and through with quivering animation. Almost it was as if shehad returned to life. 

And Venters thought with lightning swiftness, "I've saved her--I'veunlinked her from that old life--she was watching as if I were all shehad left on earth--she belongs to me!" The thought was startlingly new. Like a blow it was in an unprepared moment. The cheery salutation he hadready for her died unborn and he tumbled the pieces of pottery awkwardlyon the grass while some unfamiliar, deep-seated emotion, mixed with pityand glad assurance of his power to succor her, held him dumb. 

"What a load you had!" she said. "Why, they're pots and crocks! Wheredid you get them?"

Venters laid down his rifle, and, filling one of the pots from hiscanteen, he placed it on the smoldering campfire. 

"Hope it'll hold water, " he said, presently. "Why, there's an enormouscliff-dwelling just across here. I got the pottery there. Don't youthink we needed something? That tin cup of mine has served to make tea, broth, soup--everything. "

"I noticed we hadn't a great deal to cook in. "

She laughed. It was the first time. He liked that laugh, and though hewas tempted to look at her, he did not want to show his surprise or hispleasure. 

"Will you take me over there, and all around in the valley--pretty soon, when I'm well?" she added. 

"Indeed I shall. It's a wonderful place. Rabbits so thick you can't stepwithout kicking one out. And quail, beaver, foxes, wildcats. We're in aregular den. But--haven't you ever seen a cliff-dwelling?"

"No. I've heard about them, though. The--the men say the Pass is full ofold houses and ruins. "

"Why, I should think you'd have run across one in all your ridingaround, " said Venters. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, and he essayed a perfectly casual manner, and pretended to be busyassorting pieces of pottery. She must have no cause again to suffershame for curiosity of his. Yet never in all his days had he been soeager to hear the details of anyone's life. 

"When I rode--I rode like the wind, " she replied, "and never had time tostop for anything. "

"I remember that day I--I met you in the Pass--how dusty you were, howtired your horse looked. Were you always riding?"

"Oh, no. Sometimes not for months, when I was shut up in the cabin. "

Venters tried to subdue a hot tingling. 

"You were shut up, then?" he asked, carelessly. 

"When Oldring went away on his long trips--he was gone for monthssometimes--he shut me up in the cabin. "

"What for?"

"Perhaps to keep me from running away. I always threatened that. Mostly, though, because the men got drunk at the villages. But they were alwaysgood to me. I wasn't afraid. "

"A prisoner! That must have been hard on you?"

"I liked that. As long as I can remember I've been locked up there attimes, and those times were the only happy ones I ever had. It's a bigcabin, high up on a cliff, and I could look out. Then I had dogs andpets I had tamed, and books. There was a spring inside, and food stored, and the men brought me fresh meat. Once I was there one whole winter. "

It now required deliberation on Venters's part to persist in hisunconcern and to keep at work. He wanted to look at her, to volleyquestions at her. 

"As long as you can remember--you've lived in Deception Pass?" he wenton. 

"I've a dim memory of some other place, and women and children; but Ican't make anything of it. Sometimes I think till I'm weary. "

"Then you can read--you have books?"

"Oh yes, I can read, and write, too, pretty well. Oldring is educated. He taught me, and years ago an old rustler lived with us, and he hadbeen something different once. He was always teaching me. "

"So Oldring takes long trips, " mused Venters. "Do you know where hegoes?"

"No. Every year he drives cattle north of Sterling--then does not returnfor months. I heard him accused once of living two lives--and he killedthe man. That was at Stone Bridge. "

Venters dropped his apparent task and looked up with an eagerness he nolonger strove to hide. 

"Bess, " he said, using her name for the first time, "I suspected Oldringwas something besides a rustler. Tell me, what's his purpose here in thePass? I believe much that he has done was to hide his real work here. "

"You're right. He's more than a rustler. In fact, as the men say, hisrustling cattle is now only a bluff. There's gold in the canyons!"

"Ah!"

"Yes, there's gold, not in great quantities, but gold enough for him andhis men. They wash for gold week in and week out. Then they drive a fewcattle and go into the villages to drink and shoot and kill--to bluffthe riders. "

"Drive a few cattle! But, Bess, the Withersteen herd, the redherd--twenty-five hundred head! That's not a few. And I tracked theminto a valley near here. "

"Oldring never stole the red herd. He made a deal with Mormons. Theriders were to be called in, and Oldring was to drive the herd and keepit till a certain time--I won't know when--then drive it back to therange. What his share was I didn't hear. "

"Did you hear why that deal was made?" queried Venters. 

"No. But it was a trick of Mormons. They're full of tricks. I've heardOldring's men tell about Mormons. Maybe the Withersteen woman wasn'tminding her halter! I saw the man who made the deal. He was a little, queer-shaped man, all humped up. He sat his horse well. I heard one ofour men say afterward there was no better rider on the sage than thisfellow. What was the name? I forget. "

"Jerry Card?" suggested Venters. 

"That's it. I remember--it's a name easy to remember--and Jerry Cardappeared to be on fair terms with Oldring's men. "

"I shouldn't wonder, " replied Venters, thoughtfully. Verification of hissuspicions in regard to Tull's underhand work--for the deal with Oldringmade by Jerry Card assuredly had its inception in the Mormon Elder'sbrain, and had been accomplished through his orders--revived in Ventersa memory of hatred that had been smothered by press of other emotions. Only a few days had elapsed since the hour of his encounter with Tull, yet they had been forgotten and now seemed far off, and the intervalone that now appeared large and profound with incalculable change in hisfeelings. Hatred of Tull still existed in his heart, but it had lost itswhite heat. His affection for Jane Withersteen had not changed in theleast; nevertheless, he seemed to view it from another angle and see itas another thing--what, he could not exactly define. The recalling ofthese two feelings was to Venters like getting glimpses into a selfthat was gone; and the wonder of them--perhaps the change which was tooillusive for him--was the fact that a strange irritation accompaniedthe memory and a desire to dismiss it from mind. And straightway he diddismiss it, to return to thoughts of his significant present. 

"Bess, tell me one more thing, " he said. "Haven't you known anywomen--any young people?"

"Sometimes there were women with the men; but Oldring never let me knowthem. And all the young people I ever saw in my life was when I rodefast through the villages. "

Perhaps that was the most puzzling and thought-provoking thing she hadyet said to Venters. He pondered, more curious the more he learned, buthe curbed his inquisitive desires, for he saw her shrinking on theverge of that shame, the causing of which had occasioned him suchself-reproach. He would ask no more. Still he had to think, and hefound it difficult to think clearly. This sad-eyed girl was so utterlydifferent from what it would have been reason to believe such aremarkable life would have made her. On this day he had found her simpleand frank, as natural as any girl he had ever known. About her there wassomething sweet. Her voice was low and well modulated. He could not lookinto her face, meet her steady, unabashed, yet wistful eyes, and thinkof her as the woman she had confessed herself. Oldring's Masked Ridersat before him, a girl dressed as a man. She had been made to ride atthe head of infamous forays and drives. She had been imprisoned for manymonths of her life in an obscure cabin. At times the most vicious of menhad been her companions; and the vilest of women, if they had not beenpermitted to approach her, had, at least, cast their shadows over her. But--but in spite of all this--there thundered at Venters some truththat lifted its voice higher than the clamoring facts of dishonor, some truth that was the very life of her beautiful eyes; and it wasinnocence. 

In the days that followed, Venters balanced perpetually in mind thishaunting conception of innocence over against the cold and sickeningfact of an unintentional yet actual gift. How could it be possible forthe two things to be true? He believed the latter to be true, and hewould not relinquish his conviction of the former; and these conflictingthoughts augmented the mystery that appeared to be a part of Bess. Inthose ensuing days, however, it became clear as clearest light thatBess was rapidly regaining strength; that, unless reminded of her longassociation with Oldring, she seemed to have forgotten it; that, like anIndian who lives solely from moment to moment, she was utterly absorbedin the present. 

Day by day Venters watched the white of her face slowly change to brown, and the wasted cheeks fill out by imperceptible degrees. There came atime when he could just trace the line of demarcation between the partof her face once hidden by a mask and that left exposed to wind and sun. When that line disappeared in clear bronze tan it was as if she had beenwashed clean of the stigma of Oldring's Masked Rider. The suggestion ofthe mask always made Venters remember; now that it was gone he seldomthought of her past. Occasionally he tried to piece together the severalstages of strange experience and to make a whole. He had shot a maskedoutlaw the very sight of whom had been ill omen to riders; he hadcarried off a wounded woman whose bloody lips quivered in prayer; hehad nursed what seemed a frail, shrunken boy; and now he watched a girlwhose face had become strangely sweet, whose dark-blue eyes were everupon him without boldness, without shyness, but with a steady, grave, and growing light. Many times Venters found the clear gaze embarrassingto him, yet, like wine, it had an exhilarating effect. What did shethink when she looked at him so? Almost he believed she had no thoughtat all. All about her and the present there in Surprise Valley, andthe dim yet subtly impending future, fascinated Venters and made himthoughtful as all his lonely vigils in the sage had not. 

Chiefly it was the present that he wished to dwell upon; but it was thecall of the future which stirred him to action. No idea had he ofwhat that future had in store for Bess and him. He began to thinkof improving Surprise Valley as a place to live in, for there wasno telling how long they would be compelled to stay there. Ventersstubbornly resisted the entering into his mind of an insistent thoughtthat, clearly realized, might have made it plain to him that he didnot want to leave Surprise Valley at all. But it was imperative that heconsider practical matters; and whether or not he was destined to staylong there, he felt the immediate need of a change of diet. It would benecessary for him to go farther afield for a variety of meat, and alsothat he soon visit Cottonwoods for a supply of food. 

It occurred again to Venters that he could go to the canyon whereOldring kept his cattle, and at little risk he could pack out some beef. He wished to do this, however, without letting Bess know of it tillafter he had made the trip. Presently he hit upon the plan of goingwhile she was asleep. 

That very night he stole out of camp, climbed up under the stone bridge, and entered the outlet to the Pass. The gorge was full of luminousgloom. Balancing Rock loomed dark and leaned over the pale descent. Transformed in the shadowy light, it took shape and dimensions of aspectral god waiting--waiting for the moment to hurl himself down uponthe tottering walls and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass. Atnight more than by day Venters felt something fearful and fateful inthat rock, and that it had leaned and waited through a thousand years tohave somehow to deal with his destiny. 

"Old man, if you must roll, wait till I get back to the girl, and thenroll!" he said, aloud, as if the stones were indeed a god. 

And those spoken words, in their grim note to his ear, as well ascontents to his mind, told Venters that he was all but drifting on acurrent which he had not power nor wish to stem. 

Venters exercised his usual care in the matter of hiding tracks from theoutlet, yet it took him scarcely an hour to reach Oldring's cattle. Here sight of many calves changed his original intention, and insteadof packing out meat he decided to take a calf out alive. He roped one, securely tied its feet, and swung it over his shoulder. Here was anexceedingly heavy burden, but Venters was powerful--he could take upa sack of grain and with ease pitch it over a pack-saddle--and he madelong distance without resting. The hardest work came in the climb up tothe outlet and on through to the valley. When he had accomplished it, he became fired with another idea that again changed his intention. He would not kill the calf, but keep it alive. He would go back toOldring's herd and pack out more calves. Thereupon he secured the calfin the best available spot for the moment and turned to make a secondtrip. 

When Venters got back to the valley with another calf, it was close upondaybreak. He crawled into his cave and slept late. Bess had no inklingthat he had been absent from camp nearly all night, and only remarkedsolicitously that he appeared to be more tired than usual, and more inthe need of sleep. In the afternoon Venters built a gate across a smallravine near camp, and here corralled the calves; and he succeeded incompleting his task without Bess being any the wiser. 

That night he made two more trips to Oldring's range, and again on thefollowing night, and yet another on the next. With eight calves in hiscorral, he concluded that he had enough; but it dawned upon him thenthat he did not want to kill one. "I've rustled Oldring's cattle, " hesaid, and laughed. He noted then that all the calves were red. "Red!"he exclaimed. "From the red herd. I've stolen Jane Withersteen'scattle!. .. That's about the strangest thing yet. "

One more trip he undertook to Oldring's valley, and this time he ropeda yearling steer and killed it and cut out a small quarter of beef. Thehowling of coyotes told him he need have no apprehension that the workof his knife would be discovered. He packed the beef back to camp andhung it upon a spruce-tree. Then he sought his bed. 

On the morrow he was up bright and early, glad that he had a surprisefor Bess. He could hardly wait for her to come out. Presently sheappeared and walked under the spruce. Then she approached the camp-fire. There was a tinge of healthy red in the bronze of her cheeks, and herslender form had begun to round out in graceful lines. 

"Bess, didn't you say you were tired of rabbit?" inquired Venters. "Andquail and beaver?"

"Indeed I did. "

"What would you like?"

"I'm tired of meat, but if we have to live on it I'd like some beef. "

"Well, how does that strike you?" Venters pointed to the quarter hangingfrom the spruce-tree. "We'll have fresh beef for a few days, then we'llcut the rest into strips and dry it. "

"Where did you get that?" asked Bess, slowly. 

"I stole that from Oldring. "

"You went back to the canyon--you risked--" While she hesitated thetinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks. 

"It wasn't any risk, but it was hard work. "

"I'm sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How--When did you get thatbeef?"

"Last night. "

"While I was asleep?"

"Yes. "

"I woke last night sometime--but I didn't know. "

Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever they didso the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to the wistful light. Inthe former she saw as the primitive woman without thought; in the lattershe looked inward, and her gaze was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had not seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought was beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make herthink. 

"I've done more than pack in that beef, " he said. "For five nights I'vebeen working while you slept. I've got eight calves corralled near aravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!"

"You went five nights!"

All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slowpallor, and her exclamation, was fear--fear for herself or for him. 

"Yes. I didn't tell you, because I knew you were afraid to be leftalone. "

"Alone?" She echoed his word, but the meaning of it was nothing to her. She had not even thought of being left alone. It was not, then, fear forherself, but for him. This girl, always slow of speech and action, nowseemed almost stupid. She put forth a hand that might have indicated thegroping of her mind. Suddenly she stepped swiftly to him, with a lookand touch that drove from him any doubt of her quick intelligence orfeeling. 

"Oldring has men watch the herds--they would kill you. You must never goagain!"

When she had spoken, the strength and the blaze of her died, and sheswayed toward Venters. 

"Bess, I'll not go again, " he said, catching her. 

She leaned against him, and her body was limp and vibrated to a long, wavering tremble. Her face was upturned to his. Woman's face, woman'seyes, woman's lips--all acutely and blindly and sweetly and terriblytruthful in their betrayal! But as her fear was instinctive, so was herclinging to this one and only friend. 

Venters gently put her from him and steadied her upon her feet; and allthe while his blood raced wild, and a thrilling tingle unsteadied hisnerve, and something--that he had seen and felt in her--that he couldnot understand--seemed very close to him, warm and rich as a fragrantbreath, sweet as nothing had ever before been sweet to him. 

With all his will Venters strove for calmness and thought and judgmentunbiased by pity, and reality unswayed by sentiment. Bess's eyes werestill fixed upon him with all her soul bright in that wistful light. Swiftly, resolutely he put out of mind all of her life except what hadbeen spent with him. He scorned himself for the intelligence that madehim still doubt. He meant to judge her as she had judged him. He wasface to face with the inevitableness of life itself. He saw destiny inthe dark, straight path of her wonderful eyes. Here was the simplicity, the sweetness of a girl contending with new and strange and enthrallingemotions here the living truth of innocence; here the blind terror of awoman confronted with the thought of death to her savior and protector. All this Venters saw, but, besides, there was in Bess's eyes aslow-dawning consciousness that seemed about to break out in gloriousradiance. 

"Bess, are you thinking?" he asked. 

"Yes--oh yes!"

"Do you realize we are here alone--man and woman?"

"Yes. "

"Have you thought that we may make our way out to civilization, or wemay have to stay here--alone--hidden from the world all our lives?"

"I never thought--till now. "

"Well, what's your choice--to go--or to stay here--alone with me?"

"Stay!" New-born thought of self, ringing vibrantly in her voice, gaveher answer singular power. 

Venters trembled, and then swiftly turned his gaze from her face--fromher eyes. He knew what she had only half divined--that she loved him. 

CHAPTER XI. FAITH AND UNFAITH

At Jane Withersteen's home the promise made to Mrs. Larkin to care forlittle Fay had begun to be fulfilled. Like a gleam of sunlight throughthe cottonwoods was the coming of the child to the gloomy house ofWithersteen. The big, silent halls echoed with childish laughter. In theshady court, where Jane spent many of the hot July days, Fay's tinyfeet pattered over the stone flags and splashed in the amber stream. Sheprattled incessantly. What difference, Jane thought, a child made in herhome! It had never been a real home, she discovered. Even the tidinessand neatness she had so observed, and upon which she had insisted to herwomen, became, in the light of Fay's smile, habits that now lost theirimportance. Fay littered the court with Jane's books and papers, andother toys her fancy improvised, and many a strange craft went floatingdown the little brook. 

And it was owing to Fay's presence that Jane Withersteen came to seemore of Lassiter. The rider had for the most part kept to the sage. Herode for her, but he did not seek her except on business; and Jane hadto acknowledge in pique that her overtures had been made in vain. Fay, however, captured Lassiter the moment he first laid eyes on her. 

Jane was present at the meeting, and there was something about it whichdimmed her sight and softened her toward this foe of her people. Therider had clanked into the court, a tired yet wary man, always lookingfor the attack upon him that was inevitable and might come from anyquarter; and he had walked right upon little Fay. The child had beenbeautiful even in her rags and amid the surroundings of the hovel in thesage, but now, in a pretty white dress, with her shining curls brushedand her face clean and rosy, she was lovely. She left her play andlooked up at Lassiter. 

If there was not an instinct for all three of them in that meeting, anunreasoning tendency toward a closer intimacy, then Jane Withersteenbelieved she had been subject to a queer fancy. She imagined any childwould have feared Lassiter. And Fay Larkin had been a lonely, a solitaryelf of the sage, not at all an ordinary child, and exquisitely shywith strangers. She watched Lassiter with great, round, grave eyes, butshowed no fear. The rider gave Jane a favorable report of cattle andhorses; and as he took the seat to which she invited him, little Fayedged as much as half an inch nearer. Jane replied to his look ofinquiry and told Fay's story. The rider's gray, earnest gaze troubledher. Then he turned to Fay and smiled in a way that made Jane doubt hersense of the true relation of things. How could Lassiter smile so at achild when he had made so many children fatherless? But he did smile, and to the gentleness she had seen a few times he added something thatwas infinitely sad and sweet. Jane's intuition told her that Lassiterhad never been a father, but if life ever so blessed him he would be agood one. Fay, also, must have found that smile singularly winning. Forshe edged closer and closer, and then, by way of feminine capitulation, went to Jane, from whose side she bent a beautiful glance upon therider. 

Lassiter only smiled at her. 

Jane watched them, and realized that now was the moment she shouldseize, if she was ever to win this man from his hatred. But the step wasnot easy to take. The more she saw of Lassiter the more she respectedhim, and the greater her respect the harder it became to lend herself tomere coquetry. Yet as she thought of her great motive, of Tull, andof that other whose name she had schooled herself never to think ofin connection with Milly Erne's avenger, she suddenly found she had nochoice. And her creed gave her boldness far beyond the limit to whichvanity would have led her. 

"Lassiter, I see so little of you now, " she said, and was conscious ofheat in her cheeks. 

"I've been riding hard, " he replied. 

"But you can't live in the saddle. You come in sometimes. Won't you comehere to see me--oftener?"

"Is that an order?"

"Nonsense! I simply ask you to come to see me when you find time. "

"Why?"

The query once heard was not so embarrassing to Jane as she might haveimagined. Moreover, it established in her mind a fact that there existedactually other than selfish reasons for her wanting to see him. And asshe had been bold, so she determined to be both honest and brave. 

"I've reasons--only one of which I need mention, " she answered. "If it'spossible I want to change you toward my people. And on the moment I canconceive of little I wouldn't do to gain that end. "

How much better and freer Jane felt after that confession! She meant toshow him that there was one Mormon who could play a game or wage a fightin the open. 

"I reckon, " said Lassiter, and he laughed. 

It was the best in her, if the most irritating, that Lassiter alwaysaroused. 

"Will you come?" She looked into his eyes, and for the life of her couldnot quite subdue an imperiousness that rose with her spirit. "I neverasked so much of any man--except Bern Venters. "

"'Pears to me that you'd run no risk, or Venters, either. But mebbe thatdoesn't hold good for me. "

"You mean it wouldn't be safe for you to be often here? You look forambush in the cottonwoods?"

"Not that so much. "

At this juncture little Fay sidled over to Lassiter. 

"Has oo a little dirl?" she inquired. 

"No, lassie, " replied the rider. 

Whatever Fay seemed to be searching for in Lassiter's sun-reddened faceand quiet eyes she evidently found. "Oo tan tom to see me, " she added, and with that, shyness gave place to friendly curiosity. First hissombrero with its leather band and silver ornaments commanded herattention; next his quirt, and then the clinking, silver spurs. Theseheld her for some time, but presently, true to childish fickleness, sheleft off playing with them to look for something else. She laughed inglee as she ran her little hands down the slippery, shiny surfaceof Lassiter's leather chaps. Soon she discovered one of the hanginggun--sheaths, and she dragged it up and began tugging at the huge blackhandle of the gun. Jane Withersteen repressed an exclamation. Whatsignificance there was to her in the little girl's efforts to dislodgethat heavy weapon! Jane Withersteen saw Fay's play and her beauty andher love as most powerful allies to her own woman's part in a game thatsuddenly had acquired a strange zest and a hint of danger. And as forthe rider, he appeared to have forgotten Jane in the wonder of thislovely child playing about him. At first he was much the shyer of thetwo. Gradually her confidence overcame his backwardness, and he had thetemerity to stroke her golden curls with a great hand. Fay rewarded hisboldness with a smile, and when he had gone to the extreme of closingthat great hand over her little brown one, she said, simply, "I likeoo!"

Sight of his face then made Jane oblivious for the time to his characteras a hater of Mormons. Out of the mother longing that swelled her breastshe divined the child hunger in Lassiter. 

He returned the next day, and the next; and upon the following he cameboth at morning and at night. Upon the evening of this fourth day Janeseemed to feel the breaking of a brooding struggle in Lassiter. Duringall these visits he had scarcely a word to say, though he watched herand played absent-mindedly with Fay. Jane had contented herself withsilence. Soon little Fay substituted for the expression of regard, "Ilike oo, " a warmer and more generous one, "I love oo. "

Thereafter Lassiter came oftener to see Jane and her little protegee. Daily he grew more gentle and kind, and gradually developed a quaintlymerry mood. In the morning he lifted Fay upon his horse and let herride as he walked beside her to the edge of the sage. In the evening heplayed with the child at an infinite variety of games she invented, and then, oftener than not, he accepted Jane's invitation to supper. Noother visitor came to Withersteen House during those days. So that inspite of watchfulness he never forgot, Lassiter began to show he felt athome there. After the meal they walked into the grove of cottonwoods orup by the lakes, and little Fay held Lassiter's hand as much as she heldJane's. Thus a strange relationship was established, and Jane liked it. At twilight they always returned to the house, where Fay kissed them andwent in to her mother. Lassiter and Jane were left alone. 

Then, if there were anything that a good woman could do to win a manand still preserve her self-respect, it was something which escaped thenatural subtlety of a woman determined to allure. Jane's vanity, thatafter all was not great, was soon satisfied with Lassiter's silentadmiration. And her honest desire to lead him from his dark, blood-stained path would never have blinded her to what she owedherself. But the driving passion of her religion, and its call to saveMormons' lives, one life in particular, bore Jane Withersteen close toan infringement of her womanhood. In the beginning she had reasoned thather appeal to Lassiter must be through the senses. With whatever meansshe possessed in the way of adornment she enhanced her beauty. And shestooped to artifices that she knew were unworthy of her, but whichshe deliberately chose to employ. She made of herself a girl in everyvariable mood wherein a girl might be desirable. In those moods she wasnot above the methods of an inexperienced though natural flirt. Shekept close to him whenever opportunity afforded; and she was foreverplayfully, yet passionately underneath the surface, fighting him forpossession of the great black guns. These he would never yield to her. And so in that manner their hands were often and long in contact. Themore of simplicity that she sensed in him the greater the advantage shetook. 

She had a trick of changing--and it was not altogether voluntary--fromthis gay, thoughtless, girlish coquettishness to the silence and thebrooding, burning mystery of a woman's mood. The strength and passionand fire of her were in her eyes, and she so used them that Lassiter hadto see this depth in her, this haunting promise more fitted to her yearsthan to the flaunting guise of a wilful girl. 

The July days flew by. Jane reasoned that if it were possible for her tobe happy during such a time, then she was happy. Little Fay completelyfilled a long aching void in her heart. In fettering the hands of thisLassiter she was accomplishing the greatest good of her life, and to dogood even in a small way rendered happiness to Jane Withersteen. She hadattended the regular Sunday services of her church; otherwise she hadnot gone to the village for weeks. It was unusual that none of herchurchmen or friends had called upon her of late; but it was neglectfor which she was glad. Judkins and his boy riders had experienced nodifficulty in driving the white herd. So these warm July days were freeof worry, and soon Jane hoped she had passed the crisis; and for her tohope was presently to trust, and then to believe. She thought often ofVenters, but in a dreamy, abstract way. She spent hours teaching andplaying with little Fay. And the activity of her mind centered aroundLassiter. The direction she had given her will seemed to blunt anybranching off of thought from that straight line. The mood came toobsess her. 

In the end, when her awakening came, she learned that she had buildedbetter than she knew. Lassiter, though kinder and gentler than ever, hadparted with his quaint humor and his coldness and his tranquillity tobecome a restless and unhappy man. Whatever the power of his deadlyintent toward Mormons, that passion now had a rival, the one equallyburning and consuming. Jane Withersteen had one moment of exultationbefore the dawn of a strange uneasiness. What if she had made of herselfa lure, at tremendous cost to him and to her, and all in vain!

That night in the moonlit grove she summoned all her courage and, turning suddenly in the path, she faced Lassiter and leaned close tohim, so that she touched him and her eyes looked up to his. 

"Lassiter!. .. Will you do anything for me?"

In the moonlight she saw his dark, worn face change, and by that changeshe seemed to feel him immovable as a wall of stone. 

Jane slipped her hands down to the swinging gun-sheaths, and when shehad locked her fingers around the huge, cold handles of the guns, shetrembled as with a chilling ripple over all her body. 

"May I take your guns?"

"Why?" he asked, and for the first time to her his voice carried a harshnote. Jane felt his hard, strong hands close round her wrists. It wasnot wholly with intent that she leaned toward him, for the look of hiseyes and the feel of his hands made her weak. 

"It's no trifle--no woman's whim--it's deep--as my heart. Let me takethem?"

"Why?"

"I want to keep you from killing more men--Mormons. You must let me saveyou from more wickedness--more wanton bloodshed--" Then the truth forceditself falteringly from her lips. "You must--let--help me to keep my vowto Milly Erne. I swore to her--as she lay dying--that if ever any onecame here to avenge her--I swore I would stay his hand. Perhaps I--Ialone can save the--the man who--who--Oh, Lassiter!. .. I feel that Ican't change you--then soon you'll be out to kill--and you'll killby instinct--and among the Mormons you kill will be theone--who. .. Lassiter, if you care a little for me--let me--for mysake--let me take your guns!"

As if her hands had been those of a child, he unclasped their clinginggrip from the handles of his guns, and, pushing her away, he turned hisgray face to her in one look of terrible realization and then strode offinto the shadows of the cottonwoods. 

When the first shock of her futile appeal to Lassiter had passed, Janetook his cold, silent condemnation and abrupt departure not so much as arefusal to her entreaty as a hurt and stunned bitterness for herattempt at his betrayal. Upon further thought and slow consideration ofLassiter's past actions, she believed he would return and forgive her. The man could not be hard to a woman, and she doubted that he couldstay away from her. But at the point where she had hoped to find himvulnerable she now began to fear he was proof against all persuasion. The iron and stone quality that she had early suspected in him hadactually cropped out as an impregnable barrier. Nevertheless, ifLassiter remained in Cottonwoods she would never give up her hope anddesire to change him. She would change him if she had to sacrificeeverything dear to her except hope of heaven. Passionately devoted asshe was to her religion, she had yet refused to marry a Mormon. But asituation had developed wherein self paled in the great white light ofreligious duty of the highest order. That was the leading motive, the divinely spiritual one; but there were other motives, which, liketentacles, aided in drawing her will to the acceptance of a possibleabnegation. And through the watches of that sleepless night JaneWithersteen, in fear and sorrow and doubt, came finally to believe thatif she must throw herself into Lassiter's arms to make him abide by"Thou shalt not kill!" she would yet do well. 

In the morning she expected Lassiter at the usual hour, but she was notable to go at once to the court, so she sent little Fay. Mrs. Larkin wasill and required attention. It appeared that the mother, from the timeof her arrival at Withersteen House, had relaxed and was slowlylosing her hold on life. Jane had believed that absence of worry andresponsibility coupled with good nursing and comfort would mend Mrs. Larkin's broken health. Such, however, was not the case. 

When Jane did get out to the court, Fay was there alone, and at themoment embarking on a dubious voyage down the stone-lined amber streamupon a craft of two brooms and a pillow. Fay was as delightfully wet asshe could possibly wish to get. 

Clatter of hoofs distracted Fay and interrupted the scolding she wasgleefully receiving from Jane. The sound was not the light-spirited trotthat Bells made when Lassiter rode him into the outer court. This wasslower and heavier, and Jane did not recognize in it any of her otherhorses. The appearance of Bishop Dyer startled Jane. He dismounted withhis rapid, jerky motion flung the bridle, and, as he turned toward theinner court and stalked up on the stone flags, his boots rang. In hisauthoritative front, and in the red anger unmistakably flaming in hisface, he reminded Jane of her father. 

"Is that the Larkin pauper?" he asked, bruskly, without any greeting toJane. 

"It's Mrs. Larkin's little girl, " replied Jane, slowly. 

"I hear you intend to raise the child?"

"Yes. "

"Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?"

"No. "

His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling that some oneelse was replying for her. 

"I've come to say a few things to you. " He stopped to measure her withstern, speculative eye. 

Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest childhood she had beentaught to revere and love bishops of her church. And for ten yearsBishop Dyer had been the closest friend and counselor of her father, and for the greater part of that period her own friend and Scripturalteacher. Her interpretation of her creed and her religious activity infidelity to it, her acceptance of mysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this Bishop. Bishop Dyer as an entity was nextto God. He was God's mouthpiece to the little Mormon community atCottonwoods. God revealed himself in secret to this mortal. 

And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing affront to herconsciousness of reverence by some strange, irresistible twist ofthought wherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And the train of thoughthurdled the rising, crying protests of that other self whose poise shehad lost. It was not her Bishop who eyed her in curious measurement. Itwas a man who tramped into her presence without removing his hat, whohad no greeting for her, who had no semblance of courtesy. In looks, as in action, he made her think of a bull stamping cross-grained into acorral. She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgetting the minister in the furyof a common man, and now she was to feel it. The glance by which shemeasured him in turn momentarily veiled the divine in the ordinary. He looked a rancher; he was booted, spurred, and covered with dust; hecarried a gun at his hip, and she remembered that he had been knownto use it. But during the long moment while he watched her there wasnothing commonplace in the slow-gathering might of his wrath. 

"Brother Tull has talked to me, " he began. "It was your father's wishthat you marry Tull, and my order. You refused him?"

"Yes. "

"You would not give up your friendship with that tramp Venters?"

"No. "

"But you'll do as _I_ order!" he thundered. "Why, Jane Withersteen, youare in danger of becoming a heretic! You can thank your Gentile friendsfor that. You face the damning of your soul to perdition. "

In the flux and reflux of the whirling torture of Jane's mind, that new, daring spirit of hers vanished in the old habitual order of her life. She was a Mormon, and the Bishop regained ascendance. 

"It's well I got you in time, Jane Withersteen. What would your fatherhave said to these goings-on of yours? He would have put you in astone cage on bread and water. He would have taught you something aboutMormonism. Remember, you're a born Mormon. There have been Mormons whoturned heretic--damn their souls!--but no born Mormon ever left us yet. Ah, I see your shame. Your faith is not shaken. You are only a wildgirl. " The Bishop's tone softened. "Well, it's enough that I got to youin time. .. . Now tell me about this Lassiter. I hear strange things. "

"What do you wish to know?" queried Jane. 

"About this man. You hired him?"

"Yes, he's riding for me. When my riders left me I had to have any one Icould get. "

"Is it true what I hear--that he's a gun-man, a Mormon-hater, steeped inblood?"

"True--terribly true, I fear. "

"But what's he doing here in Cottonwoods? This place isn't notoriousenough for such a man. Sterling and the villages north, where there'suniversal gun-packing and fights every day--where there are more menlike him, it seems to me they would attract him most. We're only a wild, lonely border settlement. It's only recently that the rustlers have madekillings here. Nor have there been saloons till lately, nor the driftingin of outcasts. Has not this gun-man some special mission here?"

Jane maintained silence. 

"Tell me, " ordered Bishop Dyer, sharply. 

"Yes, " she replied. 

"Do you know what it is?"

"Yes. "

"Tell me that. "

"Bishop Dyer, I don't want to tell. "

He waved his hand in an imperative gesture of command. The red once moreleaped to his face, and in his steel-blue eyes glinted a pin-point ofcuriosity. 

"That first day, " whispered Jane, "Lassiter said he came here tofind--Milly Erne's grave!"

With downcast eyes Jane watched the swift flow of the amber water. Shesaw it and tried to think of it, of the stones, of the ferns; but, likeher body, her mind was in a leaden vise. Only the Bishop's voice couldrelease her. Seemingly there was silence of longer duration than all herformer life. 

"For what--else?" When Bishop Dyer's voice did cleave the silence it washigh, curiously shrill, and on the point of breaking. It released Jane'stongue, but she could not lift her eyes. 

"To kill the man who persuaded Milly Erne to abandon her home and herhusband--and her God!"

With wonderful distinctness Jane Withersteen heard her own clear voice. She heard the water murmur at her feet and flow on to the sea; she heardthe rushing of all the waters in the world. They filled her ears withlow, unreal murmurings--these sounds that deadened her brain andyet could not break the long and terrible silence. Then, fromsomewhere--from an immeasurable distance--came a slow, guarded, clinking, clanking step. Into her it shot electrifying life. It releasedthe weight upon her numbed eyelids. Lifting her eyes she saw--ashen, shaken, stricken--not the Bishop but the man! And beyond him, fromround the corner came that soft, silvery step. A long black boot with agleaming spur swept into sight--and then Lassiter! Bishop Dyer did notsee, did not hear: he stared at Jane in the throes of sudden revelation. 

"Ah, I understand!" he cried, in hoarse accents. "That's why you madelove to this Lassiter--to bind his hands!"

It was Jane's gaze riveted upon the rider that made Bishop Dyer turn. Then clear sight failed her. Dizzily, in a blur, she saw the Bishop'shand jerk to his hip. She saw gleam of blue and spout of red. In herears burst a thundering report. The court floated in darkening circlesaround her, and she fell into utter blackness. 

The darkness lightened, turned to slow-drifting haze, and lifted. Through a thin film of blue smoke she saw the rough-hewn timbers ofthe court roof. A cool, damp touch moved across her brow. She smelledpowder, and it was that which galvanized her suspended thought. Shemoved, to see that she lay prone upon the stone flags with her head onLassiter's knee, and he was bathing her brow with water from the stream. The same swift glance, shifting low, brought into range of her sight asmoking gun and splashes of blood. 

"Ah-h!" she moaned, and was drifting, sinking again into darkness, whenLassiter's voice arrested her. 

"It's all right, Jane. It's all right. "

"Did--you--kill--him?" she whispered. 

"Who? That fat party who was here? No. I didn't kill him. "

"Oh!. .. Lassiter!"

"Say! It was queer for you to faint. I thought you were such a strongwoman, not faintish like that. You're all right now--only some pale. I thought you'd never come to. But I'm awkward round women folks. Icouldn't think of anythin'. "

"Lassiter!. .. The gun there!. .. The blood!"

"So that's troublin' you. I reckon it needn't. You see it was this way. I come round the house an' seen that fat party an' heard him talkin'loud. Then he seen me, an' very impolite goes straight for his gun. Heoughtn't have tried to throw a gun on me--whatever his reason was. Forthat's meetin' me on my own grounds. I've seen runnin' molasses thatwas quicker 'n him. Now I didn't know who he was, visitor or friendor relation of yours, though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an' Icouldn't get serious about shootin'. So I winged him--put a bulletthrough his arm as he was pullin' at his gun. An' he dropped thegun there, an' a little blood. I told him he'd introduced himselfsufficient, an' to please move out of my vicinity. An' he went. "

Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there was ahint of levity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her brow, wasgentle and steady. His impassive face, and the kind gray eyes, furtherstilled her agitation. 

"He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple him--youwouldn't kill him--you--Lassiter?"

"That's about the size of it. "

Jane kissed his hand. 

All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished. 

"Don't do that! I won't stand it! An' I don't care a damn who that fatparty was. "

He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair. Then with the wet scarf hehad used to bathe her face he wiped the blood from the stone flags and, picking up the gun, he threw it upon a couch. With that he began topace the court, and his silver spurs jangled musically, and the greatgun-sheaths softly brushed against his leather chaps. 

"So--it's true--what I heard him say?" Lassiter asked, presently haltingbefore her. "You made love to me--to bind my hands?"

"Yes, " confessed Jane. It took all her woman's courage to meet the graystorm of his glance. 

"All these days that you've been so friendly an' like a pardner--allthese evenin's that have been so bewilderin' to me--yourbeauty--an'--an' the way you looked an' came close to me--they werewoman's tricks to bind my hands?"

"Yes. "

"An' your sweetness that seemed so natural, an' your throwin' little Fayan' me so much together--to make me love the child--all that was for thesame reason?"

"Yes. "

Lassiter flung his arms--a strange gesture for him. 

"Mebbe it wasn't much in your Mormon thinkin', for you to play thatgame. But to ring the child in--that was hellish!"

Jane's passionate, unheeding zeal began to loom darkly. 

"Lassiter, whatever my intention in the beginning, Fay loves youdearly--and I--I've grown to--to like you. "

"That's powerful kind of you, now, " he said. Sarcasm and scorn made hisvoice that of a stranger. "An' you sit there an' look me straight in theeyes! You're a wonderful strange woman, Jane Withersteen. "

"I'm not ashamed, Lassiter. I told you I'd try to change you. "

"Would you mind tellin' me just what you tried?"

"I tried to make you see beauty in me and be softened by it. I wantedyou to care for me so that I could influence you. It wasn't easy. Atfirst you were stone-blind. Then I hoped you'd love little Fay, andthrough that come to feel the horror of making children fatherless. "

"Jane Withersteen, either you're a fool or noble beyond myunderstandin'. Mebbe you're both. I know you're blind. What you meant isone thing--what you did was to make me love you. "

"Lassiter!"

"I reckon I'm a human bein', though I never loved any one but my sister, Milly Erne. That was long--"

"Oh, are you Milly's brother?"

"Yes, I was, an' I loved her. There never was any one but her in my lifetill now. Didn't I tell you that long ago I back-trailed myself fromwomen? I was a Texas ranger till--till Milly left home, an' then Ibecame somethin' else--Lassiter! For years I've been a lonely man set onone thing. I came here an' met you. An' now I'm not the man I was. Thechange was gradual, an' I took no notice of it. I understand now thatnever-satisfied longin' to see you, listen to you, watch you, feel younear me. It's plain now why you were never out of my thoughts. I've hadno thoughts but of you. I've lived an' breathed for you. An' now when Iknow what it means--what you've done--I'm burnin' up with hell's fire!"

"Oh, Lassiter--no--no--you don't love me that way!" Jane cased. 

"If that's what love is, then I do. "

"Forgive me! I didn't mean to make you love me like that. Oh, what atangle of our lives! You--Milly Erne's brother! And I--heedless, mad tomelt your heart toward Mormons. Lassiter, I may be wicked but not wickedenough to hate. If I couldn't hate Tull, could I hate you?"

"After all, Jane, mebbe you're only blind--Mormon blind. That only canexplain what's close to selfishness--"

"I'm not selfish. I despise the very word. If I were free--"

"But you're not free. Not free of Mormonism. An' in playin' this gamewith me you've been unfaithful. "

"Un-faithful!" faltered Jane. 

"Yes, I said unfaithful. You're faithful to your Bishop an' unfaithfulto yourself. You're false to your womanhood an' true to yourreligion. But for a savin' innocence you'd have made yourself low an'vile--betrayin' yourself, betrayin' me--all to bind my hands an' keep mefrom snuffin' out Mormon life. It's your damned Mormon blindness. "

"Is it vile--is it blind--is it only Mormonism to save human life? No, Lassiter, that's God's law, divine, universal for all Christians. "

"The blindness I mean is blindness that keeps you from seein' the truth. I've known many good Mormons. But some are blacker than hell. You won'tsee that even when you know it. Else, why all this blind passion to savethe life of that--that. .. . "

Jane shut out the light, and the hands she held over her eyes trembledand quivered against her face. 

"Blind--yes, en' let me make it clear en' simple to you, " Lassiter wenton, his voice losing its tone of anger. "Take, for instance, that ideaof yours last night when you wanted my guns. It was good an' beautiful, an' showed your heart--but--why, Jane, it was crazy. Mind I'm assumin'that life to me is as sweet as to any other man. An' to preserve thatlife is each man's first an' closest thought. Where would any man be onthis border without guns? Where, especially, would Lassiter be? Well, I'd be under the sage with thousands of other men now livin' an' surebetter men than me. Gun-packin' in the West since the Civil War hasgrowed into a kind of moral law. An' out here on this border it's thedifference between a man an' somethin' not a man. Look what your takin'Venters's guns from him all but made him! Why, your churchmen carryguns. Tull has killed a man an' drawed on others. Your Bishop has shota half dozen men, an' it wasn't through prayers of his that theyrecovered. An' to-day he'd have shot me if he'd been quick enough on thedraw. Could I walk or ride down into Cottonwoods without my guns?This is a wild time, Jane Withersteen, this year of our Lord eighteenseventy-one. "

"No time--for a woman!" exclaimed Jane, brokenly. "Oh, Lassiter, I feelhelpless--lost--and don't know where to turn. If I am blind--then--Ineed some one--a friend--you, Lassiter--more than ever!"

"Well, I didn't say nothin' about goin' back on you, did I?"

CHAPTER XII. THE INVISIBLE HAND

Jane received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his own handwriting, which stated that the abrupt termination of their interview had lefthim in some doubt as to her future conduct. A slight injury hadincapacitated him from seeking another meeting at present, the letterwent on to say, and ended with a request which was virtually a command, that she call upon him at once. 

The reading of the letter acquainted Jane Withersteen with the fact thatsomething within her had all but changed. She sent no reply to BishopDyer nor did she go to see him. On Sunday she remained absent from theservice--for the second time in years--and though she did not actuallysuffer there was a dead-lock of feelings deep within her, and thewaiting for a balance to fall on either side was almost as bad assuffering. She had a gloomy expectancy of untoward circumstances, and with it a keen-edged curiosity to watch developments. She hada half-formed conviction that her future conduct--as related to herchurchmen--was beyond her control and would be governed by theirattitude toward her. Something was changing in her, forming, waiting fordecision to make it a real and fixed thing. She had told Lassiter thatshe felt helpless and lost in the fateful tangle of their lives; and nowshe feared that she was approaching the same chaotic condition of mindin regard to her religion. It appalled her to find that she questionedphases of that religion. Absolute faith had been her serenity. Thoughleaving her faith unshaken, her serenity had been disturbed, and nowit was broken by open war between her and her ministers. That somethingwithin her--a whisper--which she had tried in vain to hush had becomea ringing voice, and it called to her to wait. She had transgressedno laws of God. Her churchmen, however invested with the power and theglory of a wonderful creed, however they sat in inexorable judgment ofher, must now practice toward her the simple, common, Christian virtuethey professed to preach, "Do unto others as you would have others dounto you!"

Jane Withersteen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained faithful still. But it was darkness that must soon be pierced by light. If her faithwere justified, if her churchmen were trying only to intimidate her, thefact would soon be manifest, as would their failure, and then she wouldredouble her zeal toward them and toward what had been the best workof her life--work for the welfare and happiness of those among whom shelived, Mormon and Gentile alike. If that secret, intangible power closedits toils round her again, if that great invisible hand moved here andthere and everywhere, slowly paralyzing her with its mystery and itsinconceivable sway over her affairs, then she would know beyond doubtthat it was not chance, nor jealousy, nor intimidation, nor ministerialwrath at her revolt, but a cold and calculating policy thought out longbefore she was born, a dark, immutable will of whose empire she and allthat was hers was but an atom. 

Then might come her ruin. Then might come her fall into black storm. Yet she would rise again, and to the light. God would be merciful to adriven woman who had lost her way. 

A week passed. Little Fay played and prattled and pulled at Lassiter'sbig black guns. The rider came to Withersteen House oftener than ever. Jane saw a change in him, though it did not relate to his kindness andgentleness. He was quieter and more thoughtful. While playing with Fayor conversing with Jane he seemed to be possessed of another self thatwatched with cool, roving eyes, that listened, listened always as if themurmuring amber stream brought messages, and the moving leaves whisperedsomething. Lassiter never rode Bells into the court any more, nor didhe come by the lane or the paths. When he appeared it was suddenly andnoiselessly out of the dark shadow of the grove. 

"I left Bells out in the sage, " he said, one day at the end of thatweek. "I must carry water to him. "

"Why not let him drink at the trough or here?" asked Jane, quickly. 

"I reckon it'll be safer for me to slip through the grove. I've beenwatched when I rode in from the sage. "

"Watched? By whom?"

"By a man who thought he was well hid. But my eyes are pretty sharp. An', Jane, " he went on, almost in a whisper, "I reckon it'd be a goodidea for us to talk low. You're spied on here by your women. "

"Lassiter!" she whispered in turn. "That's hard to believe. My womenlove me. "

"What of that?" he asked. "Of course they love you. But they're Mormonwomen. "

Jane's old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt. 

"I won't believe it, " she replied, stubbornly. 

"Well then, just act natural an' talk natural, an' pretty soon--givethem time to hear us--pretend to go over there to the table, en' thenquick-like make a move for the door en' open it. "

"I will, " said Jane, with heightened color. Lassiter was right; he nevermade mistakes; he would not have told her unless he positively knew. YetJane was so tenacious of faith that she had to see with her own eyes, and so constituted that to employ even such small deceit toward herwomen made her ashamed, and angry for her shame as well as theirs. Thena singular thought confronted her that made her hold up this simpleruse--which hurt her, though it was well justified--against the deceitshe had wittingly and eagerly used toward Lassiter. The difference wasstaggering in its suggestion of that blindness of which he had accusedher. Fairness and justice and mercy, that she had imagined wereanchor-cables to hold fast her soul to righteousness had not been hersin the strange, biased duty that had so exalted and confounded her. 

Presently Jane began to act her little part, to laugh and play withFay, to talk of horses and cattle to Lassiter. Then she made deliberatemention of a book in which she kept records of all pertaining to herstock, and she walked slowly toward the table, and when near the doorshe suddenly whirled and thrust it open. Her sharp action nearly knockeddown a woman who had undoubtedly been listening. 

"Hester, " said Jane, sternly, "you may go home, and you need not comeback. "

Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily, sheput her hand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone, and howthis stab of disloyalty pained her. 

"Spies! My own women!. .. Oh, miserable!" she cried, with flashing, tearful eyes. 

"I hate to tell you, " he replied. By that she knew he had long sparedher. "It's begun again--that work in the dark. "

"Nay, Lassiter--it never stopped!"

So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fled WithersteenHouse and fled forever. The women who owed much to Jane Withersteenchanged not in love for her, nor in devotion to their household work, but they poisoned both by a thousand acts of stealth and cunning andduplicity. Jane broke out once and caught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood. Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgavethem because they were driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, howshe pitied them! What terrible thing bound them and locked theirlips, when they showed neither consciousness of guilt toward theirbenefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart of long-establishedand dear ties?

"The blindness again!" cried Jane Withersteen. "In my sisters as inme!. .. O God!"

There came a time when no words passed between Jane and her women. Silently they went about their household duties, and secretly they wentabout the underhand work to which they had been bidden. The gloom ofthe house and the gloom of its mistress, which darkened even the brightspirit of little Fay, did not pervade these women. Happiness was notamong them, but they were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened;they received and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane's booksand records, and finally the papers that were deeds of her possessions. Through it all they were silent, rapt in a kind of trance. Then one byone, without leave or explanation or farewell, they left WithersteenHouse, and never returned. 

Coincident with this disappearance Jane's gardeners and workers in thealfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even asking for their wages. Of all her Mormon employees about the great ranch only Jerd remained. Hewent on with his duty, but talked no more of the change than if it hadnever occurred. 

"Jerd, " said Jane, "what stock you can't take care of turn out in thesage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night. Keep them inperfect condition. Run them every day and watch them always. "

Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved herpossessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, and thefarms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and the beautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriad of horses andcolts and burros and fowls down to the smallest rabbit that nipped hervegetables; but she loved best her noble Arabian steeds. In common withall riders of the upland sage Jane cherished two material things--thecold, sweet, brown water that made life possible in the wilderness andthe horses which were a part of that life. When Lassiter asked her whatLassiter would be without his guns he was assuming that his horse waspart of himself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it was hernature to love all beautiful creatures--perhaps all living things; andthen she loved them because she herself was of the sage and in herhad been born and bred the rider's instinct to rely on his four-footedbrother. And when Jane gave Jerd the order to keep her favorites traineddown to the day it was a half-conscious admission that presaged a timewhen she would need her fleet horses. 

Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils that wereclosing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the August days began;she required constant care; there was little Fay to look after; and suchhousehold work as was imperative. Lassiter put Bells in the stable withthe other racers, and directed his efforts to a closer attendance uponJane. She welcomed the change. He was always at hand to help, and it washer fortune to learn that his boast of being awkward around women hadits root in humility and was not true. 

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways which awoman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and was of especial helpto her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The woman suffered most at night, andthis often broke Jane's rest. So it came about that Lassiter would stayby Mrs. Larkin during the day, when she needed care, and Jane would makeup the sleep she lost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindlyto the gentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he was, praised him to Jane. "He's a good man and loves children, " she said. Howsad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Jane thought lost beyond allredemption! Yet ever and ever Lassiter towered above her, and behindor through his black, sinister figure shone something luminous thatstrangely affected Jane. Good and evil began to seem incomprehensiblyblended in her judgment. It was her belief that evil could not comeforth from good; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentleness, patience, and love any man she had ever known. 

She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when early onemorning Judkins presented himself before her in the courtyard. 

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him, withhis leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots worn through onthe stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. He wore two guns andcarried a Winchester. 

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread anddrink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The men exchangedglances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry and Judkins's boldreply, both unspoken, was not lost upon Jane. 

"Where's your hoss?" asked Lassiter, aloud. 

"Left him down the slope, " answered Judkins. "I footed it in a ways, an'slept last night in the sage. I went to the place you told me you 'mossalways slept, but didn't strike you. "

"I moved up some, near the spring, an' now I go there nights. "

"Judkins--the white herd?" queried Jane, hurriedly. 

"Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I've not lost a steer. Fer a goodwhile after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble. Why, eventhe sage dogs left us. But it's begun agin--thet flashin' of lightsover ridge tips, an' queer puffin' of smoke, en' then at night strangewhistles en' noises. But the herd's acted magnificent. An' my boys, say, Miss Withersteen, they're only kids, but I ask no better riders. I gotthe laugh in the village fer takin' them out. They're a wild lot, an'you know boys hev more nerve than grown men, because they don't knowwhat danger is. I'm not denyin' there's danger. But they glory in it, an' mebbe I like it myself--anyway, we'll stick. We're goin' to drivethe herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass. There'sa great round valley over there, an' no ridges or piles of rocks to aidthese stampeders. The rains are due. We'll hev plenty of water fer awhile. An' we can hold thet herd from anybody except Oldrin'. I comein fer supplies. I'll pack a couple of burros an' drive out after darkto-night. "

"Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter will helpyou. I--I can't thank you enough. .. But--wait. "

Jane went to the room that had once been her father's, and from a secretchamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag of gold, and, carrying itback to the court, she gave it to the rider. 

"There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little for yourloyalty. Give what is fair to your boys, and keep the rest. Hide it. Perhaps that would be wisest. "

"Oh. .. Miss Withersteen!" ejaculated the rider. "I couldn't earn so muchin--in ten years. It's not right--I oughtn't take it. "

"Judkins, you know I'm a rich woman. I tell you I've few faithfulfriends. I've fallen upon evil days. God only knows what will become ofme and mine! So take the gold. "

She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and left himwith Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first, then inlouder accents emphasized by the thumping of his rifle on the stones. "As infernal a job as even you, Lassiter, ever heerd of. "

"Why, son, " was Lassiter's reply, "this breakin' of Miss Withersteen mayseem bad to you, but it ain't bad--yet. Some of these wall-eyed fellerswho look jest as if they was walkin' in the shadow of Christ himself, right down the sunny road, now they can think of things en' do thingsthat are really hell-bent. "

Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there like cagedlioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little Fay reversed herdark thoughts. 

The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhile Jane wasresting in the court, a horseman clattered through he grove and up tothe hitching-rack. He leaped off and approached Jane with the mannerof a man determined to execute difficult mission, yet fearful of itsreception. In the gaunt, wiry figure and the lean, brown face Janerecognized one of her Mormon riders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkinshad long since spoken. Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owedher the most, and as he stepped before her, removing his hat and makingmanly efforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered. 

"Miss Withersteen, mother's dead, " he said. 

"Oh--Blake!" exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more. 

"She died free from pain in the end, and she's buried--resting at last, thank God!. .. I've come to ride for you again, if you'll have me. Don'tthink I mentioned mother to get your sympathy. When she was livingand your riders quit, I had to also. I was afraid of what might bedone--said to her. .. . Miss Withersteen, we can't talk of--of what's goingon now--"

"Blake, do you know?"

"I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. But withoutexplanation or excuse I offer my services. I'm a Mormon--I hope a goodone. But--there are some things!. .. It's no use, Miss Withersteen, Ican't say any more--what I'd like to. But will you take me back?"

"Blake!. .. You know what it means?"

"I don't care. I'm sick of--of--I'll show you a Mormon who'll be true toyou!"

"But, Blake--how terribly you might suffer for that!"

"Maybe. Aren't you suffering now?"

"God knows indeed I am!"

"Miss Withersteen, it's a liberty on my part to speak so, but I know youpretty well--know you'll never give in. I wouldn't if I were you. AndI--I must--Something makes me tell you the worst is yet to come. That'sall. I absolutely can't say more. Will you take me back--let me ride foryou--show everybody what I mean?"

"Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when theyquit!" Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash down upon herhands. "I thought so much of them--tried so hard to be good to them. Andnot one was true. You've made it easy to forgive. Perhaps many ofthem really feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, Ihesitate to take you back. Yet I want you so much. "

"Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson to Mormonwomen, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is right. I believein you, and here's my life to prove it. "

"You hint it may mean your life!" said Jane, breathless and low. 

"We won't speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do what everyrider aches in his secret heart to do for you. .. . Miss Withersteen, Ihoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that my mother on her deathbedtold me to have courage. She knew how the thing galled me--she told meto come back. .. . Will you take me?"

"God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And will you--will youaccept gold from me?"

"Miss Withersteen!"

"I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If you willnot take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a fewmonths--weeks--days till the storm breaks. Then you'd have nothing, andbe in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm you against poverty, andme against endless regret. I'll give you gold which you can hide--tillsome future time. "

"Well, if it pleases you, " replied Blake. "But you know I never thoughtof pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see this manLassiter. Is he here?"

"Yes, but, Blake--what--Need you see him? Why?" asked Jane, instantlyworried. "I can speak to him--tell him about you. "

"That won't do. I want to--I've got to tell him myself. Where is he?"

"Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I'll call him, " answeredJane, and going to the door she softly called for the rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step--then his tall form crossed thethreshold. 

"Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back to meand he wishes to speak to you. "

Blake's brown face turned exceedingly pale. 

"Yes, I had to speak to you, " he said, swiftly. "My name's Blake. I'm aMormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I've come to beg herto take me back. Now I don't know you; but I know--what you are. SoI've this to say to your face. It would never occur to this woman toimagine--let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn't think itmight just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. JaneWithersteen hasn't that kind of a mind. .. . Well, I've not come for that. I want to help her--to pull a bridle along with Judkins and--and you. The thing is--do you believe me?"

"I reckon I do, " replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speech contrastedwith Blake's hot, impulsive words! "You might have saved some of yourbreath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has met somesquare Mormons! An' mebbe--"

"Blake, " interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquythat she perceived was an ordeal for him. "Go at once and fetch me areport of my horses. "

"Miss Withersteen!. .. You mean the big drove--down in the sage-clearedfields?"

"Of course, " replied Jane. "My horses are all there, except the bloodedstock I keep here. "

"Haven't you heard--then?"

"Heard? No! What's happened to them?"

"They're gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself. "

"Lassiter--did you know?" asked Jane, whirling to him. 

"I reckon so. .. . But what was the use to tell you?"

It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flagsat his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such ablow. 

"My horses! My horses! What's become of them?"

"Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring. .. . And I trailedthe horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass. "

"My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next. I canstand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like partingwith my own flesh and blood. Lassiter--Blake--am I in danger of losingmy racers?"

"A rustler--or--or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most of allwant the blacks, " said Lassiter. His evasive reply was affirmativeenough. The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence. 

"Oh! Oh!" Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance. 

"Let me take charge of the blacks?" asked Blake. "One more rider won'tbe any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star and Night, ifyou put such store on their value. "

"Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reason why Imustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every day whenhe runs the horses, and don't let them out of your sight. If you wouldplease me--win my gratitude, guard my black racers. "

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regardedJane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by. 

"'Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses. NowI ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I everseen. But Bells can beat Night, an' run neck en' neck with Black Star. "

"Lassiter, don't tease me now. I'm miserable--sick. Bells is fast, buthe can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only Wrangle can dothat. "

"I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels to yourblack racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wranglecould kill your favorites. "

"No, no, " replied Jane, impatiently. "Lassiter, why do you say thatso often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believe it's onlykindness. You're always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you meanmore by this repeated mention of my racers?"

"I reckon so. " Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in herpresence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting thesilver pieces on the band. "Well, Jane, I've sort of read a littlethat's passin' in your mind. "

"You think I might fly from my home--from Cottonwoods--from the Utahborder?"

"I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks I wouldn'tlike to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. Iknow Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn't got himnow. .. . Besides--things are happenin', an' somethin' of the same queernature might have happened to Venters. "

"God knows you're right!. .. Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In my troubleI've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fear for him. I'veheard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf. .. . As to your reading mythoughts--well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what wasonly one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wildborderland, Lassiter. I've strange dreams. I'm not always practicaland thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance--if Idared--if I dared I'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away withme--and hide me. "

"Jane!"

The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seenLassiter's cool calm broken--when he had met little Fay, when he hadlearned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when hehad stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But one and all they could not beconsidered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiterturn white--not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose hiscoolness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into hisarms and crushed her to his breast. 

"Lassiter!" cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she tooksole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her. "Forgiveme!" went on Jane. "I'm always forgetting your--your feelings. I thoughtof you as my faithful friend. I'm always making you out more thanhuman. .. Only, let me say--I meant that--about riding away. I'm wretched, sick of this--this--Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!"

"Jane, the hell--of it, " he replied, with deep intake of breath, "is youcan't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for my grabbin' you--thatway, as much as the crazy boy's rapture your words gave me. I don'tunderstand myself. .. . But the hell of this game is--you can't ride away. "

"Lassiter!. .. What on earth do you mean? I'm an absolutely free woman. "

"You ain't absolutely anythin' of the kind. .. . I reckon I've got to tellyou!"

"Tell me all. It's uncertainty that makes me a coward. It's faith andhope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every day Iawake believing--still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into myheart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all, and for myself--Isleep--and I awake free once more, trustful, faithful, to believe--tohope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a thousand years till nightagain!. .. But if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can't rideaway--tell me what more I'm to lose--tell me the worst. "

"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, except whenyou're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. The cottonwoodgrove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indians in the grass. Whenyou rode, which wasn't often lately, the sage was full of sneakin' men. At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an' I reckon intothe house. Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This heregrove's a hummin' bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't somuch that these soles keep out of my way as me keepin' out of theirs. They're goin' to try to kill me. That's plain. But mebbe I'm as hard toshoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit to watchonly. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. You can't getaway--not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, you might. But that'ssure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattle that's left--your homeen' ranch--en' amber Spring. You can't even hide a sack of gold! For itcouldn't be slipped out of the house, day or night, an' hid or buried, let alone be rid off with. You may lose all. I'm tellin' you, Jane, hopin' to prepare you, if the worst does come. I told you once beforeabout that strange power I've got to feel things. "

"Lassiter, what can I do?"

"Nothin', I reckon, except know what's comin' an' wait an' be game. Ifyou'd let me make a call on Tull, an' a long-deferred call on--"

"Hush!. .. Hush!" she whispered. 

"Well, even that wouldn't help you any in the end. "

"What does it mean? Oh, what does it mean? I am my father's daughter--aMormon, yet I can't see! I've not failed in religion--in duty. For yearsI've given with a free and full heart. When my father died I was rich. If I'm still rich it's because I couldn't find enough ways to becomepoor. What am I, what are my possessions to set in motion such intensityof secret oppression?"

"Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder. "

"But, Lassiter, I would give freely--all I own to avert this--thiswretched thing. If I gave--that would leave me with faith still. Surelymy--my churchmen think of my soul? If I lose my trust in them--"

"Child, be still!" said Lassiter, with a dark dignity that had in itsomething of pity. "You are a woman, fine en' big an' strong, an' yourheart matches your size. But in mind you're a child. I'll say a littlemore--then I'm done. I'll never mention this again. Among many thousandsof women you're one who has bucked against your churchmen. They triedyou out, an' failed of persuasion, an' finally of threats. You meet nowthe cold steel of a will as far from Christlike as the universe is wide. You're to be broken. Your body's to be held, given to some man, made, if possible, to bring children into the world. But your soul?. .. What dothey care for your soul?"

CHAPTER XIII. SOLITUDE AND STORM

In his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his ears rangwith innumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds, and his eyesopened wide upon the glorious golden shaft of sunlight shining throughthe great stone bridge. The circle of cliffs surrounding Surprise Valleylay shrouded in morning mist, a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, moving cloud along the ramparts. The oak forest in the centerwas a plumed and tufted oval of gold. 

He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery of strengthshe always rose with the dawn. At the moment she was feeding thequail she had tamed. And she had begun to tame the mocking-birds. Theyfluttered among the branches overhead and some left off their songs toflit down and shyly hop near the twittering quail. Little gray and whiterabbits crouched in the grass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flatand watching the dogs. 

Venters's swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess and herpets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to return again and restupon the girl. She had changed. To the dark trousers and blouse she hadadded moccasins of her own make, but she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to mark the rounded contours of a woman. Thechange had been to grace and beauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed fromher hair, and a tint of red shone in the clear dark brown of cheeks. Thehaunting sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been illusive, a promise, had become a living fact. She fitted harmoniously into thatwonderful setting; she was like Surprise Valley--wild and beautiful. 

Venters leaped out of his cave to begin the day. 

He had postponed his journey to Cottonwoods until after the passing ofthe summer rains. The rains were due soon. But until their arrival andthe necessity for his trip to the village he sequestered in a far cornerof mind all thought of peril, of his past life, and almost that of thepresent. It was enough to live. He did not want to know what lay hiddenin the dim and distant future. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. Inthis home of the cliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, and another thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight, that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand. 

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. He wasassimilating something from this valley of gleams and shadows. From thisstrange girl he was assimilating more. 

The day at hand resembled many days gone before. As Venters had no toolswith which to build, or to till the terraces, he remained idle. Beyondthe cooking of the simple fare there were no tasks. And as there were notasks, there was no system. He and Bess began one thing, to leave it;to begin another, to leave that; and then do nothing but lie under thespruces and watch the great cloud-sails majestically move along theramparts, and dream and dream. The valley was a golden, sunlit world. It was silent. The sighing wind and the twittering quail and the singingbirds, even the rare and seldom-occurring hollow crack of a slidingweathered stone, only thickened and deepened that insulated silence. 

Venters and Bess had vagrant minds. 

"Bess, did I tell you about my horse Wrangle?" inquired Venters. 

"A hundred times, " she replied. 

"Oh, have I? I'd forgotten. I want you to see him. He'll carry us both. "

"I'd like to ride him. Can he run?"

"Run? He's a demon. Swiftest horse on the sage! I hope he'll stay inthat canyon. 

"He'll stay. "

They left camp to wander along the terraces, into the aspen ravines, under the gleaming walls. Ring and Whitie wandered in the fore, oftenturning, often trotting back, open-mouthed and solemn-eyed and happy. Venters lifted his gaze to the grand archway over the entrance tothe valley, and Bess lifted hers to follow his, and both were silent. Sometimes the bridge held their attention for a long time. To-day asoaring eagle attracted them. 

"How he sails!" exclaimed Bess. "I wonder where his mate is?"

"She's at the nest. It's on the bridge in a crack near the top. I seeher often. She's almost white. "

They wandered on down the terrace, into the shady, sun-flecked forest. A brown bird fluttered crying from a bush. Bess peeped into the leaves. "Look! A nest and four little birds. They're not afraid of us. See howthey open their mouths. They're hungry. "

Rabbits rustled the dead brush and pattered away. The forest was fullof a drowsy hum of insects. Little darts of purple, that were runningquail, crossed the glades. And a plaintive, sweet peeping came from thecoverts. Bess's soft step disturbed a sleeping lizard that scamperedaway over the leaves. She gave chase and caught it, a slim creature ofnameless color but of exquisite beauty. 

"Jewel eyes, " she said. "It's like a rabbit--afraid. We won't eat you. There--go. "

Murmuring water drew their steps down into a shallow shaded ravine wherea brown brook brawled softly over mossy stones. Multitudes of strange, gray frogs with white spots and black eyes lined the rocky bank andleaped only at close approach. Then Venters's eye descried a very thin, very long green snake coiled round a sapling. They drew closer andcloser till they could have touched it. The snake had no fear andwatched them with scintillating eyes. 

"It's pretty, " said Bess. "How tame! I thought snakes always ran. "

"No. Even the rabbits didn't run here till the dogs chased them. "

On and on they wandered to the wild jumble of massed and brokenfragments of cliff at the west end of the valley. The roar of thedisappearing stream dinned in their ears. Into this maze of rocks theythreaded a tortuous way, climbing, descending, halting to gather wildplums and great lavender lilies, and going on at the will of fancy. Idleand keen perceptions guided them equally. 

"Oh, let us climb there!" cried Bess, pointing upward to a small spaceof terrace left green and shady between huge abutments of broken cliff. And they climbed to the nook and rested and looked out across the valleyto the curling column of blue smoke from their campfire. But the coolshade and the rich grass and the fine view were not what they hadclimbed for. They could not have told, although whatever had drawnthem was well-satisfying. Light, sure-footed as a mountain goat, Besspattered down at Venters's heels; and they went on, calling the dogs, eyes dreamy and wide, listening to the wind and the bees and thecrickets and the birds. 

Part of the time Ring and Whitie led the way, then Venters, then Bess;and the direction was not an object. They left the sun-streaked shade ofthe oaks, brushed the long grass of the meadows, entered the greenand fragrant swaying willows, to stop, at length, under the huge oldcottonwoods where the beavers were busy. 

Here they rested and watched. A dam of brush and logs and mud and stonesbacked the stream into a little lake. The round, rough beaver housesprojected from the water. Like the rabbits, the beavers had become shy. Gradually, however, as Venters and Bess knelt low, holding the dogs, thebeavers emerged to swim with logs and gnaw at cottonwoods and pat mudwalls with their paddle-like tails, and, glossy and shiny in the sun, togo on with their strange, persistent industry. They were the builders. The lake was a mud-hole, and the immediate environment a scarred anddead region, but it was a wonderful home of wonderful animals. 

"Look at that one--he puddles in the mud, " said Bess. "And there! Seehim dive! Hear them gnawing! I'd think they'd break their teeth. How'sit they can stay out of the water and under the water?"

And she laughed. 

Then Venters and Bess wandered farther, and, perhaps not allunconsciously this time, wended their slow steps to the cave of thecliff-dwellers, where she liked best to go. 

The tangled thicket and the long slant of dust and little chips ofweathered rock and the steep bench of stone and the worn steps allwere arduous work for Bess in the climbing. But she gained the shelf, gasping, hot of cheek, glad of eye, with her hand in Venters's. Herethey rested. The beautiful valley glittered below with its millionsof wind-turned leaves bright-faced in the sun, and the mighty bridgetowered heavenward, crowned with blue sky. Bess, however, never restedfor long. Soon she was exploring, and Venters followed; she draggedforth from corners and shelves a multitude of crudely fashioned andpainted pieces of pottery, and he carried them. They peeped down intothe dark holes of the kivas, and Bess gleefully dropped a stone andwaited for the long-coming hollow sound to rise. They peeped into thelittle globular houses, like mud-wasp nests, and wondered if these hadbeen store-places for grain, or baby cribs, or what; and they crawledinto the larger houses and laughed when they bumped their heads on thelow roofs, and they dug in the dust of the floors. And they brought fromdust and darkness armloads of treasure which they carried to the light. Flints and stones and strange curved sticks and pottery they found; andtwisted grass rope that crumbled in their hands, and bits of whitishstone which crushed to powder at a touch and seemed to vanish in theair. 

"That white stuff was bone, " said Venters, slowly. "Bones of acliff-dweller. "

"No!" exclaimed Bess. 

"Here's another piece. Look!. .. Whew! dry, powdery smoke! That's bone. "

Then it was that Venters's primitive, childlike mood, like a savage's, seeing, yet unthinking, gave way to the encroachment of civilizedthought. The world had not been made for a single day's play or fancy oridle watching. The world was old. Nowhere could be gotten a betteridea of its age than in this gigantic silent tomb. The gray ashes inVenters's hand had once been bone of a human being like himself. Thepale gloom of the cave had shadowed people long ago. He saw that Besshad received the same shock--could not in moments such as this escapeher feeling living, thinking destiny. 

"Bern, people have lived here, " she said, with wide, thoughtful eyes. 

"Yes, " he replied. 

"How long ago?"

"A thousand years and more. "

"What were they?"

"Cliff-dwellers. Men who had enemies and made their homes high out ofreach. "

"They had to fight?"

"Yes. "

"They fought for--what?"

"For life. For their homes, food, children, parents--for their women!"

"Has the world changed any in a thousand years?"

"I don't know--perhaps a little. "

"Have men?"

"I hope so--I think so. "

"Things crowd into my mind, " she went on, and the wistful light in hereyes told Venters the truth of her thoughts. "I've ridden the border ofUtah. I've seen people--know how they live--but they must be few of allwho are living. I had my books and I studied them. But all that doesn'thelp me any more. I want to go out into the big world and see it. Yet Iwant to stay here more. What's to become of us? Are we cliff-dwellers?We're alone here. I'm happy when I don't think. These--these bones thatfly into dust--they make me sick and a little afraid. Did the people wholived here once have the same feelings as we have? What was the good oftheir living at all? They're gone! What's the meaning of it all--of us?"

"Bess, you ask more than I can tell. It's beyond me. Only there waslaughter here once--and now there's silence. There was life--and nowthere's death. Men cut these little steps, made these arrow-heads andmealing-stones, plaited the ropes we found, and left their bones tocrumble in our fingers. As far as time is concerned it might all havebeen yesterday. We're here to-day. Maybe we're higher in the scale ofhuman beings--in intelligence. But who knows? We can't be any higher inthe things for which life is lived at all. "

"What are they?"

"Why--I suppose relationship, friendship--love. "

"Love!"

"Yes. Love of man for woman--love of woman for man. That's the nature, the meaning, the best of life itself. "

She said no more. Wistfulness of glance deepened into sadness. 

"Come, let us go, " said Venters. 

Action brightened her. Beside him, holding his hand she slipped downthe shelf, ran down the long, steep slant of sliding stones, out of thecloud of dust, and likewise out of the pale gloom. 

"We beat the slide, " she cried. 

The miniature avalanche cracked and roared, and rattled itself into aninert mass at the base of the incline. Yellow dust like the gloom of thecave, but not so changeless, drifted away on the wind; the roar clappedin echo from the cliff, returned, went back, and came again to diein the hollowness. Down on the sunny terrace there was a differentatmosphere. Ring and Whitie leaped around Bess. Once more she wassmiling, gay, and thoughtless, with the dream-mood in the shadow of hereyes. 

"Bess, I haven't seen that since last summer. Look!" said Venters, pointing to the scalloped edge of rolling purple clouds that peeped overthe western wall. "We're in for a storm. "

"Oh, I hope not. I'm afraid of storms. "

"Are you? Why?"

"Have you ever been down in one of these walled-up pockets in a badstorm?"

"No, now I think of it, I haven't. "

"Well, it's terrible. Every summer I get scared to death and hidesomewhere in the dark. Storms up on the sage are bad, but nothing towhat they are down here in the canyons. And in this little valley--why, echoes can rap back and forth so quick they'll split our ears. "

"We're perfectly safe here, Bess. "

"I know. But that hasn't anything to do with it. The truth is I'm afraidof lightning and thunder, and thunder-claps hurt my head. If we have abad storm, will you stay close to me?"

"Yes. "

When they got back to camp the afternoon was closing, and it wasexceedingly sultry. Not a breath of air stirred the aspen leaves, andwhen these did not quiver the air was indeed still. The dark-purpleclouds moved almost imperceptibly out of the west. 

"What have we for supper?" asked Bess. 

"Rabbit. "

"Bern, can't you think of another new way to cook rabbit?" went on Bess, with earnestness. 

"What do you think I am--a magician?" retorted Venters. 

"I wouldn't dare tell you. But, Bern, do you want me to turn into arabbit?"

There was a dark-blue, merry flashing of eyes and a parting of lips;then she laughed. In that moment she was naive and wholesome. 

"Rabbit seems to agree with you, " replied Venters. "You are well andstrong--and growing very pretty. "

Anything in the nature of compliment he had never before said to her, and just now he responded to a sudden curiosity to see its effect. Bessstared as if she had not heard aright, slowly blushed, and completelylost her poise in happy confusion. 

"I'd better go right away, " he continued, "and fetch supplies fromCottonwoods. "

A startlingly swift change in the nature of her agitation made himreproach himself for his abruptness. 

"No, no, don't go!" she said. "I didn't mean--that about the rabbit. I--I was only trying to be--funny. Don't leave me all alone!"

"Bess, I must go sometime. "

"Wait then. Wait till after the storms. "

The purple cloud-bank darkened the lower edge of the setting sun, creptup and up, obscuring its fiery red heart, and finally passed over thelast ruddy crescent of its upper rim. 

The intense dead silence awakened to a long, low, rumbling roll ofthunder. 

"Oh!" cried Bess, nervously. 

"We've had big black clouds before this without rain, " said Venters. "But there's no doubt about that thunder. The storms are coming. I'mglad. Every rider on the sage will hear that thunder with glad ears. "

Venters and Bess finished their simple meal and the few tasks around thecamp, then faced the open terrace, the valley, and the west, to watchand await the approaching storm. 

It required keen vision to see any movement whatever in the purpleclouds. By infinitesimal degrees the dark cloud-line merged upward intothe golden-red haze of the afterglow of sunset. A shadow lengthened fromunder the western wall across the valley. As straight and rigid as steelrose the delicate spear-pointed silver spruces; the aspen leaves, bynature pendant and quivering, hung limp and heavy; no slender bladeof grass moved. A gentle splashing of water came from the ravine. Thenagain from out of the west sounded the low, dull, and rumbling roll ofthunder. 

A wave, a ripple of light, a trembling and turning of the aspen leaves, like the approach of a breeze on the water, crossed the valley from thewest; and the lull and the deadly stillness and the sultry air passedaway on a cool wind. 

The night bird of the canyon, with clear and melancholy notes announcedthe twilight. And from all along the cliffs rose the faint murmur andmoan and mourn of the wind singing in the caves. The bank of clouds nowswept hugely out of the western sky. Its front was purple and black, with gray between, a bulging, mushrooming, vast thing instinct withstorm. It had a dark, angry, threatening aspect. As if all the power ofthe winds were pushing and piling behind, it rolled ponderously acrossthe sky. A red flare burned out instantaneously, flashed from the westto east, and died. Then from the deepest black of the purple cloud bursta boom. It was like the bowling of a huge boulder along the crags andramparts, and seemed to roll on and fall into the valley to bound andbang and boom from cliff to cliff. 

"Oh!" cried Bess, with her hands over her ears. "What did I tell you?"

"Why, Bess, be reasonable!" said Venters. 

"I'm a coward. "

"Not quite that, I hope. It's strange you're afraid. I love a storm. "

"I tell you a storm down in these canyons is an awful thing. I knowOldring hated storms. His men were afraid of them. There was one whowent deaf in a bad storm, and never could hear again. "

"Maybe I've lots to learn, Bess. I'll lose my guess if this storm isn'tbad enough. We're going to have heavy wind first, then lightning andthunder, then the rain. Let's stay out as long as we can. "

The tips of the cottonwoods and the oaks waved to the east, and therings of aspens along the terraces twinkled their myriad of bright facesin fleet and glancing gleam. A low roar rose from the leaves of theforest, and the spruces swished in the rising wind. It came in gusts, with light breezes between. As it increased in strength the lullsshortened in length till there was a strong and steady blow all thetime, and violent puffs at intervals, and sudden whirling currents. Theclouds spread over the valley, rolling swiftly and low, and twilightfaded into a sweeping darkness. Then the singing of the wind in thecaves drowned the swift roar of rustling leaves; then the song swelledto a mourning, moaning wail; then with the gathering power of thewind the wail changed to a shriek. Steadily the wind strengthened andconstantly the strange sound changed. 

The last bit of blue sky yielded to the on-sweep of clouds. Like angrysurf the pale gleams of gray, amid the purple of that scudding front, swept beyond the eastern rampart of the valley. The purple deepened toblack. Broad sheets of lightning flared over the western wall. Therewere not yet any ropes or zigzag streaks darting down through thegathering darkness. The storm center was still beyond Surprise Valley. 

"Listen!. .. Listen!" cried Bess, with her lips close to Venters's ear. "You'll hear Oldring's knell!"

"What's that?"

"Oldring's knell. When the wind blows a gale in the caves it makes whatthe rustlers call Oldring's knell. They believe it bodes his death. I think he believes so, too. It's not like any sound on earth. .. . It'sbeginning. Listen!"

The gale swooped down with a hollow unearthly howl. It yelled and pealedand shrilled and shrieked. It was made up of a thousand piercing cries. It was a rising and a moving sound. Beginning at the western break ofthe valley, it rushed along each gigantic cliff, whistling into thecaves and cracks, to mount in power, to bellow a blast through the greatstone bridge. Gone, as into an engulfing roar of surging waters, itseemed to shoot back and begin all over again. 

It was only wind, thought Venters. Here sped and shrieked the sculptorthat carved out the wonderful caves in the cliffs. It was only a gale, but as Venters listened, as his ears became accustomed to the fury andstrife, out of it all or through it or above it pealed low and perfectlyclear and persistently uniform a strange sound that had no counterpartin all the sounds of the elements. It was not of earth or of life. Itwas the grief and agony of the gale. A knell of all upon which it blew!

Black night enfolded the valley. Venters could not see his companion, and knew of her presence only through the tightening hold of her handon his arm. He felt the dogs huddle closer to him. Suddenly the dense, black vault overhead split asunder to a blue-white, dazzling streak oflightning. The whole valley lay vividly clear and luminously bright inhis sight. Upreared, vast and magnificent, the stone bridge glimmeredlike some grand god of storm in the lightning's fire. Then all flashedblack again--blacker than pitch--a thick, impenetrable coal-blackness. And there came a ripping, crashing report. Instantly an echo resoundedwith clapping crash. The initial report was nothing to the echo. It wasa terrible, living, reverberating, detonating crash. The wall threw thesound across, and could have made no greater roar if it had slippedin avalanche. From cliff to cliff the echo went in crashing retort andbanged in lessening power, and boomed in thinner volume, and clappedweaker and weaker till a final clap could not reach across the waitingcliff. 

In the pitchy darkness Venters led Bess, and, groping his way, by feelof hand found the entrance to her cave and lifted her up. On the instanta blinding flash of lightning illumined the cave and all about him. Hesaw Bess's face white now with dark, frightened eyes. He saw the dogsleap up, and he followed suit. The golden glare vanished; all was black;then came the splitting crack and the infernal din of echoes. 

Bess shrank closer to him and closer, found his hands, and pressed themtightly over her ears, and dropped her face upon his shoulder, and hidher eyes. 

Then the storm burst with a succession of ropes and streaks and shaftsof lightning, playing continuously, filling the valley with a brokenradiance; and the cracking shots followed each other swiftly till theechoes blended in one fearful, deafening crash. 

Venters looked out upon the beautiful valley--beautiful now as neverbefore--mystic in its transparent, luminous gloom, weird in thequivering, golden haze of lightning. The dark spruces were tipped withglimmering lights; the aspens bent low in the winds, as waves in atempest at sea; the forest of oaks tossed wildly and shone with gleamsof fire. Across the valley the huge cavern of the cliff-dwellers yawnedin the glare, every little black window as clear as at noonday; but thenight and the storm added to their tragedy. Flung arching to the blackclouds, the great stone bridge seemed to bear the brunt of the storm. Itcaught the full fury of the rushing wind. It lifted its noble crown tomeet the lightnings. Venters thought of the eagles and their lofty nestin a niche under the arch. A driving pall of rain, black as the clouds, came sweeping on to obscure the bridge and the gleaming walls and theshining valley. The lightning played incessantly, streaking down throughopaque darkness of rain. The roar of the wind, with its strange knelland the re-crashing echoes, mingled with the roar of the flooding rain, and all seemingly were deadened and drowned in a world of sound. 

In the dimming pale light Venters looked down upon the girl. She hadsunk into his arms, upon his breast, burying her face. She clung to him. He felt the softness of her, and the warmth, and the quick heave of herbreast. He saw the dark, slender, graceful outline of her form. A womanlay in his arms! And he held her closer. He who had been alone in thesad, silent watches of the night was not now and never must be againalone. He who had yearned for the touch of a hand felt the long trembleand the heart-beat of a woman. By what strange chance had she come tolove him! By what change--by what marvel had she grown into a treasure!

No more did he listen to the rush and roar of the thunder-storm. For with the touch of clinging hands and the throbbing bosom he grewconscious of an inward storm--the tingling of new chords of thought, strange music of unheard, joyous bells sad dreams dawning to wakefuldelight, dissolving doubt, resurging hope, force, fire, and freedom, unutterable sweetness of desire. A storm in his breast--a storm of reallove. 

CHAPTER XIV. WEST WIND

When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late in thenight, as his blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrill subsided, he fell asleep. 

With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley lay drenchedand bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. The rain-washed wallsglistened in the morning light. Waterfalls of many forms poured overthe rims. One, a broad, lacy sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the westernnotch and struck a ledge in its downward fall, to bound into broaderleap, to burst far below into white and gold and rosy mist. 

Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man. 

"It's a glorious morning, " said Bess, in greeting. 

"Yes. After the storm the west wind, " he replied. 

"Last night was I--very much of a baby?" she asked, watching him. 

"Pretty much. "

"Oh, I couldn't help it!"

"I'm glad you were afraid. "

"Why?" she asked, in slow surprise. 

"I'll tell you some day, " he answered, soberly. Then around thecamp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterward hestrolled thoughtfully off alone along the terrace. He climbed a greatyellow rock raising its crest among the spruces, and there he sat downto face the valley and the west. 

"I love her!"

Aloud he spoke--unburdened his heart--confessed his secret. For aninstant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls waved, andall about him whirled with tumult within. 

"I love her!. .. I understand now. "

Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the complications ofthe present amazed him with proof of how far he had drifted from hisold life. He discovered that he hated to take up the broken threads, todelve into dark problems and difficulties. In this beautiful valley hehad been living a beautiful dream. Tranquillity had come to him, and thejoy of solitude, and interest in all the wild creatures and crannies ofthis incomparable valley--and love. Under the shadow of the great stonebridge God had revealed Himself to Venters. 

"The world seems very far away, " he muttered, "but it's there--and I'mnot yet done with it. Perhaps I never shall be. .. . Only--how glorious itwould be to live here always and never think again!"

Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony of hiswish, steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out of it all hepresently evolved these things: he must go to Cottonwoods; he must bringsupplies back to Surprise Valley; he must cultivate the soil and raisecorn and stock, and, most imperative of all, he must decide the futureof the girl who loved him and whom he loved. The first of these thingsrequired tremendous effort, the last one, concerning Bess, seemed simplyand naturally easy of accomplishment. He would marry her. Suddenly, asfrom roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten truth concerningher. It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on its hot, tearingway to his heart. She had been Oldring's Masked Rider. To Venters'squestion, "What were you to Oldring?" she had answered with scarletshame and drooping head. 

"What do I care who she is or what she was!" he cried, passionately. Andhe knew it was not his old self speaking. It was this softer, gentlerman who had awakened to new thoughts in the quiet valley. Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched the absence of joy and blunted theknife-edge of entering jealousy. Strong and passionate effort of will, surprising to him, held back the poison from piercing his soul. 

"Wait!. .. Wait!" he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed his breast, and he might have called to the pang there. "Wait! It's all sostrange--so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who am I to judge her? I'llglory in my love for her. But I can't tell it--can't give up to it. "

Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying her wasimpossible in Surprise Valley and in any village south of Sterling. Evenwithout the mask she had once worn she would easily have been recognizedas Oldring's Rider. No man who had ever seen her would forget her, regardless of his ignorance as to her sex. Then more poignant than allother argument was the fact that he did not want to take her away fromSurprise Valley. He resisted all thought of that. He had brought her tothe most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands; he had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom as one of the valleylilies; he knew her life there to be pure and sweet--she belonged tohim, and he loved her. Still these were not all the reasons why hedid not want to take her away. Where could they go? He feared therustlers--he feared the riders--he feared the Mormons. And if he shouldever succeed in getting Bess safely away from these immediate perils, hefeared the sharp eyes of women and their tongues, the big outside worldwith its problems of existence. He must wait to decide her future, which, after all, was deciding his own. But between her future and hissomething hung impending. Like Balancing Rock, which waited darkly overthe steep gorge, ready to close forever the outlet to Deception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible as fate, must fall andclose forever all doubts and fears of the future. 

"I've dreamed, " muttered Venters, as he rose. "Well, why not?. .. To dreamis happiness! But let me just once see this clearly wholly; then I cango on dreaming till the thing falls. I've got to tell Jane Withersteen. I've dangerous trips to take. I've work here to make comfort for thisgirl. She's mine. I'll fight to keep her safe from that old life. I'vealready seen her forget it. I love her. And if a beast ever rises in meI'll burn my hand off before I lay it on her with shameful intent. And, by God! sooner or later I'll kill the man who hid her and kept her inDeception Pass!"

As he spoke the west wind softly blew in his face. It seemed to soothehis passion. That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, and it carrieda sweet, strange burden of far-off things--tidings of life in otherclimes, of sunshine asleep on other walls--of other places where reignedpeace. It carried, too, sad truth of human hearts and mystery--ofpromise and hope unquenchable. Surprise Valley was only a little nichein the wide world whence blew that burdened wind. Bess was only one ofmillions at the mercy of unknown motive in nature and life. Content hadcome to Venters in the valley; happiness had breathed in the slow, warmair; love as bright as light had hovered over the walls and descended tohim; and now on the west wind came a whisper of the eternal triumph offaith over doubt. 

"How much better I am for what has come to me!" he exclaimed. "I'll letthe future take care of itself. Whatever falls, I'll be ready. "

Venters retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp, and foundBess in the old familiar seat, waiting and watching for his return. 

"I went off by myself to think a little, " he explained. 

"You never looked that way before. What--what is it? Won't you tell me?"

"Well, Bess, the fact is I've been dreaming a lot. This valley makes afellow dream. So I forced myself to think. We can't live this way muchlonger. Soon I'll simply have to go to Cottonwoods. We need a whole packtrain of supplies. I can get--"

"Can you go safely?" she interrupted. 

"Why, I'm sure of it. I'll ride through the Pass at night. I haven't anyfear that Wrangle isn't where I left him. And once on him--Bess, justwait till you see that horse!"

"Oh, I want to see him--to ride him. But--but, Bern, this is whattroubles me, " she said. "Will--will you come back?"

"Give me four days. If I'm not back in four days you'll know I'm dead. For that only shall keep me. "

"Oh!"

"Bess, I'll come back. There's danger--I wouldn't lie to you--but I cantake care of myself. "

"Bern, I'm sure--oh, I'm sure of it! All my life I've watched huntedmen. I can tell what's in them. And I believe you can ride and shoot andsee with any rider of the sage. It's not--not that I--fear. "

"Well, what is it, then?"

"Why--why--why should you come back at all?"

"I couldn't leave you here alone. "

"You might change your mind when you get to the village--among oldfriends--"

"I won't change my mind. As for old friends--" He uttered a short, expressive laugh. 

"Then--there--there must be a--a woman!" Dark red mantled the clear tanof temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes of shame, upheld a longmoment by intense, straining search for the verification of her fear. Suddenly they drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flew to herhot cheeks. 

"Bess--look here, " said Venters, with a sharpness due to the violencewith which he checked his quick, surging emotion. 

As if compelled against her will--answering to an irresistiblevoice--Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, andtried to whisper with tremulous lips. 

"There's no woman, " went on Venters, deliberately holding her glancewith his. "Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keep meaway. "

Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; but likethe vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as he had neverbeheld her. 

"I am nothing--I am lost--I am nameless!"

"Do you want me to come back?" he asked, with sudden stern coldness. "Maybe you want to go back to Oldring!"

That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, proud eyesand mute lips refuting his insinuation. 

"Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn't have said that. But you angeredme. I intend to work--to make a home for you here--to be a--a brotherto you as long as ever you need me. And you must forget what youare--were--I mean, and be happy. When you remember that old life you arebitter, and it hurts me. "

"I was happy--I shall be very happy. Oh, you're so good that--that itkills me! If I think, I can't believe it. I grow sick with wonderingwhy. I'm only a let me say it--only a lost, nameless--girl of therustlers. Oldring's Girl, they called me. That you should save me--be sogood and kind--want to make me happy--why, it's beyond belief. No wonderI'm wretched at the thought of your leaving me. But I'll be wretchedand bitter no more. I promise you. If only I could repay you even alittle--"

"You've repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?"

"Believe you! I couldn't do else. "

"Then listen!. .. Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valleywith you, I've found myself. I've learned to think while I was dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what you sayabout yourself. I can't explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you've suffered, God holds you blameless. I see that--feel that in you every moment you are near me. I've amother and a sister 'way back in Illinois. If I could I'd take you tothem--to-morrow. "

"If it were true! Oh, I might--I might lift my head!" she cried. 

"Lift it then--you child. For I swear it's true. "

She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a part of heractions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which alwaystortured Venters, but now with something more--a spirit rising from thedepths that linked itself to his brave words. 

"I've been thinking--too, " she cried, with quivering smile and swellingbreast. "I've discovered myself--too. I'm young--I'm alive--I'm sofull--oh! I'm a woman!"

"Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery--before you, "Venters said, and laughed. 

"Oh, there's more--there's something I must tell you. "

"Tell it, then. "

"When will you go to Cottonwoods?"

"As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them. "

"I'll tell you before you go. I can't now. I don't know how I shallthen. But it must be told. I'd never let you leave me without knowing. For in spite of what you say there's a chance you mightn't come back. "

Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after day theclouds clustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sang and thecaves rang with Oldring's knell, and the lightning flashed, the thunderrolled, the echoes crashed and crashed, and the rains flooded thevalley. Wild flowers sprang up everywhere, swaying with the lengtheninggrass on the terraces, smiling wanly from shady nooks, peepingwondrously from year-dry crevices of the walls. The valley bloomedinto a paradise. Every single moment, from the breaking of the gold barthrough the bridge at dawn on to the reddening of rays over the westernwall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick, transparenthaze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in the twilight. Atthe end of every storm a rainbow curved down into the leaf-bright forestto shine and fade and leave lingeringly some faint essence of its rosyiris in the air. 

Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched the lightschange on the walls, and faced the wind from out of the west. 

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-offthings. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. Itblew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly thesong of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings--youth in theshady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at thehedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours ongrassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes--everywhere infar-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips--fromall the world tidings of unquenchable love. 

Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and asked himselfof what was she dreaming? For the changing light of the valley reflectedits gleam and its color and its meaning in the changing light of hereyes. He saw in them infinitely more than he saw in his dreams. He sawthought and soul and nature--strong vision of life. All tidings the westwind blew from distance and age he found deep in those dark-blue depths, and found them mysteries solved. Under their wistful shadow he softened, and in the softening felt himself grow a sadder, a wiser, and a betterman. 

While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full, teachinghim a man's part, the days passed, the purple clouds changed to white, and the storms were over for that summer. 

"I must go now, " he said. 

"When?" she asked. 

"At once--to-night. "

"I'm glad the time has come. It dragged at me. Go--for you'll come backthe sooner. "

Late in the afternoon, as the ruddy sun split its last flame in theragged notch of the western wall, Bess walked with Venters along theeastern terrace, up the long, weathered slope, under the great stonebridge. They entered the narrow gorge to climb around the fence longbefore built there by Venters. Farther than this she had never been. Twilight had already fallen in the gorge. It brightened to waning shadowin the wider ascent. He showed her Balancing Rock, of which he hadoften told her, and explained its sinister leaning over the outlet. Shuddering, she looked down the long, pale incline with its closed-in, toppling walls. 

"What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here?"

"I did, surely, " replied he. 

"It frightens me, somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. I'd rideanywhere a horse could go, and climb where he couldn't. But there'ssomething fearful here. I feel as--as if the place was watching me. "

"Look at this rock. It's balanced here--balanced perfectly. You know Itold you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock, and why. But they're gone andthe rock waits. Can't you see--feel how it waits here? I moved it once, and I'll never dare again. A strong heave would start it. Then it wouldfall and bang, and smash that crag, and jar the walls, and close foreverthe outlet to Deception Pass!"

"Ah! When you come back I'll steal up here and push and push with allmy might to roll the rock and close forever the outlet to the Pass!"She said it lightly, but in the undercurrent of her voice was a heaviernote, a ring deeper than any ever given mere play of words. 

"Bess!. .. You can't dare me! Wait till I come back with supplies--thenroll the stone. "

"I--was--in--fun. " Her voice now throbbed low. "Always you must be freeto go when you will. Go now. .. This place presses on me--stifles me. "

"I'm going--but you had something to tell me?"

"Yes. .. . Will you--come back?"

"I'll come if I live. "

"But--but you mightn't come?"

"That's possible, of course. It'll take a good deal to kill me. A mancouldn't have a faster horse or keener dog. And, Bess, I've guns, andI'll use them if I'm pushed. But don't worry. "

"I've faith in you. I'll not worry until after four days. Only--becauseyou mightn't come--I must tell you--"

She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great, glowing, earnest eyes, seemed to stand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. The dog whined, breaking the silence. 

"I must tell you--because you mightn't come back, " she whispered. "Youmust know what--what I think of your goodness--of you. Always I've beentongue-tied. I seemed not to be grateful. It was deep in my heart. Even now--if I were other than I am--I couldn't tell you. But I'mnothing--only a rustler's girl--nameless--infamous. You've saved me--andI'm--I'm yours to do with as you like. .. . With all my heart and soul--Ilove you!"

CHAPTER XV. SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE

In the cloudy, threatening, waning summer days shadows lengtheneddown the sage-slope, and Jane Withersteen likened them to the shadowsgathering and closing in around her life. 

Mrs. Larkin died, and little Fay was left an orphan with no knownrelative. Jane's love redoubled. It was the saving brightness of adarkening hour. Fay turned now to Jane in childish worship. And Janeat last found full expression for the mother-longing in her heart. UponLassiter, too, Mrs. Larkin's death had some subtle reaction. Before, he had often, without explanation, advised Jane to send Fay back to anyGentile family that would take her in. Passionately and reproachfullyand wonderingly Jane had refused even to entertain such an idea. Andnow Lassiter never advised it again, grew sadder and quieter in hiscontemplation of the child, and infinitely more gentle and loving. Sometimes Jane had a cold, inexplicable sensation of dread when she sawLassiter watching Fay. What did the rider see in the future? Why did he, day by day, grow more silent, calmer, cooler, yet sadder in propheticassurance of something to be?

No doubt, Jane thought, the rider, in his almost superhuman power offoresight, saw behind the horizon the dark, lengthening shadows thatwere soon to crowd and gloom over him and her and little Fay. JaneWithersteen awaited the long-deferred breaking of the storm with acourage and embittered calm that had come to her in her extremity. Hopehad not died. Doubt and fear, subservient to her will, no longer gaveher sleepless nights and tortured days. Love remained. All that she hadloved she now loved the more. She seemed to feel that she was defiantlyflinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune and ofhate. No day passed but she prayed for all--and most fervently for herenemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or had never gained, the whole control of her mind. In some measure reason and wisdom anddecision were locked in a chamber of her brain, awaiting a key. Powerto think of some things was taken from her. Meanwhile, abiding a day ofjudgment, she fought ceaselessly to deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosivelichen eating into her heart. 

On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the court forLassiter, heard a clear, ringing report of a rifle. It came from thegrove, somewhere toward the corrals. Jane glanced out in alarm. The daywas dull, windless, soundless. The leaves of the cottonwoods drooped, asif they had foretold the doom of Withersteen House and were now ready todie and drop and decay. Never had Jane seen such shade. She ponderedon the meaning of the report. Revolver shots had of late cracked fromdifferent parts of the grove--spies taking snap-shots at Lassiter froma cowardly distance! But a rifle report meant more. Riders seldom usedrifles. Judkins and Venters were the exceptions she called to mind. Hadthe men who hounded her hidden in her grove, taken to the rifle to ridher of Lassiter, her last friend? It was probable--it was likely. Andshe did not share his cool assumption that his death would never come atthe hands of a Mormon. Long had she expected it. His constancy toher, his singular reluctance to use the fatal skill for which he wasfamed--both now plain to all Mormons--laid him open to inevitableassassination. Yet what charm against ambush and aim and enemy heseemed to bear about him! No, Jane reflected, it was not charm; onlya wonderful training of eye and ear, and sense of impending peril. Nevertheless that could not forever avail against secret attack. 

That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention; then thefamiliar clinking accompaniment of a slow, soft, measured step, andLassiter walked into the court. 

"Jane, there's a fellow out there with a long gun, " he said, and, removing his sombrero, showed his head bound in a bloody scarf. 

"I heard the shot; I knew it was meant for you. Let me see--you can't bebadly injured?"

"I reckon not. But mebbe it wasn't a close call!. .. I'll sit here in thiscorner where nobody can see me from the grove. " He untied the scarf andremoved it to show a long, bleeding furrow above his left temple. 

"It's only a cut, " said Jane. "But how it bleeds! Hold your scarf overit just a moment till I come back. "

She ran into the house and returned with bandages; and while she bathedand dressed the wound Lassiter talked. 

"That fellow had a good chance to get me. But he must have flinched whenhe pulled the trigger. As I dodged down I saw him run through the trees. He had a rifle. I've been expectin' that kind of gun play. I reckon nowI'll have to keep a little closer hid myself. These fellers all seem toget chilly or shaky when they draw a bead on me, but one of them mightjest happen to hit me. "

"Won't you go away--leave Cottonwoods as I've begged you to--before someone does happen to hit you?" she appealed to him. 

"I reckon I'll stay. "

"But, oh, Lassiter--your blood will be on my hands!"

"See here, lady, look at your hands now, right now. Aren't they fine, firm, white hands? Aren't they bloody now? Lassiter's blood! That's aqueer thing to stain your beautiful hands. But if you could only seedeeper you'd find a redder color of blood. Heart color, Jane!"

"Oh!. .. My friend!"

"No, Jane, I'm not one to quit when the game grows hot, no more thanyou. This game, though, is new to me, an' I don't know the moves yet, else I wouldn't have stepped in front of that bullet. "

"Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you--to findhim--and--and kill him?"

"Well, I reckon I haven't any great hankerin' for that. "

"Oh, the wonder of it!. .. I knew--I prayed--I trusted. Lassiter, I almostgave--all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God, and thank you, myfriend. .. . But, selfish woman that I am, this is no great test. What'sthe life of one of those sneaking cowards to such a man as you? I thinkof your great hate toward him who--I think of your life's implacablepurpose. Can it be--"

"Wait!. .. Listen!" he whispered. "I hear a hoss. "

He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled hissombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging his gun-sheaths roundin front, he stepped into the alcove. 

"It's a hoss--comin' fast, " he added. 

Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss tounderstand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharpdifference when the horse passed from the sage trail to the hard-packedground of the grove. It became a ringing run--swift in its bell-likeclatterings, yet singular in longer pause than usual between thehoofbeats of a horse. 

"It's Wrangle!. .. It's Wrangle!" cried Jane Withersteen. "I'd know himfrom a million horses!"

Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Withersteen'scalm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrelflit in reddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. Thenhe was pounding down the lane--thundering into the court--crashing hisgreat iron-shod hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, butshaggy and wild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staininghis flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leapedoff, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped round Wrangle'shead and neck. Janet's heart sank as she tried to recognize Venters inthe rider. Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in thesweep of powerful shoulders. But this bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patched with pieces of skin, and boots thatshowed bare legs and feet--this dusty, dark, and wild rider could notpossibly be Venters. 

"Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So--so--so. You re home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water you'll remember. "

In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangle to thehitching-rack and turned to the court. 

"Oh, Bern!. .. You wild man!" she exclaimed. 

"Jane--Jane, it's good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, it's Venters. "

Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt thedifference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn--yet how splendid! Hehad gone away a boy--he had returned a man. He appeared taller, wider ofshoulder, deeper-chested, more powerfully built. But was that only herfancy--he had always been a young giant--was the change one of spirit?He might have been absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grownlike Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes--were they keener, more flashing than before?--met hers with clear, frank, warm regard, inwhich perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain. 

"Look at me long as you like, " he said, with a laugh. "I'm not much tolook at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter, can brag. You're palerthan I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he wears a bloody bandage underhis hat. That reminds me. Some one took a flying shot at me down in thesage. It made Wrangle run some. .. . Well, perhaps you've more to tell methan I've got to tell you. "

Briefly, in few words, Jane outlined the circumstances of her undoing inthe weeks of his absence. 

Under his beard and bronze she saw his face whiten in terrible wrath. 

"Lassiter--what held you back?"

No time in the long period of fiery moments and sudden shocks had JaneWithersteen ever beheld Lassiter as calm and serene and cool as then. 

"Jane had gloom enough without my addin' to it by shootin' up thevillage, " he said. 

As strange as Lassiter's coolness was Venters's curious, intent scrutinyof them both, and under it Jane felt a flaming tide wave from bosom totemples. 

"Well--you're right, " he said, with slow pause. "It surprises me alittle, that's all. "

Jane sensed then a slight alteration in Venters, and what it was, in herown confusion, she could not tell. It had always been her intentionto acquaint him with the deceit she had fallen to in her zeal to moveLassiter. She did not mean to spare herself. Yet now, at the moment, before these riders, it was an impossibility to explain. 

Venters was speaking somewhat haltingly, without his former frankness. "I found Oldring's hiding-place and your red herd. I learned--Iknow--I'm sure there was a deal between Tull and Oldring. " He pausedand shifted his position and his gaze. He looked as if he wanted to saysomething that he found beyond him. Sorrow and pity and shame seemedto contend for mastery over him. Then he raised himself and spoke witheffort. "Jane I've cost you too much. You've almost ruined yourselffor me. It was wrong, for I'm not worth it. I never deserved suchfriendship. Well, maybe it's not too late. You must give me up. Mind, I haven't changed. I am just the same as ever. I'll see Tull while I'mhere, and tell him to his face. "

"Bern, it's too late, " said Jane. 

"I'll make him believe!" cried Venters, violently. 

"You ask me to break our friendship?"

"Yes. If you don't, I shall. "

"Forever?"

"Forever!"

Jane sighed. Another shadow had lengthened down the sage slope tocast further darkness upon her. A melancholy sweetness pervaded herresignation. The boy who had left her had returned a man, nobler, stronger, one in whom she divined something unbending as steel. Theremight come a moment later when she would wonder why she had not foughtagainst his will, but just now she yielded to it. She liked him aswell--nay, more, she thought, only her emotions were deadened by thelong, menacing wait for the bursting storm. 

Once before she had held out her hand to him--when she gave it; now shestretched it tremblingly forth in acceptance of the decree circumstancehad laid upon them. Venters bowed over it kissed it, pressed it hard, and half stifled a sound very like a sob. Certain it was that when heraised his head tears glistened in his eyes. 

"Some--women--have a hard lot, " he said, huskily. Then he shook hispowerful form, and his rags lashed about him. "I'll say a few things toTull--when I meet him. "

"Bern--you'll not draw on Tull? Oh, that must not be! Promise me--"

"I promise you this, " he interrupted, in stern passion that thrilledwhile it terrorized her. "If you say one more word for that plotter I'llkill him as I would a mad coyote!"

Jane clasped her hands. Was this fire-eyed man the one whom she hadonce made as wax to her touch? Had Venters become Lassiter and LassiterVenters?

"I'll--say no more, " she faltered. 

"Jane, Lassiter once called you blind, " said Venters. "It must be true. But I won't upbraid you. Only don't rouse the devil in me by praying forTull! I'll try to keep cool when I meet him. That's all. Now there's onemore thing I want to ask of you--the last. I've found a valley down inthe Pass. It's a wonderful place. I intend to stay there. It's so hiddenI believe no one can find it. There's good water, and browse, and game. I want to raise corn and stock. I need to take in supplies. Will yougive them to me?"

"Assuredly. The more you take the better you'll please me--and perhapsthe less my--my enemies will get. "

"Venters, I reckon you'll have trouble packin' anythin' away, " put inLassiter. 

"I'll go at night. "

"Mebbe that wouldn't be best. You'd sure be stopped. You'd better goearly in the mornin'--say, just after dawn. That's the safest time tomove round here. "

"Lassiter, I'll be hard to stop, " returned Venters, darkly. 

"I reckon so. "

"Bern, " said Jane, "go first to the riders' quarters and get yourself acomplete outfit. You're a--a sight. Then help yourself to whatever elseyou need--burros, packs, grain, dried fruits, and meat. You must takecoffee and sugar and flour--all kinds of supplies. Don't forget corn andseeds. I remember how you used to starve. Please--please take all youcan pack away from here. I'll make a bundle for you, which you mustn'topen till you're in your valley. How I'd like to see it! To judge by youand Wrangle, how wild it must be!"

Jane walked down into the outer court and approached the sorrel. Upstarting, he laid back his ears and eyed her. 

"Wrangle--dear old Wrangle, " she said, and put a caressing hand on hismatted mane. "Oh, he's wild, but he knows me! Bern, can he run as fastas ever?"

"Run? Jane, he's done sixty miles since last night at dark, and I couldmake him kill Black Star right now in a ten-mile race. "

"He never could, " protested Jane. "He couldn't even if he was fresh. "

"I reckon mebbe the best hoss'll prove himself yet, " said Lassiter, "an', Jane, if it ever comes to that race I'd like you to be onWrangle. "

"I'd like that, too, " rejoined Venters. "But, Jane, maybe Lassiter'shint is extreme. Bad as your prospects are, you'll surely never come tothe running point. "

"Who knows!" she replied, with mournful smile. 

"No, no, Jane, it can't be so bad as all that. Soon as I see Tullthere'll be a change in your fortunes. I'll hurry down to thevillage. .. . Now don't worry. "

Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter's subtle forecastingof disaster, Venters's forced optimism, neither remained in mind. Material loss weighed nothing in the balance with other losses shewas sustaining. She wondered dully at her sitting there, hands foldedlistlessly, with a kind of numb deadness to the passing of time and thepassing of her riches. She thought of Venters's friendship. She had notlost that, but she had lost him. Lassiter's friendship--that was morethan love--it would endure, but soon he, too, would be gone. LittleFay slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming over thepillow. Jane had the child's worship. Would she lose that, too? And ifshe did, what then would be left? Conscience thundered at her that therewas left her religion. Conscience thundered that she should be gratefulon her knees for this baptism of fire; that through misfortune, sacrifice, and suffering her soul might be fused pure gold. But the old, spontaneous, rapturous spirit no more exalted her. She wanted to be awoman--not a martyr. Like the saint of old who mortified his flesh, Jane Withersteen had in her the temper for heroic martyrdom, if bysacrificing herself she could save the souls of others. But here thedamnable verdict blistered her that the more she sacrificed herself theblacker grew the souls of her churchmen. There was something terriblywrong with her soul, something terribly wrong with her churchmen and herreligion. In the whirling gulf of her thought there was yet one shininglight to guide her, to sustain her in her hope; and it was that, despiteher errors and her frailties and her blindness, she had one absolute andunfaltering hold on ultimate and supreme justice. That was love. "Loveyour enemies as yourself!" was a divine word, entirely free from anychurch or creed. 

Jane's meditations were disturbed by Lassiter's soft, tinkling step inthe court. Always he wore the clinking spurs. Always he was in readinessto ride. She passed out and called him into the huge, dim hall. 

"I think you'll be safer here. The court is too open, " she said. 

"I reckon, " replied Lassiter. "An' it's cooler here. The day's suremuggy. Well, I went down to the village with Venters. "

"Already! Where is he?" queried Jane, in quick amaze. 

"He's at the corrals. Blake's helpin' him get the burros an' packsready. That Blake is a good fellow. "

"Did--did Bern meet Tull?"

"I guess he did, " answered Lassiter, and he laughed dryly. 

"Tell me! Oh, you exasperate me! You're so cool, so calm! For Heaven'ssake, tell me what happened!"

"First time I've been in the village for weeks, " went on Lassiter, mildly. "I reckon there 'ain't been more of a show for a long time. Mean' Venters walkin' down the road! It was funny. I ain't sayin' anybodywas particular glad to see us. I'm not much thought of hereabouts, an'Venters he sure looks like what you called him, a wild man. Well, therewas some runnin' of folks before we got to the stores. Then everybodyvamoosed except some surprised rustlers in front of a saloon. Venterswent right in the stores an' saloons, an' of course I went along. Idon't know which tickled me the most--the actions of many fellers wemet, or Venters's nerve. Jane, I was downright glad to be along. Yousee that sort of thing is my element, an' I've been away from it fora spell. But we didn't find Tull in one of them places. Some Gentilefeller at last told Venters he'd find Tull in that long buildin' next toParsons's store. It's a kind of meetin'-room; and sure enough, when wepeeped in, it was half full of men. 

"Venters yelled: 'Don't anybody pull guns! We ain't come for that!' Thenhe tramped in, an' I was some put to keep alongside him. There was ahard, scrapin' sound of feet, a loud cry, an' then some whisperin', an'after that stillness you could cut with a knife. Tull was there, an' that fat party who once tried to throw a gun on me, an' otherimportant-lookin' men, en' that little frog-legged feller who was withTull the day I rode in here. I wish you could have seen their faces, 'specially Tull's an' the fat party's. But there ain't no use of metryin' to tell you how they looked. 

"Well, Venters an' I stood there in the middle of the room with thatbatch of men all in front of us, en' not a blamed one of them winked aneyelash or moved a finger. It was natural, of course, for me to noticemany of them packed guns. That's a way of mine, first noticin' themthings. Venters spoke up, an' his voice sort of chilled an' cut, en' hetold Tull he had a few things to say. "

Here Lassiter paused while he turned his sombrero round and round, inhis familiar habit, and his eyes had the look of a man seeing over againsome thrilling spectacle, and under his red bronze there was strangeanimation. 

"Like a shot, then, Venters told Tull that the friendship between youan' him was all over, an' he was leaving your place. He said you'dboth of you broken off in the hope of propitiatin' your people, but youhadn't changed your mind otherwise, an' never would. 

"Next he spoke up for you. I ain't goin' to tell you what he said. Only--no other woman who ever lived ever had such tribute! You had achampion, Jane, an' never fear that those thick-skulled men don't knowyou now. It couldn't be otherwise. He spoke the ringin', lightnin'truth. .. . Then he accused Tull of the underhand, miserable robbery of ahelpless woman. He told Tull where the red herd was, of a deal made withOldrin', that Jerry Card had made the deal. I thought Tull was goin' todrop, an' that little frog-legged cuss, he looked some limp an' white. But Venters's voice would have kept anybody's legs from bucklin'. I wasstiff myself. He went on an' called Tull--called him every bad name everknown to a rider, an' then some. He cursed Tull. I never hear a manget such a cursin'. He laughed in scorn at the idea of Tull bein' aminister. He said Tull an' a few more dogs of hell builded theirempire out of the hearts of such innocent an' God-fearin' women as JaneWithersteen. He called Tull a binder of women, a callous beast who hidbehind a mock mantle of righteousness--an' the last an' lowest cowardon the face of the earth. To prey on weak women through theirreligion--that was the last unspeakable crime!

"Then he finished, an' by this time he'd almost lost his voice. But hiswhisper was enough. 'Tull, ' he said, 'she begged me not to draw on youto-day. She would pray for you if you burned her at the stake. .. . Butlisten!. .. I swear if you and I ever come face to face again, I'll killyou!'

"We backed out of the door then, an' up the road. But nobody folleredus. "

Jane found herself weeping passionately. She had not been conscious ofit till Lassiter ended his story, and she experienced exquisite pain andrelief in shedding tears. Long had her eyes been dry, her grief deep;long had her emotions been dumb. Lassiter's story put her on the rack;the appalling nature of Venters's act and speech had no parallel as anoutrage; it was worse than bloodshed. Men like Tull had been shot, buthad one ever been so terribly denounced in public? Over-mounting herhorror, an uncontrollable, quivering passion shook her very soul. It wassheer human glory in the deed of a fearless man. It was hot, primitiveinstinct to live--to fight. It was a kind of mad joy in Venters'schivalry. It was close to the wrath that had first shaken her in thebeginning of this war waged upon her. 

"Well, well, Jane, don't take it that way, " said Lassiter, in evidentdistress. "I had to tell you. There's some things a feller jest can'tkeep. It's strange you give up on hearin' that, when all this long timeyou've been the gamest woman I ever seen. But I don't know women. Mebbethere's reason for you to cry. I know this--nothin' ever rang in my soulan' so filled it as what Venters did. I'd like to have done it, but--I'monly good for throwin' a gun, en' it seems you hate that. .. . Well, I'llbe goin' now. "

"Where?"

"Venters took Wrangle to the stable. The sorrel's shy a shoe, an' I'vegot to help hold the big devil an' put on another. "

"Tell Bern to come for the pack I want to give him--and--and to saygood-by, " called Jane, as Lassiter went out. 

Jane passed the rest of that day in a vain endeavor to decide what andwhat not to put in the pack for Venters. This task was the last shewould ever perform for him, and the gifts were the last she would evermake him. So she picked and chose and rejected, and chose again, andoften paused in sad revery, and began again, till at length she filledthe pack. 

It was about sunset, and she and Fay had finished supper and weresitting in the court, when Venters's quick steps rang on the stones. She scarcely knew him, for he had changed the tattered garments, andshe missed the dark beard and long hair. Still he was not the Venters ofold. As he came up the steps she felt herself pointing to the pack, and heard herself speaking words that were meaningless to her. He saidgood-by; he kissed her, released her, and turned away. His tall figureblurred in her sight, grew dim through dark, streaked vision, and thenhe vanished. 

Twilight fell around Withersteen House, and dusk and night. LittleFay slept; but Jane lay with strained, aching eyes. She heard the windmoaning in the cottonwoods and mice squeaking in the walls. The nightwas interminably long, yet she prayed to hold back the dawn. What wouldanother day bring forth? The blackness of her room seemed blackerfor the sad, entering gray of morning light. She heard the chirp ofawakening birds, and fancied she caught a faint clatter of hoofs. Thenlow, dull distant, throbbed a heavy gunshot. She had expected it, waswaiting for it; nevertheless, an electric shock checked her heart, frozethe very living fiber of her bones. That vise-like hold on her facultiesapparently did not relax for a long time, and it was a voice under herwindow that released her. 

"Jane!. .. Jane!" softly called Lassiter. 

She answered somehow. 

"It's all right. Venters got away. I thought mebbe you'd heard thatshot, en' I was worried some. "

"What was it--who fired?"

"Well--some fool feller tried to stop Venters out there in the sage--an'he only stopped lead!. .. I think it'll be all right. I haven't seen orheard of any other fellers round. Venters'll go through safe. An', Jane, I've got Bells saddled, an' I'm going to trail Venters. Mind, I won'tshow myself unless he falls foul of somebody an' needs me. I want to seeif this place where he's goin' is safe for him. He says nobody can trackhim there. I never seen the place yet I couldn't track a man to. Now, Jane, you stay indoors while I'm gone, an' keep close watch on Fay. Willyou?"

"Yes! Oh yes!"

"An' another thing, Jane, " he continued, then paused for long--"anotherthing--if you ain't here when I come back--if you're gone--don't fear, I'll trail you--I'll find you out. "

"My dear Lassiter, where could I be gone--as you put it?" asked Jane, incurious surprise. 

"I reckon you might be somewhere. Mebbe tied in an old barn--orcorralled in some gulch--or chained in a cave! Milly Erne was--till shegive in! Mebbe that's news to you. .. . Well, if you're gone I'll hunt foryou. "

"No, Lassiter, " she replied, sadly and low. "If I'm gone just forget theunhappy woman whose blinded selfish deceit you repaid with kindness andlove. "

She heard a deep, muttering curse, under his breath, and then thesilvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away. 

Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared without his usual cheer; and Jerdwore a harassed look of a worn and worried man. And when Judkins putin appearance, riding a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp ofa rider, his dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazedexpression told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words. 

"Miss Withersteen, I have to report--loss of the--white herd, " saidJudkins, hoarsely. 

"Come, sit down, you look played out, " replied Jane, solicitously. Shebrought him brandy and food, and while he partook of refreshments, ofwhich he appeared badly in need, she asked no questions. 

"No one rider--could hev done more--Miss Withersteen, " he went on, presently. 

"Judkins, don't be distressed. You've done more than any other rider. I've long expected to lose the white herd. It's no surprise. It'sin line with other things that are happening. I'm grateful for yourservice. "

"Miss Withersteen, I knew how you'd take it. But if anythin', that makesit harder to tell. You see, a feller wants to do so much fer you, an'I'd got fond of my job. We led the herd a ways off to the north ofthe break in the valley. There was a big level an' pools of water an'tip-top browse. But the cattle was in a high nervous condition. Wild--aswild as antelope! You see, they'd been so scared they never slept. Iain't a-goin' to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off outthere in the sage. But there wasn't a day for weeks thet the herd didn'tget started to run. We allus managed to ride 'em close an' drive 'emback an' keep 'em bunched. Honest, Miss Withersteen, them steers wasthin. They was thin when water and grass was everywhere. Thin at thisseason--thet'll tell you how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, onenight a strange runnin' streak of fire run right through the herd. Thatstreak was a coyote--with an oiled an' blazin' tail! Fer I shot it an'found out. We had hell with the herd that night, an' if the sage an'grass hadn't been wet--we, hosses, steers, an' all would hev burned up. But I said I wasn't goin' to tell you any of the tricks. .. . Strangenow, Miss Withersteen, when the stampede did come it was from naturalcause--jest a whirlin' devil of dust. You've seen the like often. An'this wasn't no big whirl, fer the dust was mostly settled. It had driedout in a little swale, an' ordinarily no steer would ever hev run ferit. But the herd was nervous en' wild. An' jest as Lassiter said, whenthat bunch of white steers got to movin' they was as bad as buffalo. I've seen some buffalo stampedes back in Nebraska, an' this bolt of thesteers was the same kind. 

"I tried to mill the herd jest as Lassiter did. But I wasn't equal toit, Miss Withersteen. I don't believe the rider lives who could hevturned thet herd. We kept along of the herd fer miles, an' more 'n oneof my boys tried to get the steers a-millin'. It wasn't no use. We gotoff level ground, goin' down, an' then the steers ran somethin' fierce. We left the little gullies an' washes level-full of dead steers. FinallyI saw the herd was makin' to pass a kind of low pocket between ridges. There was a hog-back--as we used to call 'em--a pile of rocks stickin'up, and I saw the herd was goin' to split round it, or swing out to theleft. An' I wanted 'em to go to the right so mebbe we'd be able to drive'em into the pocket. So, with all my boys except three, I rode hard toturn the herd a little to the right. We couldn't budge 'em. They went onen' split round the rocks, en' the most of 'em was turned sharp to theleft by a deep wash we hedn't seen--hed no chance to see. 

"The other three boys--Jimmy Vail, Joe Willis, an' thet little Cairnsboy--a nervy kid! they, with Cairns leadin', tried to buck thet herdround to the pocket. It was a wild, fool idee. I couldn't do nothin'. The boys got hemmed in between the steers an' the wash--thet they hedn'tno chance to see, either. Vail an' Willis was run down right before oureyes. An' Cairns, who rode a fine hoss, he did some ridin'. I never seenequaled, en' would hev beat the steers if there'd been any room to runin. I was high up an' could see how the steers kept spillin' by twos an'threes over into the wash. Cairns put his hoss to a place thet was toowide fer any hoss, an' broke his neck an' the hoss's too. We found thatout after, an' as fer Vail an' Willis--two thousand steers ran over thepoor boys. There wasn't much left to pack home fer burying!. .. An', MissWithersteen, thet all happened yesterday, en' I believe, if the whiteherd didn't run over the wall of the Pass, it's runnin' yet. "

On the morning of the second day after Judkins's recital, during whichtime Jane remained indoors a prey to regret and sorrow for the boyriders, and a new and now strangely insistent fear for her own person, she again heard what she had missed more than she dared honestlyconfess--the soft, jingling step of Lassiter. Almost overwhelming reliefsurged through her, a feeling as akin to joy as any she could havebeen capable of in those gloomy hours of shadow, and one that suddenlystunned her with the significance of what Lassiter had come to mean toher. She had begged him, for his own sake, to leave Cottonwoods. Shemight yet beg that, if her weakening courage permitted her to dareabsolute loneliness and helplessness, but she realized now that if shewere left alone her life would become one long, hideous nightmare. 

When his soft steps clinked into the hall, in answer to her greeting, and his tall, black-garbed form filled the door, she felt aninexpressible sense of immediate safety. In his presence she lost herfear of the dim passageways of Withersteen House and of every sound. Always it had been that, when he entered the court or the hall, shehad experienced a distinctly sickening but gradually lessening shockat sight of the huge black guns swinging at his sides. This time thesickening shock again visited her, it was, however, because a revealingflash of thought told her that it was not alone Lassiter who wasthrillingly welcome, but also his fatal weapons. They meant so much. Howshe had fallen--how broken and spiritless must she be--to have stillthe same old horror of Lassiter's guns and his name, yet feel somehow acold, shrinking protection in their law and might and use. 

"Did you trail Venters--find his wonderful valley?" she asked, eagerly. 

"Yes, an' I reckon it's sure a wonderful place. "

"Is he safe there?"

"That's been botherin' me some. I tracked him an' part of the trail wasthe hardest I ever tackled. Mebbe there's a rustler or somebody in thiscountry who's as good at trackin' as I am. If that's so Venters ain'tsafe. "

"Well--tell me all about Bern and his valley. "

To Jane's surprise Lassiter showed disinclination for further talk abouthis trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. Jane reflected thatone hundred and twenty miles, with probably a great deal of climbingon foot, all in three days, was enough to tire any rider. Moreover, itpresently developed that Lassiter had returned in a mood of singularsadness and preoccupation. She put it down to a moodiness over the lossof her white herd and the now precarious condition of her fortune. 

Several days passed, and as nothing happened, Jane's spirits began tobrighten. Once in her musings she thought that this tendency of hersto rebound was as sad as it was futile. Meanwhile, she had resumed herwalks through the grove with little Fay. 

One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen the slopesince the beginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a rich deep purple. There was a high wind blowing, and the sage tossed and waved and coloredbeautifully from light to dark. Clouds scudded across the sky and theirshadows sailed darkly down the sunny slope. 

Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to the stables, and she had scarcely entered the great open space with its corrals andsheds when she saw Lassiter hurriedly approaching. Fay broke from herand, running to a corral fence, began to pat and pull the long, hangingears of a drowsy burro. 

One look at Lassiter armed her for a blow. 

Without a word he led her across the wide yard to the rise of the groundupon which the stable stood. 

"Jane--look!" he said, and pointed to the ground. 

Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision made outsplotches of blood on the stones, and broad, smooth marks in the dust, leading out toward the sage. 

"What made these?" she asked. 

"I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where therewas hosses in the sage. "

"Dead--or--wounded--men!"

"I reckon--Jane, are you strong? Can you bear up?"

His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyes--suddenly she could nolonger look into them. "Strong?" she echoed, trembling. "I--I will be. "

Up on the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shodhoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer. 

"Where's Blake--and--and Jerb?" she asked, haltingly. 

"I don't know where Jerb is. Bolted, most likely, " replied Lassiter, ashe took her through the stone door. "But Blake--poor Blake! He's goneforever!. .. Be prepared, Jane. "

With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet withchamber swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near. 

Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white--dead--onehand clutching a gun and the other twisted in his bloody blouse. 

"Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers--Blake killedsome of them!" said Lassiter. 

"Thieves?" whispered Jane. 

"I reckon. Hoss-thieves!. .. Look!" Lassiter waved his hand toward thestalls. 

The first stall--Bells's stall--was empty. All the stalls were empty. Noracer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone! Black Starwas gone!

CHAPTER XVI. GOLD

As Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters "went through" safely, andafter a toilsome journey reached the peaceful shelter of SurpriseValley. When finally he lay wearily down under the silver spruces, resting from the strain of dragging packs and burros up the slope andthrough the entrance to Surprise Valley, he had leisure to think, anda great deal of the time went in regretting that he had not been frankwith his loyal friend, Jane Withersteen. 

But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more face toface with her and had been shocked at the change in her and had heardthe details of her adversity, he had not had the heart to tell her ofthe closer interest which had entered his life. He had not lied; yet hehad kept silence. 

Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the outfit he hadpacked from Cottonwoods. He had certainly brought a hundred timesmore than he had gone for; enough, surely, for years, perhaps to makepermanent home in the valley. He saw no reason why he need ever leavethere again. 

After a day of rest he recovered his strength and shared Bess's pleasurein rummaging over the endless packs, and began to plan for the future. And in this planning, his trip to Cottonwoods, with its revived hateof Tull and consequent unleashing of fierce passions, soon faded outof mind. By slower degrees his friendship for Jane Withersteen and hiscontrition drifted from the active preoccupation of his present thoughtto a place in memory, with more and more infrequent recalls. 

And as far as the state of his mind was concerned, upon the second dayafter his return, the valley, with its golden hues and purple shades, the speaking west wind and the cool, silent night, and Bess's watchingeyes with their wonderful light, so wrought upon Venters that he mightnever have left them at all. 

That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered him uponbeginning, though it in no wise checked his delight, and that in themultiplicity of tasks planned to make a paradise out of the valley hecould not choose the one with which to begin. He had to grow into thehabit of passing from one dreamy pleasure to another, like a bee goingfrom flower to flower in the valley, and he found this wandering habitlikely to extend to his labors. Nevertheless, he made a start. 

At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable help in someways and a very great hindrance in others. Her excitement and joy werespurs, inspirations; but she was utterly impracticable in her ideas, and she flitted from one plan to another with bewildering vacillation. Moreover, he fancied that she grew more eager, youthful, and sweet; andhe marked that it was far easier to watch her and listen to her thanit was to work. Therefore he gave her tasks that necessitated her goingoften to the cave where he had stored his packs. 

Upon the last of these trips, when he was some distance down the terraceand out of sight of camp, he heard a scream, and then the sharp barkingof the dogs. 

For an instant he straightened up, amazed. Danger for her had beenabsolutely out of his mind. She had seen a rattlesnake--or a wildcat. Still she would not have been likely to scream at sight of either; andthe barking of the dogs was ominous. Dropping his work, he dashed backalong the terrace. Upon breaking through a clump of aspens he saw thedark form of a man in the camp. Cold, then hot, Venters burst intofrenzied speed to reach his guns. He was cursing himself for athoughtless fool when the man's tall form became familiar and herecognized Lassiter. Then the reversal of emotions changed his run toa walk; he tried to call out, but his voice refused to carry; when hereached camp there was Lassiter staring at the white-faced girl. By thattime Ring and Whitie had recognized him. 

"Hello, Venters! I'm makin' you a visit, " said Lassiter, slowly. "An'I'm some surprised to see you've a--a young feller for company. "

One glance had sufficed for the keen rider to read Bess's real sex, andfor once his cool calm had deserted him. He stared till the white ofBess's cheeks flared into crimson. That, if it were needed, was theconcluding evidence of her femininity, for it went fittingly with hersun-tinted hair and darkened, dilated eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, and the striking symmetry of her slender shape. 

"Heavens! Lassiter!" panted Venters, when he caught his breath. "Whatrelief--it's only you! How--in the name of all that's wonderful--did youever get here?"

"I trailed you. We--I wanted to know where you was, if you had a safeplace. So I trailed you. "

"Trailed me, " cried Venters, bluntly. 

"I reckon. It was some of a job after I got to them smooth rocks. I wasall day trackin' you up to them little cut steps in the rock. The restwas easy. "

"Where's your hoss? I hope you hid him. "

"I tied him in them queer cedars down on the slope. He can't be seenfrom the valley. "

"That's good. Well, well! I'm completely dumfounded. It was my idea thatno man could track me in here. "

"I reckon. But if there's a tracker in these uplands as good as me hecan find you. "

"That's bad. That'll worry me. But, Lassiter, now you're here I'm gladto see you. And--and my companion here is not a young fellow!. .. Bess, this is a friend of mine. He saved my life once. "

The embarrassment of the moment did not extend to Lassiter. Almost atonce his manner, as he shook hands with Bess, relieved Venters and putthe girl at ease. After Venters's words and one quick look at Lassiter, her agitation stilled, and, though she was shy, if she were consciousof anything out of the ordinary in the situation, certainly she did notshow it. 

"I reckon I'll only stay a little while, " Lassiter was saying. "An' ifyou don't mind troublin', I'm hungry. I fetched some biscuits along, butthey're gone. Venters, this place is sure the wonderfullest ever seen. Them cut steps on the slope! That outlet into the gorge! An' it's likeclimbin' up through hell into heaven to climb through that gorge intothis valley! There's a queer-lookin' rock at the top of the passage. Ididn't have time to stop. I'm wonderin' how you ever found this place. It's sure interestin'. "

During the preparation and eating of dinner Lassiter listened mostly, as was his wont, and occasionally he spoke in his quaint and dry way. Venters noted, however, that the rider showed an increasing interest inBess. He asked her no questions, and only directed his attention to herwhile she was occupied and had no opportunity to observe his scrutiny. It seemed to Venters that Lassiter grew more and more absorbed in hisstudy of Bess, and that he lost his coolness in some strange, softeningsympathy. Then, quite abruptly, he arose and announced the necessityfor his early departure. He said good-by to Bess in a voice gentle andsomewhat broken, and turned hurriedly away. Venters accompanied him, andthey had traversed the terrace, climbed the weathered slope, and passedunder the stone bridge before either spoke again. 

Then Lassiter put a great hand on Venters's shoulder and wheeled him tomeet a smoldering fire of gray eyes. 

"Lassiter, I couldn't tell Jane! I couldn't, " burst out Venters, readinghis friend's mind. "I tried. But I couldn't. She wouldn't understand, and she has troubles enough. And I love the girl!"

"Venters, I reckon this beats me. I've seen some queer things in mytime, too. This girl--who is she?"

"I don't know. "

"Don't know! What is she, then?"

"I don't know that, either. Oh, it's the strangest story you ever heard. I must tell you. But you'll never believe. "

"Venters, women were always puzzles to me. But for all that, if thisgirl ain't a child, an' as innocent, I'm no fit person to think ofvirtue an' goodness in anybody. Are you goin' to be square with her?"

"I am--so help me God!"

"I reckoned so. Mebbe my temper oughtn't led me to make sure. But, man, she's a woman in all but years. She's sweeter 'n the sage. "

"Lassiter, I know, I know. And the hell of it is that in spite of herinnocence and charm she's--she's not what she seems!"

"I wouldn't want to--of course, I couldn't call you a liar, Venters, "said the older man. 

"What's more, she was Oldring's Masked Rider!"

Venters expected to floor his friend with that statement, but he was notin any way prepared for the shock his words gave. For an instant he wasastounded to see Lassiter stunned; then his own passionate eagernessto unbosom himself, to tell the wonderful story, precluded any otherthought. 

"Son, tell me all about this, " presently said Lassiter as he seatedhimself on a stone and wiped his moist brow. 

Thereupon Venters began his narrative at the point where he had shot therustler and Oldring's Masked Rider, and he rushed through it, tellingall, not holding back even Bess's unreserved avowal of her love or hisdeepest emotions. 

"That's the story, " he said, concluding. "I love her, though I've nevertold her. If I did tell her I'd be ready to marry her, and that seemsimpossible in this country. I'd be afraid to risk taking her anywhere. So I intend to do the best I can for her here. "

"The longer I live the stranger life is, " mused Lassiter, with downcasteyes. "I'm reminded of somethin' you once said to Jane about hands inher game of life. There's that unseen hand of power, an' Tull's blackhand, an' my red one, an' your indifferent one, an' the girl's littlebrown, helpless one. An', Venters there's another one that's all-wisean' all-wonderful. That's the hand guidin' Jane Withersteen's game oflife!. .. Your story's one to daze a far clearer head than mine. I can'toffer no advice, even if you asked for it. Mebbe I can help you. Anyway, I'll hold Oldrin' up when he comes to the village an' find out aboutthis girl. I knew the rustler years ago. He'll remember me. "

"Lassiter, if I ever meet Oldring I'll kill him!" cried Venters, withsudden intensity. 

"I reckon that'd be perfectly natural, " replied the rider. 

"Make him think Bess is dead--as she is to him and that old life. "

"Sure, sure, son. Cool down now. If you're goin' to begin pullin' gunson Tull an' Oldin' you want to be cool. I reckon, though, you'd betterkeep hid here. Well, I must be leavin'. "

"One thing, Lassiter. You'll not tell Jane about Bess? Please don't!"

"I reckon not. But I wouldn't be afraid to bet that after she'd gotover anger at your secrecy--Venters, she'd be furious once in herlife!--she'd think more of you. I don't mind sayin' for myself that Ithink you're a good deal of a man. "

In the further ascent Venters halted several times with the intention ofsaying good-by, yet he changed his mind and kept on climbing till theyreached Balancing Rock. Lassiter examined the huge rock, listened toVenters's idea of its position and suggestion, and curiously placed astrong hand upon it. 

"Hold on!" cried Venters. "I heaved at it once and have never gottenover my scare. "

"Well, you do seem uncommon nervous, " replied Lassiter, much amused. "Now, as for me, why I always had the funniest notion to roll stones!When I was a kid I did it, an' the bigger I got the bigger stones I'droll. Ain't that funny? Honest--even now I often get off my hoss just totumble a big stone over a precipice, en' watch it drop, en' listen to itbang an' boom. I've started some slides in my time, an' don't you forgetit. I never seen a rock I wanted to roll as bad as this one! Wouldn'tthere jest be roarin', crashin' hell down that trail?"

"You'd close the outlet forever!" exclaimed Venters. "Well, good-by, Lassiter. Keep my secret and don't forget me. And be mighty careful howyou get out of the valley below. The rustlers' canyon isn't more thanthree miles up the Pass. Now you've tracked me here, I'll never feelsafe again. "

In his descent to the valley, Venters's emotion, roused to stirringpitch by the recital of his love story, quieted gradually, and in itsplace came a sober, thoughtful mood. All at once he saw that he wasserious, because he would never more regain his sense of security whilein the valley. What Lassiter could do another skilful tracker mightduplicate. Among the many riders with whom Venters had ridden herecalled no one who could have taken his trail at Cottonwoods and havefollowed it to the edge of the bare slope in the pass, let alone up thatglistening smooth stone. Lassiter, however, was not an ordinary rider. Instead of hunting cattle tracks he had likely spent a goodly portionof his life tracking men. It was not improbable that among Oldring'srustlers there was one who shared Lassiter's gift for trailing. And themore Venters dwelt on this possibility the more perturbed he grew. 

Lassiter's visit, moreover, had a disquieting effect upon Bess, andVenters fancied that she entertained the same thought as to futureseclusion. The breaking of their solitude, though by a well-meaningfriend, had not only dispelled all its dream and much of its charm, buthad instilled a canker of fear. Both had seen the footprint in the sand. 

Venters did no more work that day. Sunset and twilight gave way tonight, and the canyon bird whistled its melancholy notes, and the windsang softly in the cliffs, and the camp-fire blazed and burned down tored embers. To Venters a subtle difference was apparent in all of these, or else the shadowy change had been in him. He hoped that on the morrowthis slight depression would have passed away. 

In that measure, however, he was doomed to disappointment. Furthermore, Bess reverted to a wistful sadness that he had not observed in her sinceher recovery. His attempt to cheer her out of it resulted in dismalfailure, and consequently in a darkening of his own mood. Hard workrelieved him; still, when the day had passed, his unrest returned. Then he set to deliberate thinking, and there came to him the startlingconviction that he must leave Surprise Valley and take Bess with him. As a rider he had taken many chances, and as an adventurer in DeceptionPass he had unhesitatingly risked his life, but now he would run nopreventable hazard of Bess's safety and happiness, and he was too keennot to see that hazard. It gave him a pang to think of leaving thebeautiful valley just when he had the means to establish a permanentand delightful home there. One flashing thought tore in hot temptationthrough his mind--why not climb up into the gorge, roll Balancing Rockdown the trail, and close forever the outlet to Deception Pass? "Thatwas the beast in me--showing his teeth!" muttered Venters, scornfully. "I'll just kill him good and quick! I'll be fair to this girl, if it'sthe last thing I do on earth!"

Another day went by, in which he worked less and pondered more andall the time covertly watched Bess. Her wistfulness had deepened intodownright unhappiness, and that made his task to tell her all theharder. He kept the secret another day, hoping by some chance she mightgrow less moody, and to his exceeding anxiety she fell into far deepergloom. Out of his own secret and the torment of it he divined that she, too, had a secret and the keeping of it was torturing her. As yet he hadno plan thought out in regard to how or when to leave the valley, buthe decided to tell her the necessity of it and to persuade her to go. Furthermore, he hoped his speaking out would induce her to unburden herown mind. 

"Bess, what's wrong with you?" he asked. 

"Nothing, " she answered, with averted face. 

Venters took hold of her gently, though masterfully, forced her to meethis eyes. 

"You can't look at me and lie, " he said. "Now--what's wrong with you?You're keeping something from me. Well, I've got a secret, too, and Iintend to tell it presently. "

"Oh--I have a secret. I was crazy to tell you when you came back. That's why I was so silly about everything. I kept holding my secretback--gloating over it. But when Lassiter came I got an idea--thatchanged my mind. Then I hated to tell you. "

"Are you going to now?"

"Yes--yes. I was coming to it. I tried yesterday, but you were so cold. I was afraid. I couldn't keep it much longer. "

"Very well, most mysterious lady, tell your wonderful secret. "

"You needn't laugh, " she retorted, with a first glimpse of revivingspirit. "I can take the laugh out of you in one second. "

"It's a go. "

She ran through the spruces to the cave, and returned carrying somethingwhich was manifestly heavy. Upon nearer view he saw that whatever sheheld with such evident importance had been bound up in a black scarfhe well remembered. That alone was sufficient to make him tingle withcuriosity. 

"Have you any idea what I did in your absence?" she asked. 

"I imagine you lounged about, waiting and watching for me, " he replied, smiling. "I've my share of conceit, you know. "

"You're wrong. I worked. Look at my hands. " She dropped on her kneesclose to where he sat, and, carefully depositing the black bundle, sheheld out her hands. The palms and inside of her fingers were white, puckered, and worn. 

"Why, Bess, you've been fooling in the water, " he said. 

"Fooling? Look here!" With deft fingers she spread open the black scarf, and the bright sun shone upon a dull, glittering heap of gold. 

"Gold!" he ejaculated. 

"Yes, gold! See, pounds of gold! I found it--washed it out of thestream--picked it out grain by grain, nugget by nugget!"

"Gold!" he cried. 

"Yes. Now--now laugh at my secret!"

For a long minute Venters gazed. Then he stretched forth a hand to feelif the gold was real. 

"Gold!" he almost shouted. "Bess, there are hundreds--thousands ofdollars' worth here!"

He leaned over to her, and put his hand, strong and clenching now, onhers. 

"Is there more where this came from?" he whispered. 

"Plenty of it, all the way up the stream to the cliff. You know I'veoften washed for gold. Then I've heard the men talk. I think there's nogreat quantity of gold here, but enough for--for a fortune for you. "

"That--was--your--secret!"

"Yes. I hate gold. For it makes men mad. I've seen them drunk with joyand dance and fling themselves around. I've seen them curse and rave. I've seen them fight like dogs and roll in the dust. I've seen them killeach other for gold. "

"Is that why you hated to tell me?"

"Not--not altogether. " Bess lowered her head. "It was because I knewyou'd never stay here long after you found gold. "

"You were afraid I'd leave you?"

"Yes. 

"Listen!. .. You great, simple child! Listen. .. You sweet, wonderful, wild, blue-eyed girl! I was tortured by my secret. It was that I knew we--wemust leave the valley. We can't stay here much longer. I couldn't thinkhow we'd get away--out of the country--or how we'd live, if we ever gotout. I'm a beggar. That's why I kept my secret. I'm poor. It takes moneyto make way beyond Sterling. We couldn't ride horses or burros or walkforever. So while I knew we must go, I was distracted over how to goand what to do. Now! We've gold! Once beyond Sterling, well be safe fromrustlers. We've no others to fear. 

"Oh! Listen! Bess!" Venters now heard his voice ringing high and sweet, and he felt Bess's cold hands in his crushing grasp as she leaned towardhim pale, breathless. "This is how much I'd leave you! You made me liveagain! I'll take you away--far away from this wild country. You'll begina new life. You'll be happy. You shall see cities, ships, people. Youshall have anything your heart craves. All the shame and sorrow of yourlife shall be forgotten--as if they had never been. This is how much I'dleave you here alone--you sad-eyed girl. I love you! Didn't you know it?How could you fail to know it? I love you! I'm free! I'm a man--a manyou've made--no more a beggar!. .. Kiss me! This is how much I'd leaveyou here alone--you beautiful, strange, unhappy girl. But I'll make youhappy. What--what do I care for--your past! I love you! I'll take youhome to Illinois--to my mother. Then I'll take you to far places. I'llmake up all you've lost. Oh, I know you love me--knew it before you toldme. And it changed my life. And you'll go with me, not as my companionas you are here, nor my sister, but, Bess, darling!. .. As my wife!"

CHAPTER XVII. WRANGLE'S RACE RUN

The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to go tothe village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for Bess, orat least less striking apparel than her present garb, and to returnpost-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, she would add to their store ofgold. Then they would strike the long and perilous trail to ride out ofUtah. In the event of his inability to fetch back a horse for her, theyintended to make the giant sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle blankets, and Venters's guns were to compose the light outfitwith which they would make the start. 

"I love this beautiful place, " said Bess. "It's hard to think of leavingit. "

"Hard! Well, I should think so, " replied Venters. "Maybe--in years--"But he did not complete in words his thought that might be possible toreturn after many years of absence and change. 

Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of BalancingRock, and this time it was with whispered hope and tenderness andpassionate trust. Long after he had left her, all down through theoutlet to the Pass, the clinging clasp of her arms, the sweetness ofher lips, and the sense of a new and exquisite birth of character in herremained hauntingly and thrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadlycalled herself nameless and nothing had been marvelously transformedin the moment of his avowal of love. It was something to think over, something to warm his heart, but for the present it had absolutely to beforgotten so that all his mind could be addressed to the trip so fraughtwith danger. 

He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of bread andmeat, and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progress down the slopeand out into the valley. Darkness was coming on, and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he reached his old hiding-place in the split ofcanyon wall, and by their aid he slipped through the dense thickets tothe grassy enclosure. Wrangle stood in the center of it with his headup, and he appeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim light. Venters whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then called. Thehorse snorted and, plunging away with dull, heavy sound of hoofs, hedisappeared in the gloom. "Wilder than ever!" muttered Venters. Hefollowed the sorrel into the narrowing split between the walls, andpresently had to desist because he could not see a foot in advance. Ashe went back toward the open Wrangle jumped out of an ebony shadow ofcliff and like a thunderbolt shot huge and black past him down intothe starlit glade. Deciding that all attempts to catch Wrangle at nightwould be useless, Venters repaired to the shelving rock where he hadhidden saddle and blanket, and there went to sleep. 

The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was lightenough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his saddle and wentout to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at the lower end of the coveand approached him in a perfectly natural manner. When he got nearenough, Wrangle evidently recognized him, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on into the narrow lane between the walls. Thisfavored Venters's speedy capture of the horse, so, coiling his nooseready to throw, he hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within ahundred feet and then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly gettinginto his stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He hadtime to brace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw him anddragged him several yards before halting. 

"You wild devil, " said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle up. "Don'tyou know me? Come now--old fellow--so--so--"

Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters's strong hand. He wasas straggly and wild-looking as a horse left to roam free in the sage. He dropped his long ears and stood readily to be saddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly sensitive, and quivered at every touch and sound. Venters led him to the thicket, and, bending the close saplings to lethim squeeze through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in eachdirection assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canyon, then hewas in the saddle, riding south. 

Wrangle's long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer. Hisstride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse; and his endurance wasequally remarkable. Venters pulled him in occasionally, and walked himup the stretches of rising ground and along the soft washes. Wranglehad never yet shown any indication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless, there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Ventersdid not resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. He camped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was toCottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was in theneighborhood of fifty miles. 

Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the middle ofthe forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked the southerly endof the Pass, and through which led the trail up to the sage-level. Hespied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust, but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle's bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, more severe on beast than on man, necessitated a reston the level above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reachesof slope. 

Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage. Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face. Hehad proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles when Wrangle stopped with asuddenness that threw Venters heavily against the pommel. 

"What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a loose shoeor a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded, he raisedhimself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head high, with hislong ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out adust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope. If they hadseen him, it apparently made no difference in their speed or direction. 

"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed to run. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could not be friends. Heslipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal them until the riders were close enough forhim to see who they were; after that he would be indifferent to how soonthey discovered him. 

After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in workingorder, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitterfierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into life. If thoseriders were not rustlers he had forgotten how rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compact and dark that he could not telltheir number. How unusual that their horses did not see Wrangle! Butsuch failure, Venters decided, was owing to the speed with which theywere traveling. They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlersthan by riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that thesehorsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance totell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yards hedeliberately led Wrangle out into the trail. 

Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and sawhorses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying manes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply against the blackbackground of riders and horses, and shots rang out. Bullets struck farin front of Venters, and whipped up the dust and then hummed low intothe sage. The range was great for revolvers, but whether the shots weremeant to kill or merely to check advance, they were enough to fire thatwaiting ferocity in Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, sothat Wrangle could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled thetrigger twice. 

He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another lurchin his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle, plunging in fright, lifted Venters and nearly threw him. He jerked the horse down witha powerful hand and leaped into the saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, that Venters had not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swift movement, he secured it and dropped the loopover the pommel. Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what theissue would be. 

The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark forbullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns. He hearda sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again he caught the whimof a leaden missile that would have hit him but for Wrangle's suddenjump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold, passed over Venters. Deliberatelyhe picked out the one rider with a carbine, and killed him. Wranglesnorted shrilly and bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a fewrods, then with iron arm checked him. 

Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the saddle tosecure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot from Venters, which missedthe man but sent the dust flying over him made him run back to hishorse. Then they separated. The crippled rider went one way; the onefrustrated in his attempt to get the carbine rode another, Ventersthought he made out a third rider, carrying a strange-appearing bundleand disappearing in the sage. But in the rapidity of action and visionhe could not discern what it was. Two riders with three horses swungout to the right. Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldomcarried by rustlers or riders--they had been put to rout. 

Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted wasriding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bay racer she hadgiven to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry. Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, and the ease and grace of hisseat in the saddle--things so strikingly incongruous--grew more and morefamiliar in Venters's sight. 

"Jerry Card!" cried Venters. 

It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white hot wrath inflamedVenters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze. 

"It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's riding Black Starand leading Night!"

The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst into flame. Hespurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride Venters slippedcartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it was once again full. Card and his companion were now half a mile or more in advance, ridingeasily down the slope. Venters marked the smooth gait, and understood itwhen Wrangle galloped out of the sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had once tracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. Thishard-packed trail, from years of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters saw Jerry Card look back over his shoulder, the other rider didlikewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the pointwhere the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop. 

"Wrangle, the race's on, " said Venters, grimly. "We'll canter with themand gallop with them and run with them. We'll let them set the pace. "

Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless horseever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling JaneWithersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neck and neck withWrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to him, Venters wishedthat Jane were there to see the race to recover her blacks and in theunqualified superiority of the giant sorrel. Then Venters found himselfthankful that she was absent, for he meant that race to end in JerryCard's death. The first flush, the raging of Venters's wrath, passed, toleave him in sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was a deadlymood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, and releasedby the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. The strength inhim then--the thing rife in him that was note hate, but something asremorseless--might have been the fiery fruition of a whole lifetime ofvengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped him. 

Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells would probablydrop behind and take to the sage. What he did was of little momentto Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden career as well ashis present flight, and then to catch the blacks--that was all thatconcerned Venters. The cattle trail wound for miles and miles down theslope. Venters saw with a rider's keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty milesof clear purple sage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aidCard. His only chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses andcreeping away in the sage to hide. In ten miles Wrangle could runBlack Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could kill themoutright. So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card make the running. It was a long race that would save the blacks. 

In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept appreciablycloser to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again, and when he saw howthe sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to a gallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into his stride. 

Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into a gallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. But Ventersrestrained him. And in the gallop he gained more than in the canter. Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star and Night had been trainedto run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to a quarter of a mile, andcrept closer and closer. 

Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the red flash ofhis red face. This time he looked long. Venters laughed. He knew whatpassed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to make out what horse ithappened to be that thus gained on Jane Withersteen's peerless racers. Wrangle had so long been away from the village that not improbably Jerryhad forgotten. Besides, whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame asthe greatest rider of the sage, certain it was that his best point wasnot far-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangle. After what must havebeen a searching gaze he got his comrade to face about. This action gaveVenters amusement. It spoke so surely of the facts that neither Cardnor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yet if they kept to thetrail--and the last thing such men would do would be to leave it--theywere both doomed. 

This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he evenshaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then, all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the saddle, began to flinghis right arm up and down. That flinging Venters knew to be the lashingof Bells. Jerry also became active. And the three racers lengthened outinto a run. 

"Now, Wrangle!" cried Venters. "Run, you big devil! Run!"

Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loop overthe pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth trail. He wassurer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait, and his running gavethe impression of something devilish. He might now have been actuated byVenters's spirit; undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of hisrider. Venters bent forward swinging with the horse, and gripped hisrifle. His eye measured the distance between him and Jerry Card. 

In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the blacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated that the rustlerwould soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not improbably he reasonedthat the powerful sorrel could more easily overtake Bells in the heaviergoing outside of the trail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay betweenBells and Wrangle. Turning in his saddle, the rustler began to shoot, and the bullets beat up little whiffs of dust. Venters raised his rifle, ready to take snap shots, and waited for favorable opportunity whenBells was out of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in himto kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he hadrestraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's beloved Arabians. 

No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to theleft, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters, aiming highand waiting for the pause between Wrangle's great strides, began to takesnap shots at the rustler. The fleeing rider presented a broad targetfor a rifle, but he was moving swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting from Wrangle's back was shooting from a thunderbolt. And added to that was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effecton Bells. Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedinglydifficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw a speedyand fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixth shot therustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off his horse. Herolled over and over, hunched himself to a half-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the sage. As Venters went thundering by hepeered keenly into the sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran afew hundred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him. 

Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine of hisrifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not drop a singlecartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment of a marksman heonce more measured the distance between him and Jerry Card. Wrangle hadgained, bringing him into rifle range. Venters was hard put to it nownot to shoot, but thought it better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, inanticipation of a running fusillade, had huddled himself into a littletwisted ball on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer wouldmake sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat inthe saddle. 

In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment was thebeginning of the real race. 

Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then backwardto put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled andvibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity. But Wrangle's fleshwas still cold. What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt inhim a love for the horse he had never given to any other. It would nothave been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hateor revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, tobe astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his magnificentstride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride him in that raceand not glory in the ride. 

So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters lived outthat ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of wildness to the dregs. 

When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in thecheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a downwardglance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail. He watched the sorrel'ssavage head, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but hisnostrils distended as if he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was thehorse for a race with death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage mergedinto a sailing, colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground withits purple breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing withheavy, steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweetodor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar. 

Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space separatinghim from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The blacks were provingtheir fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider'shorsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born inthe saddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, orthe position of the horses. Presently Venters remembered positively thatJerry had been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. Theracer was now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But, Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star. Anotherclearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was reallyriderless. Night now carried Jerry Card. 

"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters, realizing theastounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed at full speed! JerryCard, that's what you've done unless I'm drunk on the smell of sage. ButI've got to see the trick before I believe it. "

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the littlerider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daringhorsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out thegreatness of the blacks in that long race. He had them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing pace. From time to time heglanced backward, as a wise general in retreat calculating his chancesand the power and speed of pursuers, and the moment for the lastdesperate burst. No doubt, Card, with his life at stake, gloried in thatrace, perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sageand the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until thelast call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of self-preservation--wouldhe lose his skill and judgment and nerve and the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind. That little crime-stained rider wasactually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling themwith knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racingstride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hungsuspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle andthe sun flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer andcloser toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse. Then Cardraised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the stirrups, and, somehowtwisting himself, leaped upon Black Star. He did not even lose the swingof the horse. Like a leech he was there in the other saddle, and as thehorses separated, his right foot, that had been apparently doubled underhim, shot down to catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daringof that rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters. 

For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed backto Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the blacks couldavail little more against the sorrel. 

Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land. Straightawayfor five miles the trail stretched, and then it disappeared in hummockyground. To the right, some few rods, Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamedthe red of the opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went downinto the Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized thathe must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of fivemiles. 

Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch of spurwas sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a ringing, wildsnort, he seemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shootforward with an impetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurredby, the trail flashed by, and the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showedhe had to make his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side ofthe trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Ventershoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But Jerryreturned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in the dustat Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then, while the rideremptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behindand doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain; for another mile he gainedlittle, if at all. In the third he caught up with the now gallopingNight and began to gain rapidly on the other black. 

Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and Wrangle. Thegiant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every yard he gaineda foot. He was whistling through his nostrils, wringing wet, flyinglather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever, strong as ever, fast asever, but each tremendous stride jarred Venters out of the saddle!Wrangle's power and spirit and momentum had begun to run him off hislegs. Wrangle's great race was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed tosee the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain slidingunder him. Black Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Ventersfelt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap. Flecksof foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him see all thesage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed to see, Black Starsuddenly riderless and with broken gait. Wrangle thundered on to changehis pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. From runto gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk tostop, the great sorrel ended his race. 

Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. JerryCard had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night came trottingfaithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficiently to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But he had still the strength to stand, andfor him Venters had no fears. 

As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on shakinglegs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him Ventersremoved the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the stricken horse. Black Starlay flat, covered with bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyesglaring, and all his beautiful body in convulsions. 

Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters hurriedup the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookoutfor Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would keep well out of rangeof the rifle, but, as he would be lost on the sage without a horse, notimprobably he would linger in the vicinity on the chance of getting backone of the blacks. Night soon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him down near the others, and unsaddling him, let him looseto rest. Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himselfnot yet spent. 

Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he wascompelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He was now seventymiles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close to the canyon where thecattle trail must surely turn off and go down into the Pass. After awhile he rose to survey the valley. 

He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which thetrail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes, andthese sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon line, he saw whereits rim was broken by other intersecting canyons, and farther down redwalls and yellow cliffs leading toward a deep blue cleft that he madesure was Deception Pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, hefound where the trail went down. The descent was gradual, along astone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place whereOldring drove cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication atall that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had manyholes to his burrow. 

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safelygive the horses a drink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and Night followed suit. So long as theywere down Venters intended to make no move. The longer they restedthe better, and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by heforced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to findhim dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters wasoverjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presentlylabored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snortedfor water. Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filledhis sombrero, and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at onedraught, as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hatand snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and after afurther time Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze. 

The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and thecanyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Ventersconcluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he wentto fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw wherethe horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters thenthat Wrangle had drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, andmight be anything but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not comewithin roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up indisgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a quandaryVenters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he might be caught. 

As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he keptclose watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was notelling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters sullenly acquiescedto the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters clung to his foreboding ofCard's downfall. 

The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western rise ofslope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened. The rims of thecanyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth bluesmoke. Silence enfolded the scene. 

It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the thuddingof heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canyonrim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in thundering flight. 

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His headwas high and twisted, in a most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled Wrangle and now stuck like a hugeburr. But it was his strange position and the sorrel's wild scream thatshook Venters's nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where thetrail went down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one ofhis leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice. 

Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front ofWrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a memory ofthis trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one riderwho had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or controldesperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad. The marvel was whatguided him. Was it the half-brute, the more than half-horse instinct ofJerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rodsJerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into thecanyon. 

"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up therifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over thesights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shotonce. .. Twice. .. The third time. .. Four times. .. Five! all wasted shots andprecious seconds!

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights andpulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttereda horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, andwith one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirleddownward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant ssilence. 

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away indistant echo, then silence unbroken. 

Wrangle's race was run. 

CHAPTER XVIII. OLDRING'S KNELL

Some forty hours or more later Venters created a commotion inCottonwoods by riding down the main street on Black Star and leadingBells and Night. He had come upon Bells grazing near the body of a deadrustler, the only incident of his quick ride into the village. 

Nothing was farther from Venters's mind than bravado. No thought cameto him of the defiance and boldness of riding Jane Withersteen's racersstraight into the arch-plotter's stronghold. He wanted men to see thefamous Arabians; he wanted men to see them dirty and dusty, bearing allthe signs of having been driven to their limit; he wanted men to see andto know that the thieves who had ridden them out into the sage had notridden them back. Venters had come for that and for more--he wanted tomeet Tull face to face; if not Tull, then Dyer; if not Dyer, then anyonein the secret of these master conspirators. Such was Venters's passion. The meeting with the rustlers, the unprovoked attack upon him, thespilling of blood, the recognition of Jerry Card and the horses, therace, and that last plunge of mad Wrangle--all these things, fuel onfuel to the smoldering fire, had kindled and swelled and leaped intoliving flame. He could have shot Dyer in the midst of his religiousservices at the altar; he could have killed Tull in front of wives andbabes. 

He walked the three racers down the broad, green-bordered village road. He heard the murmur of running water from Amber Spring. Bitter watersfor Jane Withersteen! Men and women stopped to gaze at him and thehorses. All knew him; all knew the blacks and the bay. As well as if ithad been spoken, Venters read in the faces of men the intelligence thatJane Withersteen's Arabians had been known to have been stolen. Ventersreined in and halted before Dyer's residence. It was a low, long, stonestructure resembling Withersteen House. The spacious front yard wasgreen and luxuriant with grass and flowers; gravel walks led to the hugeporch; a well-trimmed hedge of purple sage separated the yard from thechurch grounds; birds sang in the trees; water flowed musically alongthe walks; and there were glad, careless shouts of children. For Ventersthe beauty of this home, and the serenity and its apparent happiness, all turned red and black. For Venters a shade overspread the lawn, theflowers, the old vine-clad stone house. In the music of the singingbirds, in the murmur of the running water, he heard an ominous sound. Quiet beauty--sweet music--innocent laughter! By what monstrous abortionof fate did these abide in the shadow of Dyer?

Venters rode on and stopped before Tull's cottage. Women stared at himwith white faces and then flew from the porch. Tull himself appearedat the door, bent low, craning his neck. His dark face flashed out ofsight; the door banged; a heavy bar dropped with a hollow sound. 

Then Venters shook Black Star's bridle, and, sharply trotting, led theother horses to the center of the village. Here at the intersectingstreets and in front of the stores he halted once more. The usuallounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was not now in evidence. Riders and ranchers and villagers broke up what must have been absorbingconversation. There was a rush of many feet, and then the walk was linedwith faces. 

Venters's glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced men. Herecognized many riders and villagers, but none of those he had hopedto meet. There was no expression in the faces turned toward him. Allof them knew him, most were inimical, but there were few who werenot burning with curiosity and wonder in regard to the return of JaneWithersteen's racers. Yet all were silent. Here were the familiarcharacteristics--masked feeling--strange secretiveness--expressionlessexpression of mystery and hidden power. 

"Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?" queried Venters, in a loud voice. 

In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, not so muchas dropping eye or twitching lip--nothing but a quiet, stony stare. 

"Been under the knife? You've a fine knife-wielder here--one Tull, Ibelieve!. .. Maybe you've all had your tongues cut out?"

This passionate sarcasm of Venters brought no response, and the stonycalm was as oil on the fire within him. 

"I see some of you pack guns, too!" he added, in biting scorn. In thelong, tense pause, strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat motionless onBlack Star. "All right, " he went on. "Then let some of you take thismessage to Tull. Tell him I've seen Jerry Card! . .. Tell him Jerry Cardwill never return!"

Thereupon, in the same dead calm, Venters backed Black Star away fromthe curb, into the street, and out of range. He was ready now to ride upto Withersteen House and turn the racers over to Jane. 

"Hello, Venters!" a familiar voice cried, hoarsely, and he saw a manrunning toward him. It was the rider Judkins who came up and grippedVenters's hand. "Venters, I could hev dropped when I seen them hosses. But thet sight ain't a marker to the looks of you. What's wrong? Hevyou gone crazy? You must be crazy to ride in here this way--with themhosses--talkie' thet way about Tull en' Jerry Card. "

"Jud, I'm not crazy--only mad clean through, " replied Venters. 

"Mad, now, Bern, I'm glad to hear some of your old self in your voice. Fer when you come up you looked like the corpse of a dead rider withfire fer eyes. You hed thet crowd too stiff fer throwin' guns. Come, we've got to hev a talk. Let's go up the lane. We ain't much safe here. "

Judkins mounted Bells and rode with Venters up to the cottonwood grove. Here they dismounted and went among the trees. 

"Let's hear from you first, " said Judkins. "You fetched back themhosses. Thet is the trick. An', of course, you got Jerry the same as yougot Horne. "

"Horne!"

"Sure. He was found dead yesterday all chewed by coyotes, en' he'd beenshot plumb center. "

"Where was he found?"

"At the split down the trail--you know where Oldring's cattle trail runsoff north from the trail to the pass. "

"That's where I met Jerry and the rustlers. What was Horne doing withthem? I thought Horne was an honest cattle-man. "

"Lord--Bern, don't ask me thet! I'm all muddled now tryin' to figurethings. "

Venters told of the fight and the race with Jerry Card and its tragicconclusion. 

"I knowed it! I knowed all along that Wrangle was the best hoss!"exclaimed Judkins, with his lean face working and his eyes lighting. "Thet was a race! Lord, I'd like to hev seen Wrangle jump the cliff withJerry. An' thet was good-by to the grandest hoss an' rider ever on thesage!. .. But, Bern, after you got the hosses why'd you want to bolt rightin Tull's face?"

"I want him to know. An' if I can get to him I'll--"

"You can't get near Tull, " interrupted Judkins. "Thet vigilante bunchhev taken to bein' bodyguard for Tull an' Dyer, too. "

"Hasn't Lassiter made a break yet?" inquired Venters, curiously. 

"Naw!" replied Judkins, scornfully. "Jane turned his head. He's mad inlove over her--follers her like a dog. He ain't no more Lassiter! He'slost his nerve, he doesn't look like the same feller. It's village talk. Everybody knows it. He hasn't thrown a gun, an' he won't!"

"Jud, I'll bet he does, " replied Venters, earnestly. "Remember what Isay. This Lassiter is something more than a gun-man. Jud, he's big--he'sgreat!. .. I feel that in him. God help Tull and Dyer when Lassiter doesgo after them. For horses and riders and stone walls won't save them. "

"Wal, hev it your way, Bern. I hope you're right. Nat'rully I've beensome sore on Lassiter fer gittin' soft. But I ain't denyin' his nerve, or whatever's great in him thet sort of paralyzes people. No later 'nthis mornin' I seen him saunterin' down the lane, quiet an' slow. An'like his guns he comes black--black, thet's Lassiter. Wal, the crowdon the corner never batted an eye, en' I'll gamble my hoss thet therewasn't one who hed a heartbeat till Lassiter got by. He went in Snell'ssaloon, an' as there wasn't no gun play I had to go in, too. An' there, darn my pictures, if Lassiter wasn't standin' to the bar, drinking en'talkin' with Oldrin'. "

"Oldring!" whispered Venters. His voice, as all fire and pulse withinhim, seemed to freeze. 

"Let go my arm!" exclaimed Judkins. "Thet's my bad arm. Sure it wasOldrin'. What the hell's wrong with you, anyway? Venters, I tell yousomethin's wrong. You're whiter 'n a sheet. You can't be scared of therustler. I don't believe you've got a scare in you. Wal, now, jest letme talk. You know I like to talk, an' if I'm slow I allus git theresometime. As I said, Lassiter was talkie' chummy with Oldrin'. Therewasn't no hard feelin's. An' the gang wasn't payin' no pertic'larattention. But like a cat watchin' a mouse I hed my eyes on them twofellers. It was strange to me, thet confab. I'm gittin' to think a lot, fer a feller who doesn't know much. There's been some queer deals latelyan' this seemed to me the queerest. These men stood to the bar alone, an' so close their big gun-hilts butted together. I seen Oldrin' wassome surprised at first, an' Lassiter was cool as ice. They talked, an'presently at somethin' Lassiter said the rustler bawled out a curse, an'then he jest fell up against the bar, an' sagged there. The gang in thesaloon looked around an' laughed, an' thet's about all. Finally Oldrin'turned, and it was easy to see somethin' hed shook him. Yes, sir, thetbig rustler--you know he's as broad as he is long, an' the powerfulestbuild of a man--yes, sir, the nerve had been taken out of him. Then, after a little, he began to talk an' said a lot to Lassiter, an' by an'by it didn't take much of an eye to see thet Lassiter was gittin' hithard. I never seen him anyway but cooler 'n ice--till then. He seemed tobe hit harder 'n Oldrin', only he didn't roar out thet way. He jest kindof sunk in, an' looked an' looked, an' he didn't see a livin' soulin thet saloon. Then he sort of come to, an' shakin' hands--mind you, shakin' hands with Oldrin'--he went out. I couldn't help thinkin' howeasy even a boy could hev dropped the great gun-man then!. .. Wal, therustler stood at the bar fer a long time, en' he was seein' things faroff, too; then he come to an' roared fer whisky, an' gulped a drink thetwas big enough to drown me. "

"Is Oldring here now?" whispered Venters. He could not speak above awhisper. Judkins's story had been meaningless to him. 

"He's at Snell's yet. Bern, I hevn't told you yet thet the rustlers hevbeen raisin' hell. They shot up Stone Bridge an' Glaze, an' fer threedays they've been here drinkin' an' gamblin' an' throwin' of gold. Theserustlers hev a pile of gold. If it was gold dust or nugget gold I'd hevreason to think, but it's new coin gold, as if it had jest come from theUnited States treasury. An' the coin's genuine. Thet's all been proved. The truth is Oldrin's on a rampage. A while back he lost his MaskedRider, an' they say he's wild about thet. I'm wonderin' if Lassitercould hev told the rustler anythin' about thet little masked, hard-ridin' devil. Ride! He was most as good as Jerry Card. An', Bern, I've been wonderin' if you know--"

"Judkins, you're a good fellow, " interrupted Venters. "Some day I'lltell you a story. I've no time now. Take the horses to Jane. "

Judkins stared, and then, muttering to himself, he mounted Bells, andstared again at Venters, and then, leading the other horses, he rodeinto the grove and disappeared. 

Once, long before, on the night Venters had carried Bess through thecanyon and up into Surprise Valley, he had experienced the strangenessof faculties singularly, tinglingly acute. And now the same sensationrecurred. But it was different in that he felt cold, frozen, mechanicalincapable of free thought, and all about him seemed unreal, aloof, remote. He hid his rifle in the sage, marking its exact location withextreme care. Then he faced down the lane and strode toward the centerof the village. Perceptions flashed upon him, the faint, cold touch ofthe breeze, a cold, silvery tinkle of flowing water, a cold sun shiningout of a cold sky, song of birds and laugh of children, coldly distant. Cold and intangible were all things in earth and heaven. Colder andtighter stretched the skin over his face; colder and harder grew thepolished butts of his guns; colder and steadier became his hands as hewiped the clammy sweat from his face or reached low to his gun-sheaths. Men meeting him in the walk gave him wide berth. In front of Bevin'sstore a crowd melted apart for his passage, and their faces and whisperswere faces and whispers of a dream. He turned a corner to meet Tullface to face, eye to eye. As once before he had seen this man pale toa ghastly, livid white so again he saw the change. Tull stopped in histracks, with right hand raised and shaking. Suddenly it dropped, and heseemed to glide aside, to pass out of Venters's sight. Next he sawmany horses with bridles down--all clean-limbed, dark bays orblacks--rustlers' horses! Loud voices and boisterous laughter, rattle ofdice and scrape of chair and clink of gold, burst in mingled din from anopen doorway. He stepped inside. 

With the sight of smoke-hazed room and drinking, cursing, gambling, dark-visaged men, reality once more dawned upon Venters. 

His entrance had been unnoticed, and he bent his gaze upon the drinkersat the bar. Dark-clothed, dark-faced men they all were, burned by thesun, bow-legged as were most riders of the sage, but neither lean norgaunt. Then Venters's gaze passed to the tables, and swiftly it sweptover the hard-featured gamesters, to alight upon the huge, shaggy, blackhead of the rustler chief. 

"Oldring!" he cried, and to him his voice seemed to split a bell in hisears. 

It stilled the din. 

That silence suddenly broke to the scrape and crash of Oldring's chairas he rose; and then, while he passed, a great gloomy figure, again thethronged room stilled in silence yet deeper. 

"Oldring, a word with you!" continued Venters. 

"Ho! What's this?" boomed Oldring, in frowning scrutiny. 

"Come outside, alone. A word for you--from your Masked Rider!"

Oldring kicked a chair out of his way and lunged forward with a stampof heavy boot that jarred the floor. He waved down his muttering, risingmen. 

Venters backed out of the door and waited, hearing, as no sound had everbefore struck into his soul, the rapid, heavy steps of the rustler. 

Oldring appeared, and Venters had one glimpse of his great breadth andbulk, his gold-buckled belt with hanging guns, his high-top bootswith gold spurs. In that moment Venters had a strange, unintelligiblecuriosity to see Oldring alive. The rustler's broad brow, his largeblack eyes, his sweeping beard, as dark as the wing of a raven, hisenormous width of shoulder and depth of chest, his whole splendidpresence so wonderfully charged with vitality and force and strength, seemed to afford Venters an unutterable fiendish joy because for thatmagnificent manhood and life he meant cold and sudden death. 

"Oldring, Bess is alive! But she's dead to you--dead to the life youmade her lead--dead as you will be in one second!"

Swift as lightning Venters's glance dropped from Oldring's rollingeyes to his hands. One of them, the right, swept out, then toward hisgun--and Venters shot him through the heart. 

Slowly Oldring sank to his knees, and the hand, dragging at the gun, fell away. Venters's strangely acute faculties grasped the meaningof that limp arm, of the swaying hulk, of the gasp and heave, of thequivering beard. But was that awful spirit in the black eyes only one ofvitality?

"Man--why--didn't--you--wait? Bess--was--" Oldring's whisper died underhis beard, and with a heavy lurch he fell forward. 

Bounding swiftly away, Venters fled around the corner, across thestreet, and, leaping a hedge, he ran through yard, orchard, and gardento the sage. Here, under cover of the tall brush, he turned west and ranon to the place where he had hidden his rifle. Securing that, he againset out into a run, and, circling through the sage, came up behind JaneWithersteen's stable and corrals. With laboring, dripping chest, andpain as of a knife thrust in his side, he stopped to regain his breath, and while resting his eyes roved around in search of a horse. Doorsand windows of the stable were open wide and had a deserted look. Onedejected, lonely burro stood in the near corral. Strange indeed was thesilence brooding over the once happy, noisy home of Jane Withersteen'spets. 

He went into the corral, exercising care to leave no tracks, and led theburro to the watering-trough. Venters, though not thirsty, drank till hecould drink no more. Then, leading the burro over hard ground, he struckinto the sage and down the slope. 

He strode swiftly, turning from time to time to scan the slope forriders. His head just topped the level of sage-brush, and the burrocould not have been seen at all. Slowly the green of Cottonwoods sankbehind the slope, and at last a wavering line of purple sage met theblue of sky. 

To avoid being seen, to get away, to hide his trail--these were the soleideas in his mind as he headed for Deception Pass, and he directed allhis acuteness of eye and ear, and the keenness of a rider's judgment fordistance and ground, to stern accomplishment of the task. He kept to thesage far to the left of the trail leading into the Pass. He walked tenmiles and looked back a thousand times. Always the graceful, purple waveof sage remained wide and lonely, a clear, undotted waste. Coming to astretch of rocky ground, he took advantage of it to cross the trail andthen continued down on the right. At length he persuaded himself that hewould be able to see riders mounted on horses before they could see himon the little burro, and he rode bareback. 

Hour by hour the tireless burro kept to his faithful, steady trot. Thesun sank and the long shadows lengthened down the slope. Moving veils ofpurple twilight crept out of the hollows and, mustering and forming onthe levels, soon merged and shaded into night. Venters guided theburro nearer to the trail, so that he could see its white line from theridges, and rode on through the hours. 

Once down in the Pass without leaving a trail, he would hold himselfsafe for the time being. When late in the night he reached the break inthe sage, he sent the burro down ahead of him, and started an avalanchethat all but buried the animal at the bottom of the trail. Bruised andbattered as he was, he had a moment's elation, for he had hidden histracks. Once more he mounted the burro and rode on. The hour was theblackest of the night when he made the thicket which inclosed his oldcamp. Here he turned the burro loose in the grass near the spring, andthen lay down on his old bed of leaves. 

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and throbof the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of emotion at lastburst its bounds, and the hour that saw his release from immediateaction was one that confounded him in the reaction of his spirit. Hesuffered without understanding why. He caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of soul. The fire that had blistered him and thecold which had frozen him now united in one torturing possession of hismind and heart, and like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged hisbeing, ran rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging good, dragging ever at the evil. 

Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had happened?He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It seemed that he hadgone to kill a man--Oldring! The name riveted his consciousness upon theone man of all men upon earth whom he had wanted to meet. He had met therustler. Venters recalled the smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visagedmen, the huge Oldring. He saw him step out of the door, a splendidspecimen of manhood, a handsome giant with purple-black and sweepingbeard. He remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himselfrepeating: "OLDRING, BESS IS ALIVE! BUT SHE'S DEAD TO YOU, " and he felthimself jerk, and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a gun, and hesaw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only the vitalityof him--that awful light in the eyes--only the hard-dying life ofa tremendously powerful brute? A broken whisper, strange as death:"MAN--WHY--DIDN'T--YOU WAIT! BESS--WAS--" And Oldring plunged faceforward, dead. 

"I killed him, " cried Venters, in remembering shock. "But it wasn'tTHAT. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!"

Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the tumultand stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a man shotthrough the heart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity nor fear ofmen nor fear of death. It had been no passionate glinting spirit of afearless foe, willing shot for shot, life for life, but lacking physicalpower. Distinctly recalled now, never to be forgotten, Venters sawin Oldring's magnificent eyes the rolling of great, gladsurprise--softness--love! Then came a shadow and the terrible superhumanstriving of his spirit to speak. Oldring shot through the heart, hadfought and forced back death, not for a moment in which to shoot orcurse, but to whisper strange words. 

What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters waited? Forwhat? That was no plea for life. It was regret that there was not amoment of life left in which to speak. Bess was--Herein lay renewedtorture for Venters. What had Bess been to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had loved and he had forgotten; and now, out of themystery of a dying man's whisper rose again that perverse, unsatisfied, jealous uncertainty. Bess had loved that splendid, black-crownedgiant--by her own confession she had loved him; and in Venters's soulagain flamed up the jealous hell. Then into the clamoring hell burst theshot that had killed Oldring, and it rang in a wild fiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to the memory of the love andlight in Oldring's eyes and the mystery in his whisper. So the changing, swaying emotions fluctuated in Venters's heart. 

This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial struggleof his life. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a gloomy, almostheartbroken man, but victor over evil passions. He could not change thepast; and, even if he had not loved Bess with all his soul, he had growninto a man who would not change the future he had planned for her. Only, and once for all, he must know the truth, know the worst, stifle allthese insistent doubts and subtle hopes and jealous fancies, and killthe past by knowing truly what Bess had been to Oldring. For that matterhe knew--he had always known, but he must hear it spoken. Then, whenthey had safely gotten out of that wild country to take up a new and anabsorbing life, she would forget, she would be happy, and through that, in the years to come, he could not but find life worth living. 

All day he rode slowly and cautiously up the Pass, taking time to peeraround corners, to pick out hard ground and grassy patches, and to makesure there was no one in pursuit. In the night sometime he came to thesmooth, scrawled rocks dividing the valley, and here set the burro atliberty. He walked beyond, climbed the slope and the dim, starlit gorge. Then, weary to the point of exhaustion, he crept into a shallow cave andfell asleep. 

In the morning, when he descended the trail, he found the sun waspouring a golden stream of light through the arch of the great stonebridge. Surprise Valley, like a valley of dreams, lay mystically softand beautiful, awakening to the golden flood which was rolling away itsslumberous bands of mist, brightening its walled faces. 

While yet far off he discerned Bess moving under the silver spruces, andsoon the barking of the dogs told him that they had seen him. He heardthe mocking-birds singing in the trees, and then the twittering of thequail. Ring and Whitie came bounding toward him, and behind them ranBess, her hands outstretched. 

"Bern! You're back! You're back!" she cried, in joy that rang of herloneliness. 

"Yes, I'm back, " he said, as she rushed to meet him. 

She had reached out for him when suddenly, as she saw him closely, something checked her, and as quickly all her joy fled, and with it hercolor, leaving her pale and trembling. 

"Oh! What's happened?"

"A good deal has happened, Bess. I don't need to tell you what. And I'mplayed out. Worn out in mind more than body. "

"Dear--you look strange to me!" faltered Bess. 

"Never mind that. I'm all right. There's nothing for you to be scaredabout. Things are going to turn out just as we have planned. As soon asI'm rested we'll make a break to get out of the country. Only now, rightnow, I must know the truth about you. "

"Truth about me?" echoed Bess, shrinkingly. She seemed to be castingback into her mind for a forgotten key. Venters himself, as he saw her, received a pang. 

"Yes--the truth. Bess, don't misunderstand. I haven't changed that way. I love you still. I'll love you more afterward. Life will be just assweet--sweeter to us. We'll be--be married as soon as ever we can. We'llbe happy--but there's a devil in me. A perverse, jealous devil! ThenI've queer fancies. I forgot for a long time. Now all those fiendishlittle whispers of doubt and faith and fear and hope come torturing meagain. I've got to kill them with the truth. "

"I'll tell you anything you want to know, " she replied, frankly. 

"Then by Heaven! we'll have it over and done with!. .. Bess--did Oldringlove you?"

"Certainly he did. "

"Did--did you love him?"

"Of course. I told you so. "

"How can you tell it so lightly?" cried Venters, passionately. "Haven'tyou any sense of--of--" He choked back speech. He felt the rush of painand passion. He seized her in rude, strong hands and drew her close. Helooked straight into her dark-blue eyes. They were shadowing with theold wistful light, but they were as clear as the limpid water of thespring. They were earnest, solemn in unutterable love and faith andabnegation. Venters shivered. He knew he was looking into her soul. He knew she could not lie in that moment; but that she might tell thetruth, looking at him with those eyes, almost killed his belief inpurity. 

"What are--what were you to--to Oldring?" he panted, fiercely. 

"I am his daughter, " she replied, instantly. 

Venters slowly let go of her. There was a violent break in the force ofhis feeling--then creeping blankness. 

"What--was it--you said?" he asked, in a kind of dull wonder. 

"I am his daughter. "

"Oldring's daughter?" queried Venters, with life gathering in his voice. 

"Yes. "

With a passionately awakening start he grasped her hands and drew herclose. 

"All the time--you've been Oldring's daughter?"

"Yes, of course all the time--always. "

"But Bess, you told me--you let me think--I made out you were--a--so--soashamed. "

"It is my shame, " she said, with voice deep and full, and now thescarlet fired her cheek. "I told you--I'm nothing--nameless--just Bess, Oldring's girl!"

"I know--I remember. But I never thought--" he went on, hurriedly, huskily. "That time--when you lay dying--you prayed--you--somehow I gotthe idea you were bad. "

"Bad?" she asked, with a little laugh. 

She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment and the absoluteunconsciousness of a child. Venters gasped in the gathering might of thetruth. She did not understand his meaning. 

"Bess! Bess!" He clasped her in his arms, hiding her eyes against hisbreast. She must not see his face in that moment. And he held her whilehe looked out across the valley. In his dim and blinded sight, inthe blur of golden light and moving mist, he saw Oldring. She was therustler's nameless daughter. Oldring had loved her. He had so guardedher, so kept her from women and men and knowledge of life that her mindwas as a child's. That was part of the secret--part of the mystery. That was the wonderful truth. Not only was she not bad, but good, pure, innocent above all innocence in the world--the innocence of lonelygirlhood. 

He saw Oldring's magnificent eyes, inquisitive, searching, softening. Hesaw them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love, then suddenly strain interrible effort of will. He heard Oldring whisper and saw him sway likea log and fall. Then a million bellowing, thundering voices--gunshots ofconscience, thunderbolts of remorse--dinned horribly in his ears. He hadkilled Bess's father. Then a rushing wind filled his ears like a moan ofwind in the cliffs, a knell indeed--Oldring's knell. 

He dropped to his knees and hid his face against Bess, and grasped herwith the hands of a drowning man. 

"My God!. .. My God!. .. Oh, Bess!. .. Forgive me! Never mind what I'vedone--what I've thought. But forgive me. I'll give you my life. I'lllive for you. I'll love you. Oh, I do love you as no man ever loveda woman. I want you to know--to remember that I fought a fight foryou--however blind I was. I thought--I thought--never mind what Ithought--but I loved you--I asked you to marry me. Let that--let me havethat to hug to my heart. Oh, Bess, I was driven! And I might have known!I could not rest nor sleep till I had this mystery solved. God! howthings work out!"

"Bern, you're weak--trembling--you talk wildly, " cried Bess. "You'veoverdone your strength. There's nothing to forgive. There's no mysteryexcept your love for me. You have come back to me!"

And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms and pressed it closely toher throbbing breast. 

CHAPTER XIX. FAY

At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiter's knee. 

"Does oo love me?" she asked. 

Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devotedsubject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicityof men or searching for a supreme test to prove this cavalier. 

"Does oo love my new mower?" she asked, with bewildering suddenness. 

Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felta stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek. 

It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sittingin the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope Little Fay'sbrief spell of unhappy longing for her mother--the childish, mysticgloom--had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughterand glee. She had emerged Iron sorrow to be the incarnation of joy andloveliness. She had growl supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For JaneWithersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possessioninfinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Janedivined that little Fay had become a religion. 

"Does oo love my new mower?" repeated Fay. 

Lassiter's answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative. 

"Why don't oo marry my new mower an' be my favver?"

Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter the was thefirst he had been unable to answer. 

"Fay--Fay, don't ask questions like that, " said Jane. 

"Why?"

"Because, " replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meetthe child's gaze. It seemed to her that Fay's violet eyes looked throughher with piercing wisdom. 

"Oo love him, don't oo?"

"Dear child--run and play, " said Jane, "but don't go too far. Don't gofrom this little hill. "

Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been grantedher for weeks. 

"Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?" askedLassiter. 

"Are they?"

"I reckon so. Little Fay there--she sees things as they appear on theface. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An' an Indian an' a dog aremost of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right. "

"Well, what does Fay see?" asked Jane. 

"I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay's mind when she seespart of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an' wantin' to knowmore, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! You are false in away, though you're the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say isthis. Fay has taken you're pretendin' to--to care for me for the thingit looks on the face. An' her little formin' mind asks questions. An'the answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So she'llgrow up gradually takin' on that falseness, an' be like the rest of thewomen, an' men, too. An' the truth of this falseness to life is provedby your appearin' to love me when you don't. Things aren't what theyseem. "

"Lassiter, you're right. A child should be told the absolute truth. But--is that possible? I haven't been able to do it, and all my lifeI've loved the truth, and I've prided myself upon being truthful. Maybethat was only egotism. I'm learning much, my friend. Some of thoseblinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And--and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal. How much, how little, I couldn't say. Myheart is almost broken. Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge ofaffection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attempt serious thought I'm dazed. I don't think. I don'tcare any more. I don't pray!. .. Think of that, my friend! But in spite ofmy numb feeling I believe I'll rise out of all this dark agony a betterwoman, with greater love of man and God. I'm on the rack now; I'msenseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later Ishall rise out of this stupor. I'm waiting the hour. "

"It'll soon come, Jane, " replied Lassiter, soberly. "Then I'm afraid foryou. Years are terrible things, an' for years you've been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe asyou--that you'll come out of it all a finer woman. I'm waitin', too. An'I'm wonderin'--I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of allhuman reason?"

"Lassiter!. .. My dear friend!. .. It's impossible for us to marry!"

"Why--as Fay says?" inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence. 

"Why! I never thought why. But it's not possible. I am Jane, daughter ofWithersteen. My father would rise out of his grave. I'm of Mormonbirth. I'm being broken. But I'm still a Mormon woman. And you--you areLassiter!"

"Mebbe I'm not so much Lassiter as I used to be. "

"What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself! Youcan't change the one habit--the purpose of your life. For you still packthose black guns! You still nurse your passion for blood. "

A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face. 

"No. "

"Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you--don't you lie to me. I'vegreat respect for you. I believe you're softened toward most, perhapsall, my people except--But when I speak of your purpose, your hate, yourguns, I have only him in mind. I don't believe you've changed. "

For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid it with theheavy, swing gun-sheaths in her lap. 

"Lassiter!" Jane whispered, as she gazed from him to the black, coldguns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength, defenseless, a smallerman. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, conscious of only one motive--refusal tosee this man called craven by his enemies--she rose, and with blunderingfingers buckled the belt round his waist where it belonged. 

"Lassiter, I am a coward. "

"Come with me out of Utah--where I can put away my guns an' be a man, "he said. "I reckon I'll prove it to you then! Come! You've got BlackStar back, an' Night an' Bells. Let's take the racers an' little Fay, en' race out of Utah. The hosses an' the child are all you have left. Come!"

"No, no, Lassiter. I'll never leave Utah. What would I do in the worldwith my broken fortunes and my broken heart? Ill never leave thesepurple slopes I love so well. "

"I reckon I ought to 've knowed that. Presently you'll be livin' downhere in a hovel, en' presently Jane Withersteen will be a memory. I onlywanted to have a chance to show you how a man--any man--can be better 'nhe was. If we left Utah I could prove--I reckon I could prove thisthing you call love. It's strange, an' hell an' heaven at once, JaneWithersteen. 'Pears to me that you've thrown away your big heart onlove--love of religion an' duty an' churchmen, an' riders an' poorfamilies an' poor children! Yet you can't see what love is--how itchanges a person!. .. Listen, an' in tellin' you Milly Erne's story I'llshow you how love changed her. 

"Milly an' me was children when our family moved from Missouri to Texas, an' we growed up in Texas ways same as if we'd been born there. We hadbeen poor, an' there we prospered. In time the little village where wewent became a town, an' strangers an' new families kept movin' in. Millywas the belle them days. I can see her now, a little girl no bigger 'na bird, an' as pretty. She had the finest eyes, dark blue-black when shewas excited, an' beautiful all the time. You remember Milly's eyes! An'she had light-brown hair with streaks of gold, an' a mouth that everyfeller wanted to kiss. 

"An' about the time Milly was the prettiest an' the sweetest, along camea young minister who began to ride some of a race with the other fellersfor Milly. An' he won. Milly had always been strong on religion, an'when she met Frank Erne she went in heart an' soul for the salvation ofsouls. Fact was, Milly, through study of the Bible an' attendin' churchan' revivals, went a little out of her head. It didn't worry the oldfolks none, an' the only worry to me was Milly's everlastin' prayin' an'workin' to save my soul. She never converted me, but we was the bestof comrades, an' I reckon no brother an' sister ever loved each otherbetter. Well, Frank Erne an me hit up a great friendship. He was astrappin' feller, good to look at, an' had the most pleasin' ways. Hisreligion never bothered me, for he could hunt an' fish an' ride an' be agood feller. After buffalo once, he come pretty near to savin' my life. We got to be thick as brothers, an' he was the only man I ever seen whoI thought was good enough for Milly. An' the day they were married I gotdrunk for the only time in my life. 

"Soon after that I left home--it seems Milly was the only one who couldkeep me home--an' I went to the bad, as to prosperin' I saw some prettyhard life in the Pan Handle, an' then I went North. In them days Kansasan' Nebraska was as bad, come to think of it, as these days right hereon the border of Utah. I got to be pretty handy with guns. An'there wasn't many riders as could beat me ridin'. An' I can say allmodest-like that I never seen the white man who could track a hoss or asteer or a man with me. Afore I knowed it two years slipped by, an' allat once I got homesick, en' purled a bridle south. 

"Things at home had changed. I never got over that homecomin'. Motherwas dead an' in her grave. Father was a silent, broken man, killedalready on his feet. Frank Erne was a ghost of his old self, throughwith workin', through with preachin', almost through with livin', an'Milly was gone!. .. It was a long time before I got the story. Father hadno mind left, an' Frank Erne was afraid to talk. So I had to pick upwhet 'd happened from different people. 

"It 'pears that soon after I left home another preacher come to thelittle town. An' he an' Frank become rivals. This feller was differentfrom Frank. He preached some other kind of religion, and he was quickan' passionate, where Frank was slow an' mild. He went after people, women specially. In looks he couldn't compare to Frank Erne, but he hadpower over women. He had a voice, an' he talked an' talked an' preachedan' preached. Milly fell under his influence. . She became mightilyinterested in his religion. Frank had patience with her, as was his way, an' let her be as interested as she liked. All religions were devoted toone God, he said, an' it wouldn't hurt Milly none to study a differentpoint of view. So the new preacher often called on Milly, an' sometimesin Frank's absence. Frank was a cattle-man between Sundays. 

"Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn't get muchlight on. A stranger come to town, an' was seen with the preacher. Thisstranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice, an' a beard of gold. He had money, an' he 'peered a man of mystery, an' the town went tobuzzin' when he disappeared about the same time as a young womanknown to be mightily interested in the new preacher's religion. Then, presently, along comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, en' he up an'spots this preacher as a famous Mormon proselyter. That riled Frank Erneas nothin' ever before, an' from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. An' it ended in Frank goin' to the meetin'-house where Millywas listenin', en' before her en' everybody else he called thatpreacher--called him, well, almost as hard as Venters called Tull heresometime back. An' Frank followed up that call with a hosswhippin', en'he drove the proselyter out of town. 

"People noticed, so 'twas said, that Milly's sweet disposition changed. Some said it was because she would soon become a mother, en' otherssaid she was pinin' after the new religion. An' there was women whosaid right out that she was pinin' after the Mormon. Anyway, one mornin'Frank rode in from one of his trips, to find Milly gone. He had no realnear neighbors--livin' a little out of town--but those who was nearestsaid a wagon had gone by in the night, an' they though it stopped at herdoor. Well, tracks always tell, an' there was the wagon tracks an' hosstracks an' man tracks. The news spread like wildfire that Milly had runoff from her husband. Everybody but Frank believed it an' wasn't slow intellin' why she run off. Mother had always hated that strange streak ofMilly's, takin' up with the new religion as she had, an' she believedMilly ran off with the Mormon. That hastened mother's death, an' shedied unforgivin'. Father wasn't the kind to bow down under disgrace ormisfortune but he had surpassin' love for Milly, an' the loss of herbroke him. 

"From the minute I heard of Milly's disappearance I never believed shewent off of her own free will. I knew Milly, an' I knew she couldn'thave done that. I stayed at home awhile, tryin' to make Frank Erne talk. But if he knowed anythin' then he wouldn't tell it. So I set out to findMilly. An' I tried to get on the trail of that proselyter. I knew if Iever struck a town he'd visited that I'd get a trail. I knew, too, thatnothin' short of hell would stop his proselytin'. An' I rode from townto town. I had a blind faith that somethin' was guidin' me. An' as theweeks an' months went by I growed into a strange sort of a man, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of me. Two years after that, way over in acorner of Texas, I struck a town where my man had been. He'd jest left. People said he came to that town without a woman. I back-trailed my manthrough Arkansas an' Mississippi, an' the old trail got hot again inTexas. I found the town where he first went after leavin' home. An' hereI got track of Milly. I found a cabin where she had given birth to herbaby. There was no way to tell whether she'd been kept a prisoner ornot. The feller who owned the place was a mean, silent sort of a skunk, an' as I was leavin' I jest took a chance an' left my mark on him. ThenI went home again. 

"It was to find I hadn't any home, no more. Father had been dead a year. Frank Erne still lived in the house where Milly had left him. I stayedwith him awhile, an' I grew old watchin' him. His farm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled, his house weathered till itwouldn't keep out rain nor wind. An' Frank set on the porch and whittledsticks, an' day by day wasted away. There was times when he ranted aboutlike a crazy man, but mostly he was always sittin' an' starin' with eyesthat made a man curse. I figured Frank had a secret fear that I neededto know. An' when I told him I'd trailed Milly for near three years an'had got trace of her, an' saw where she'd had her baby, I thought hewould drop dead at my feet. An' when he'd come round more natural-likehe begged me to give up the trail. But he wouldn't explain. So I let himalone, an' watched him day en' night. 

"An' I found there was one thing still precious to him, an' it was alittle drawer where he kept his papers. This was in the room where heslept. An' it 'peered he seldom slept. But after bein' patient I got thecontents of that drawer an' found two letters from Milly. One was a longletter written a few months after her disappearance. She had been boundan' gagged an' dragged away from her home by three men, an' she namedthem--Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers to her. She was takento the little town where I found trace of her two years after. But shedidn't send the letter from that town. There she was penned in. 'Pearedthat the proselytes, who had, of course, come on the scene, was notrunnin' any risks of losin' her. She went on to say that for a timeshe was out of her head, an' when she got right again all that kepther alive was the baby. It was a beautiful baby, she said, an' all shethought an' dreamed of was somehow to get baby back to its father, an'then she'd thankfully lay down and die. An' the letter ended abrupt, inthe middle of a sentence, en' it wasn't signed. 

"The second letter was written more than two years after the first. Itwas from Salt Lake City. It simply said that Milly had heard her brotherwas on her trail. She asked Frank to tell her brother to give up thesearch because if he didn't she would suffer in a way too horribleto tell. She didn't beg. She just stated a fact an' made the simplerequest. An' she ended that letter by sayin' she would soon leave SaltLake City with the man she had come to love, en' would never be heard ofagain. 

"I recognized Milly's handwritin', an' I recognized her way of puttin'things. But that second letter told me of some great change in her. Ponderin' over it, I felt at last she'd either come to love that felleran' his religion, or some terrible fear made her lie an' say so. Icouldn't be sure which. But, of course, I meant to find out. I'll sayhere, if I'd known Mormons then as I do now I'd left Milly to her fate. For mebbe she was right about what she'd suffer if I kept on her trail. But I was young an' wild them days. First I went to the town where she'dfirst been taken, an' I went to the place where she'd been kept. I gotthat skunk who owned the place, an' took him out in the woods, an' madehim tell all he knowed. That wasn't much as to length, but it was purehell's-fire in substance. This time I left him some incapacitated forany more skunk work short of hell. Then I hit the trail for Utah. 

"That was fourteen years ago. I saw the incomin' of most of the Mormons. It was a wild country an' a wild time. I rode from town to town, villageto village, ranch to ranch, camp to camp. I never stayed long in oneplace. I never had but one idea. I never rested. Four years went by, an'I knowed every trail in northern Utah. I kept on an' as time went by, an' I'd begun to grow old in my search, I had firmer, blinder faith inwhatever was guidin' me. Once I read about a feller who sailed the sevenseas an' traveled the world, an' he had a story to tell, an' whenever heseen the man to whom he must tell that story he knowed him on sight. Iwas like that, only I had a question to ask. An' always I knew the manof whom I must ask. So I never really lost the trail, though for manyyears it was the dimmest trail ever followed by any man. 

"Then come a change in my luck. Along in Central Utah I rounded up Hurd, an' I whispered somethin' in his ear, an' watched his face, an' thenthrowed a gun against his bowels. An' he died with his teeth so tightshut I couldn't have pried them open with a knife. Slack an' Metzgerthat same year both heard me whisper the same question, an' neitherwould they speak a word when they lay dyin'. Long before I'd learnedno man of this breed or class--or God knows what--would give up anysecrets! I had to see in a man's fear of death the connections withMilly Erne's fate. An' as the years passed at long intervals I wouldfind such a man. 

"So as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah my namepreceded me, an' I had to meet a people prepared for me, an' ready withguns. They made me a gun-man. An' that suited me. In all this time signsof the proselyter an' the giant with the blue-ice eyes an' the goldbeard seemed to fade dimmer out of the trail. Only twice in ten yearsdid I find a trace of that mysterious man who had visited the proselyterat my home village. What he had to do with Milly's fate was beyond allhope for me to learn, unless my guidin' spirit led me to him! As forthe other man, I knew, as sure as I breathed en' the stars shone en' thewind blew, that I'd meet him some day. 

"Eighteen years I've been on the trail. An' it led me to the last lonelyvillages of the Utah border. Eighteen years!. .. I feel pretty old now. Iwas only twenty when I hit that trail. Well, as I told you, back here aways a Gentile said Jane Withersteen could tell me about Milly Erne an'show me her grave!"

The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombrero round andround, and appeared to be counting the silver ornaments on the band. Jane, leaning toward him, sat as if petrified, listening intently, waiting to hear more. She could have shrieked, but power of tongue andlips were denied her. She saw only this sad, gray, passion-worn man, andshe heard only the faint rustling of the leaves. 

"Well, I came to Cottonwoods, " went on Lassiter, "an' you showed meMilly's grave. An' though your teeth have been shut tighter 'n them ofall the dead men lyin' back along that trail, jest the same you told methe secret I've lived these eighteen years to hear! Jane, I said you'dtell me without ever me askin'. I didn't need to ask my question here. The day, you remember, when that fat party throwed a gun on me in yourcourt, an'--"

"Oh! Hush!" whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands. 

"I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyter whoruined Milly Erne. "

For an instant Jane Withersteen's brain was a whirling chaos and sherecovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like one drowning. And asif by a lightning stroke she sprang from her dull apathy into exquisitetorture. 

"It's a lie! Lassiter! No, no!" she moaned. "I swear--you're wrong!"

"Stop! You'd perjure yourself! But I'll spare you that. You poor woman!Still blind! Still faithful!. .. Listen. I know. Let that settle it. An' Igive up my purpose!"

"What is it--you say?"

"I give up my purpose. I've come to see an' feel differently. I can'thelp poor Milly. An' I've outgrowed revenge. I've come to see I can beno judge for men. I can't kill a man jest for hate. Hate ain't the samewith me since I loved you and little Fay. "

"Lassiter! You mean you won't kill him?" Jane whispered. 

"No. "

"For my sake?"

"I reckon. I can't understand, but I'll respect your feelin's. "

"Because you--oh, because you love me?. .. Eighteen years! You were thatterrible Lassiter! And now--because you love me?"

"That's it, Jane. "

"Oh, you'll make me love you! How can I help but love you? My heart mustbe stone. But--oh, Lassiter, wait, wait! Give me time. I'm not what Iwas. Once it was so easy to love. Now it's easy to hate. Wait! My faithin God--some God--still lives. By it I see happier times for you, poorpassion-swayed wanderer! For me--a miserable, broken woman. I loved yoursister Milly. I will love you. I can't have fallen so low--I can't beso abandoned by God--that I've no love left to give you. Wait! Let usforget Milly's sad life. Ah, I knew it as no one else on earth! There'sone thing I shall tell you--if you are at my death-bed, but I can'tspeak now. "

"I reckon I don't want to hear no more, " said Lassiter. 

Jane leaned against him, as if some pent-up force had rent its wayout, she fell into a paroxysm of weeping. Lassiter held her in silentsympathy. By degrees she regained composure, and she was rising, sensible of being relieved of a weighty burden, when a sudden start onLassiter's part alarmed her. 

"I heard hosses--hosses with muffled hoofs!" he said; and he got upguardedly. 

"Where's Fay?" asked Jane, hurriedly glancing round the shady knoll. Thebright-haired child, who had appeared to be close all the time, was notin sight. 

"Fay!" called Jane. 

No answering shout of glee. No patter of flying feet. Jane saw Lassiterstiffen. 

"Fay--oh--Fay!" Jane almost screamed. 

The leaves quivered and rustled; a lonesome cricket chirped in thegrass, a bee hummed by. The silence of the waning afternoon breathedhateful portent. It terrified Jane. When had silence been so infernal?

"She's--only--strayed--out--of earshot, " faltered Jane, looking atLassiter. 

Pale, rigid as a statue, the rider stood, not in listening, searchingposture, but in one of doomed certainty. Suddenly he grasped Jane withan iron hand, and, turning his face from her gaze, he strode with herfrom the knoll. 

"See--Fay played here last--a house of stones an' sticks. .. . An' here'sa corral of pebbles with leaves for hosses, " said Lassiter, stridently, and pointed to the ground. "Back an' forth she trailed here. .. . See, she's buried somethin'--a dead grasshopper--there's a tombstone. .. Hereshe went, chasin' a lizard--see the tiny streaked trail. .. She pulledbark off this cottonwood. .. Look in the dust of the path--the letters youtaught her--she's drawn pictures of birds en' hosses an' people. .. . Look, a cross! Oh, Jane, your cross!"

Lassiter dragged Jane on, and as if from a book read the meaning oflittle Fay's trail. All the way down the knoll, through the shrubbery, round and round a cottonwood, Fay's vagrant fancy left records of hersweet musings and innocent play. Long had she lingered round a bird-nestto leave therein the gaudy wing of a butterfly. Long had she playedbeside the running stream sending adrift vessels freighted with pebblycargo. Then she had wandered through the deep grass, her tiny feetscarcely turning a fragile blade, and she had dreamed beside some oldfaded flowers. Thus her steps led her into the broad lane. The littledimpled imprints of her bare feet showed clean-cut in the dust they wenta little way down the lane; and then, at a point where they stopped, thegreat tracks of a man led out from the shrubbery and returned. 

CHAPTER XX. LASSITER'S WAY

Footprints told the story of little Fay's abduction. In anguish JaneWithersteen turned speechlessly to Lassiter, and, confirming her fears, she saw him gray-faced, aged all in a moment, stricken as if by a mortalblow. 

Then all her life seemed to fall about her in wreck and ruin. 

"It's all over, " she heard her voice whisper. "It's ended. I'mgoing--I'm going--"

"Where?" demanded Lassiter, suddenly looming darkly over her. 

"To--to those cruel men--"

"Speak names!" thundered Lassiter. 

"To Bishop Dyer--to Tull, " went on Jane, shocked into obedience. 

"Well--what for?"

"I want little Fay. I can't live without her. They've stolen her as theystole Milly Erne's child. I must have little Fay. I want only her. Igive up. I'll go and tell Bishop Dyer--I'm broken. I'll tell him I'mready for the yoke--only give me back Fay--and--and I'll marry Tull!"

"Never!" hissed Lassiter. 

His long arm leaped at her. Almost running, he dragged her under thecottonwoods, across the court, into the huge hall of Withersteen House, and he shut the door with a force that jarred the heavy walls. BlackStar and Night and Bells, since their return, had been locked in thishall, and now they stamped on the stone floor. 

Lassiter released Jane and like a dizzy man swayed from her with ahoarse cry and leaned shaking against a table where he kept his rider'saccoutrements. He began to fumble in his saddlebags. His action broughta clinking, metallic sound--the rattling of gun-cartridges. His fingerstrembled as he slipped cartridges into an extra belt. But as he buckledit over the one he habitually wore his hands became steady. This secondbelt contained two guns, smaller than the black ones swinging low, andhe slipped them round so that his coat hid them. Then he fell to swiftaction. Jane Withersteen watched him, fascinated but uncomprehending andshe saw him rapidly saddle Black Star and Night. Then he drew her intothe light of the huge windows, standing over her, gripping her arm withfingers like cold steel. 

"Yes, Jane, it's ended--but you're not goin' to Dyer!. .. I'm goin'instead!"

Looking at him--he was so terrible of aspect--she could not comprehendhis words. Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyesthat would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the gentle Lassiter? What was thispresence in the hall, about him, about her--this cold, invisiblepresence?

"Yes, it's ended, Jane, " he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool andimplacable, "an' I'm goin' to make a little call. I'll lock you in here, an' when I get back have the saddle-bags full of meat an bread. An' beready to ride!"

"Lassiter!" cried Jane. 

Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately shetried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged in torment, and she succeeded, and then she knew. 

"No--no--no!" she wailed. "You said you'd foregone your vengeance. Youpromised not to kill Bishop Dyer. "

"If you want to talk to me about him--leave off the Bishop. I don'tunderstand that name, or its use. "

"Oh, hadn't you foregone your vengeance on--on Dyer?

"Yes. "

"But--your actions--your words--your guns--your terrible looks!. .. Theydon't seem foregoing vengeance?"

"Jane, now it's justice. "

"You'll--kill him?"

"If God lets me live another hour! If not God--then the devil who drivesme!"

"You'll kill him--for yourself--for your vengeful hate?"

"No!"

"For Milly Erne's sake?"

"No. "

"For little Fay's?"

"No!"

"Oh--for whose?"

"For yours!"

"His blood on my soul!" whispered Jane, and she fell to her knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit of years--thereligious passion of her life--leaped from lethargy, and the long monthsof gradual drifting to doubt were as if they had never been. "If youspill his blood it'll be on my soul--and on my father's. Listen. "And she clasped his knees, and clung there as he tried to raise her. "Listen. Am I nothing to you?"

"Woman--don't trifle at words! I love you! An' I'll soon prove it. "

"I'll give myself to you--I'll ride away with you--marry you, if onlyyou'll spare him?"

His answer was a cold, ringing, terrible laugh. 

"Lassiter--I'll love you. Spare him!"

"No. "

She sprang up in despairing, breaking spirit, and encircled his neckwith her arms, and held him in an embrace that he strove vainly toloosen. "Lassiter, would you kill me? I'm fighting my last fight forthe principles of my youth--love of religion, love of father. You don'tknow--you can't guess the truth, and I can't speak ill. I'm losingall. I'm changing. All I've gone through is nothing to this hour. Pityme--help me in my weakness. You're strong again--oh, so cruelly, coldlystrong! You're killing me. I see you--feel you as some other Lassiter!My master, be merciful--spare him!"

His answer was a ruthless smile. 

She clung the closer to him, and leaned her panting breast on him, andlifted her face to his. "Lassiter, I do love you! It's leaped out of myagony. It comes suddenly with a terrible blow of truth. You are a man!I never knew it till now. Some wonderful change came to me when youbuckled on these guns and showed that gray, awful face. I loved youthen. All my life I've loved, but never as now. No woman can love likea broken woman. If it were not for one thing--just one thing--and yet! Ican't speak it--I'd glory in your manhood--the lion in you that means toslay for me. Believe me--and spare Dyer. Be merciful--great as it's inyou to be great. .. . Oh, listen and believe--I have nothing, but I'm awoman--a beautiful woman, Lassiter--a passionate, loving woman--and Ilove you! Take me--hide me in some wild place--and love me and mend mybroken heart. Spare him and take me away. "

She lifted her face closer and closer to his, until their lips nearlytouched, and she hung upon his neck, and with strength almost spentpressed and still pressed her palpitating body to his. 

"Kiss me!" she whispered, blindly. 

"No--not at your price!" he answered. His voice had changed or she hadlost clearness of hearing. 

"Kiss me!. .. Are you a man? Kiss me and save me!"

"Jane, you never played fair with me. But now you're blisterin' yourlips--blackenin' your soul with lies!"

"By the memory of my mother--by my Bible--no! No, I have no Bible! Butby my hope of heaven I swear I love you!"

Lassiter's gray lips formed soundless words that meant even her lovecould not avail to bend his will. As if the hold of her arms was that ofa child's he loosened it and stepped away. 

"Wait! Don't go! Oh, hear a last word!. .. May a more just and mercifulGod than the God I was taught to worship judge me--forgive me--save me!For I can no longer keep silent!. .. Lassiter, in pleading for Dyer I'vebeen pleading more for my father. My father was a Mormon master, closeto the leaders of the church. It was my father who sent Dyer out toproselyte. It was my father who had the blue-ice eye and the beard ofgold. It was my father you got trace of in the past years. Truly, Dyerruined Milly Erne--dragged her from her home--to Utah--to Cottonwoods. But it was for my father! If Milly Erne was ever wife of a Mormon thatMormon was my father! I never knew--never will know whether or not shewas a wife. Blind I may be, Lassiter--fanatically faithful to a falsereligion I may have been but I know justice, and my father is beyondhuman justice. Surely he is meeting just punishment--somewhere. Alwaysit has appalled me--the thought of your killing Dyer for my father'ssins. So I have prayed!"

"Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past. Thisthing I'm about to do ain't for myself or Milly or Fay. It s not becauseof anythin' that ever happened in the past, but for what is happenin'right now. It's for you!. .. An' listen. Since I was a boy I've neverthanked God for anythin'. If there is a God--an' I've come to believeit--I thank Him now for the years that made me Lassiter!. .. I can reachdown en' feel these big guns, en' know what I can do with them. An', Jane, only one of the miracles Dyer professes to believe in can savehim!"

Again for Jane Withersteen came the spinning of her brain in darkness, and as she whirled in endless chaos she seemed to be falling at the feetof a luminous figure--a man--Lassiter--who had saved her from herself, who could not be changed, who would slay rightfully. Then she slippedinto utter blackness. 

When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was lying ona couch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow felt damp and coldand wet, some one was chafing her hands; she recognized Judkins, andthen saw that his lean, hard face wore the hue and look of excessiveagitation. 

"Judkins!" Her voice broke weakly. 

"Aw, Miss Withersteen, you're comin' round fine. Now jest lay still alittle. You're all right; everythin's all right. "

"Where is--he?"

"Who?"

"Lassiter!"

"You needn't worry none about him. "

"Where is he? Tell me--instantly. "

"Wal, he's in the other room patchin' up a few triflin' bullet holes. "

"Ah!. .. Bishop' Dyer?"

"When I seen him last--a matter of half an hour ago, he was on hisknees. He was some busy, but he wasn't prayin'!"

"How strangely you talk! I'll sit up. I'm--well, strong again. Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?"

"Wal, beggin' your pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyer wason his knees an' not prayin'. You remember his big, broad hands? You'veseen 'em raised in blessin' over old gray men an' little curly-headedchildren like--like Fay Larkin! Come to think of thet, I disrememberever hearin' of his liftin' his big hands in blessin' over a woman. Wal, when I seen him last--jest a little while ago--he was on his knees, not prayin', as I remarked--an' he was pressin' his big hands over somebigger wounds. "

"Man, you drive me mad! Did Lassiter kill Dyer?"

"Yes. "

"Did he kill Tull?"

"No. Tull's out of the village with most of his riders. He's expectedback before evenin'. Lassiter will hev to git away before Tull en' hisriders come in. It's sure death fer him here. An' wuss fer you, too, Miss Withersteen. There'll be some of an uprisin' when Tull gits back. "

"I shall ride away with Lassiter. Judkins, tell me all you saw--all youknow about this killing. " She realized, without wonder or amaze, howJudkins's one word, affirming the death of Dyer--that the catastrophehad fallen--had completed the change whereby she had been molded orbeaten or broken into another woman. She felt calm, slightly cold, strong as she had not been strong since the first shadow fell upon her. 

"I jest saw about all of it, Miss Withersteen, an' I'll be glad to tellyou if you'll only hev patience with me, " said Judkins, earnestly. "Yousee, I've been pecooliarly interested, an' nat'rully I'm some excited. An' I talk a lot thet mebbe ain't necessary, but I can't help thet. 

"I was at the meetin'-house where Dyer was holdin' court. You know heallus acts as magistrate an' judge when Tull's away. An' the trialwas fer tryin' what's left of my boy riders--thet helped me hold yourcattle--fer a lot of hatched-up things the boys never did. We're used tothet, an' the boys wouldn't hev minded bein' locked up fer a while, or hevin' to dig ditches, or whatever the judge laid down. You see, Idivided the gold you give me among all my boys, an' they all hid it, en' they all feel rich. Howsomever, court was adjourned before the judgepassed sentence. Yes, ma'm, court was adjourned some strange an' quick, much as if lightnin' hed struck the meetin'-house. 

"I hed trouble attendin' the trial, but I got in. There was a good manypeople there, all my boys, an' Judge Dyer with his several clerks. Alsohe hed with him the five riders who've been guardin' him pretty close oflate. They was Carter, Wright, Jengessen, an' two new riders from StoneBridge. I didn't hear their names, but I heard they was handy men withguns an' they looked more like rustlers than riders. Anyway, there theywas, the five all in a row. 

"Judge Dyer was tellin' Willie Kern, one of my best an' steadiestboys--Dyer was tellin' him how there was a ditch opened near Willie'shome lettin' water through his lot, where it hadn't ought to go. An'Willie was tryin' to git a word in to prove he wasn't at home all theday it happened--which was true, as I know--but Willie couldn't git aword in, an' then Judge Dyer went on layin' down the law. An' all toonct he happened to look down the long room. An' if ever any man turnedto stone he was thet man. 

"Nat'rully I looked back to see what hed acted so powerful strange onthe judge. An' there, half-way up the room, in the middle of the wideaisle, stood Lassiter! All white an' black he looked, an' I can't thinkof anythin' he resembled, onless it's death. Venters made thet same roomsome still an' chilly when he called Tull; but this was different. Igive my word, Miss Withersteen, thet I went cold to my very marrow. Idon't know why. But Lassiter had a way about him thet's awful. He spokea word--a name--I couldn't understand it, though he spoke clear as abell. I was too excited, mebbe. Judge Dyer must hev understood it, an' alot more thet was mystery to me, for he pitched forrard out of his chairright onto the platform. 

"Then them five riders, Dyer's bodyguards, they jumped up, an' two ofthem thet I found out afterward were the strangers from Stone Bridge, they piled right out of a winder, so quick you couldn't catch yourbreath. It was plain they wasn't Mormons. 

"Jengessen, Carter, an' Wright eyed Lassiter, for what must hev been asecond an' seemed like an hour, an' they went white en' strung. But theydidn't weaken nor lose their nerve. 

"I hed a good look at Lassiter. He stood sort of stiff, bendin' alittle, an' both his arms were crooked an' his hands looked like ahawk's claws. But there ain't no tellin' how his eyes looked. I knowthis, though, an' thet is his eyes could read the mind of any man aboutto throw a gun. An' in watchin' him, of course, I couldn't see thethree men go fer their guns. An' though I was lookin' right atLassiter--lookin' hard--I couldn't see how he drawed. He was quicker 'neyesight--thet's all. But I seen the red spurtin' of his guns, en' heardhis shots jest the very littlest instant before I heard the shots of theriders. An' when I turned, Wright an' Carter was down, en' Jengessen, who's tough like a steer, was pullin' the trigger of a wabblin' gun. Butit was plain he was shot through, plumb center. An' sudden he fell witha crash, an' his gun clattered on the floor. 

"Then there was a hell of a silence. Nobody breathed. Sartin I didn't, anyway. I saw Lassiter slip a smokin' gun back in a belt. But he hadn'tthrowed either of the big black guns, an' I thought thet strange. An'all this was happenin' quick--you can't imagine how quick. 

"There come a scrapin' on the floor an' Dyer got up, his face like lead. I wanted to watch Lassiter, but Dyer's face, onct I seen it like thet, glued my eyes. I seen him go fer his gun--why, I could hev done better, quicker--an' then there was a thunderin' shot from Lassiter, an' ithit Dyer's right arm, an' his gun went off as it dropped. He looked atLassiter like a cornered sage-wolf, an' sort of howled, an' reached downfer his gun. He'd jest picked it off the floor an' was raisin' it whenanother thunderin' shot almost tore thet arm off--so it seemed to me. The gun dropped again an' he went down on his knees, kind of flounderin'after it. It was some strange an' terrible to see his awful earnestness. Why would such a man cling so to life? Anyway, he got the gun with lefthand an' was raisin' it, pullin' trigger in his madness, when the thirdthunderin' shot hit his left arm, an' he dropped the gun again. Butthet left arm wasn't useless yet, fer he grabbed up the gun, an' witha shakin' aim thet would hev been pitiful to me--in any other man--hebegan to shoot. One wild bullet struck a man twenty feet from Lassiter. An' it killed thet man, as I seen afterward. Then come a bunch ofthunderin' shots--nine I calkilated after, fer they come so quick Icouldn't count them--an' I knew Lassiter hed turned the black guns looseon Dyer. 

"I'm tellin' you straight, Miss Withersteen, fer I want you to know. Afterward you'll git over it. I've seen some soul-rackin' scenes on thisUtah border, but this was the awfulest. I remember I closed my eyes, an'fer a minute I thought of the strangest things, out of place there, suchas you'd never dream would come to mind. I saw the sage, an' runnin'hosses--an' thet's the beautfulest sight to me--an' I saw dim thingsin the dark, an' there was a kind of hummin' in my ears. An' I rememberdistinctly--fer it was what made all these things whirl out of my mindan' opened my eyes--I remember distinctly it was the smell of gunpowder. 

"The court had about adjourned fer thet judge. He was on his knees, en'he wasn't prayin'. He was gaspin' an' tryin' to press his big, floppin', crippled hands over his body. Lassiter had sent all those lastthunderin' shots through his body. Thet was Lassiter's way. 

"An' Lassiter spoke, en' if I ever forgit his words I'll never forgitthe sound of his voice. 

"'Proselyter, I reckon you'd better call quick on thet God who revealsHisself to you on earth, because He won't be visitin' the place you'regoin' to!"

"An' then I seen Dyer look at his big, hangin' hands thet wasn't bigenough fer the last work he set them to. An' he looked up at Lassiter. An' then he stared horrible at somethin' thet wasn't Lassiter, noranyone there, nor the room, nor the branches of purple sage peepin'into the winder. Whatever he seen, it was with the look of a man whodiscovers somethin' too late. Thet's a terrible look!. .. An' with ahorrible understandin' cry he slid forrard on his face. "

Judkins paused in his narrative, breathing heavily while he wiped hisperspiring brow. 

"Thet's about all, " he concluded. "Lassiter left the meetin'-house an' Ihurried to catch up with him. He was bleedin' from three gunshots, none of them much to bother him. An' we come right up here. I found youlayin' in the hall, an' I hed to work some over you. "

Jane Withersteen offered up no prayer for Dyer's soul. 

Lassiter's step sounded in the hall--the familiar soft, silver-clinkingstep--and she heard it with thrilling new emotions in which was a vaguejoy in her very fear of him. The door opened, and she saw him, the oldLassiter, slow, easy, gentle, cool, yet not exactly the same Lassiter. She rose, and for a moment her eyes blurred and swam in tears. 

"Are you--all--all right?" she asked, tremulously. 

"I reckon. "

"Lassiter, I'll ride away with you. Hide me till danger is past--tillwe are forgotten--then take me where you will. Your people shall be mypeople, and your God my God!"

He kissed her hand with the quaint grace and courtesy that came to himin rare moments. 

"Black Star an' Night are ready, " he said, simply. 

His quiet mention of the black racers spurred Jane to action. Hurryingto her room, she changed to her rider's suit, packed her jewelry, andthe gold that was left, and all the woman's apparel for which therewas space in the saddle-bags, and then returned to the hall. Black Starstamped his iron-shod hoofs and tossed his beautiful head, and eyed herwith knowing eyes. 

"Judkins, I give Bells to you, " said Jane. "I hope you will always keephim and be good to him. "

Judkins mumbled thanks that he could not speak fluently, and his eyesflashed. 

Lassiter strapped Jane's saddle-bags upon Black Star, and led the racersout into the court. 

"Judkins, you ride with Jane out into the sage. If you see any riderscomin' shout quick twice. An', Jane, don't look back! I'll catch upsoon. We'll get to the break into the Pass before midnight, an' thenwait until mornin' to go down. "

Black Star bent his graceful neck and bowed his noble head, and hisbroad shoulders yielded as he knelt for Jane to mount. 

She rode out of the court beside Judkins, through the grove, acrossthe wide lane into the sage, and she realized that she was leavingWithersteen House forever, and she did not look back. A strange, dreamy, calm peace pervaded her soul. Her doom had fallen upon her, but, insteadof finding life no longer worth living she found it doubly significant, full of sweetness as the western breeze, beautiful and unknown as thesage-slope stretching its purple sunset shadows before her. She becameaware of Judkins's hand touching hers; she heard him speak a huskygood-by; then into the place of Bells shot the dead-black, keen, racynose of Night, and she knew Lassiter rode beside her. 

"Don't--look--back!" he said, and his voice, too, was not clear. 

Facing straight ahead, seeing only the waving, shadowy sage, Jane heldout her gauntleted hand, to feel it enclosed in strong clasp. So sherode on without a backward glance at the beautiful grove of Cottonwoods. She did not seem to think of the past of what she left forever, but ofthe color and mystery and wildness of the sage-slope leading down toDeception Pass, and of the future. She watched the shadows lengthen downthe slope; she felt the cool west wind sweeping by from the rear; andshe wondered at low, yellow clouds sailing swiftly over her and beyond. 

"Don't look--back!" said Lassiter. 

Thick-driving belts of smoke traveled by on the wind, and with it came astrong, pungent odor of burning wood. 

Lassiter had fired Withersteen House! But Jane did not look back. 

A misty veil obscured the clear, searching gaze she had kept steadfastlyupon the purple slope and the dim lines of canyons. It passed, as passedthe rolling clouds of smoke, and she saw the valley deepening into theshades of twilight. Night came on, swift as the fleet racers, and starspeeped out to brighten and grow, and the huge, windy, eastern heave ofsage-level paled under a rising moon and turned to silver. Blanchedin moonlight, the sage yet seemed to hold its hue of purple and wasinfinitely more wild and lonely. So the night hours wore on, and JaneWithersteen never once looked back. 

CHAPTER XXI. BLACK STAR AND NIGHT

The time had come for Venters and Bess to leave their retreat. They wereat great pains to choose the few things they would be able to carry withthem on the journey out of Utah. 

"Bern, whatever kind of a pack's this, anyhow?" questioned Bess, risingfrom her work with reddened face. 

Venters, absorbed in his own task, did not look up at all, and in replysaid he had brought so much from Cottonwoods that he did not recollectthe half of it. 

"A woman packed this!" Bess exclaimed. 

He scarcely caught her meaning, but the peculiar tone of her voicecaused him instantly to rise, and he saw Bess on her knees before anopen pack which he recognized as the one given him by Jane. 

"By George!" he ejaculated, guiltily, and then at sight of Bess's facehe laughed outright. 

"A woman packed this, " she repeated, fixing woeful, tragic eyes on him. 

"Well, is that a crime?'

"There--there is a woman, after all!"

"Now Bess--"

"You've lied to me!"

Then and there Venters found it imperative to postpone work for thepresent. All her life Bess had been isolated, but she had inheritedcertain elements of the eternal feminine. 

"But there was a woman and you did lie to me, " she kept repeating, afterhe had explained. 

"What of that? Bess, I'll get angry at you in a moment. Remember you'vebeen pent up all your life. I venture to say that if you'd been out inthe world you d have had a dozen sweethearts and have told many a liebefore this. "

"I wouldn't anything of the kind, " declared Bess, indignantly. 

"Well--perhaps not lie. But you'd have had the sweethearts--You couldn'thave helped that--being so pretty. "

This remark appeared to be a very clever and fortunate one; and thework of selecting and then of stowing all the packs in the cave went onwithout further interruption. 

Venters closed up the opening of the cave with a thatch of willows andaspens, so that not even a bird or a rat could get in to the sacksof grain. And this work was in order with the precaution habituallyobserved by him. He might not be able to get out of Utah, and have toreturn to the valley. But he owed it to Bess to make the attempt, and incase they were compelled to turn back he wanted to find that fine storeof food and grain intact. The outfit of implements and utensils hepacked away in another cave. 

"Bess, we have enough to live here all our lives, " he said once, dreamily. 

"Shall I go roll Balancing Rock?" she asked, in light speech, but withdeep-blue fire in her eyes. 

"No--no. "

"Ah, you don't forget the gold and the world, " she sighed. 

"Child, you forget the beautiful dresses and the travel--andeverything. "

"Oh, I want to go. But I want to stay!"

"I feel the same way. "

They let the eight calves out of the corral, and kept only two of theburros Venters had brought from Cottonwoods. These they intended toride. Bess freed all her pets--the quail and rabbits and foxes. 

The last sunset and twilight and night were both the sweetest andsaddest they had ever spent in Surprise Valley. Morning brought keenexhilaration and excitement. When Venters had saddled the two burros, strapped on the light packs and the two canteens, the sunlight wasdispersing the lazy shadows from the valley. Taking a last look at thecaves and the silver spruces, Venters and Bess made a reluctant start, leading the burros. Ring and Whitie looked keen and knowing. Somethingseemed to drag at Venters's feet and he noticed Bess lagged behind. Never had the climb from terrace to bridge appeared so long. 

Not till they reached the opening of the gorge did they stop to rest andtake one last look at the valley. The tremendous arch of stone curvedclear and sharp in outline against the morning sky. And through itstreaked the golden shaft. The valley seemed an enchanted circle ofglorious veils of gold and wraiths of white and silver haze and dim, blue, moving shade--beautiful and wild and unreal as a dream. 

"We--we can--th--think of it--always--re--remember, " sobbed Bess. 

"Hush! Don't cry. Our valley has only fitted us for a better lifesomewhere. Come!"

They entered the gorge and he closed the willow gate. From rosy, goldenmorning light they passed into cool, dense gloom. The burros patteredup the trail with little hollow-cracking steps. And the gorge widened tonarrow outlet and the gloom lightened to gray. At the divide they haltedfor another rest. Venters's keen, remembering gaze searched BalancingRock, and the long incline, and the cracked toppling walls, but failedto note the slightest change. 

The dogs led the descent; then came Bess leading her burro; then Ventersleading his. Bess kept her eyes bent downward. Venters, however, hadan irresistible desire to look upward at Balancing Rock. It had alwayshaunted him, and now he wondered if he were really to get through theoutlet before the huge stone thundered down. He fancied that would bea miracle. Every few steps he answered to the strange, nervous fear andturned to make sure the rock still stood like a giant statue. And, ashe descended, it grew dimmer in his sight. It changed form; it swayed itnodded darkly; and at last, in his heightened fancy, he saw it heave androll. As in a dream when he felt himself falling yet knew he would neverfall, so he saw this long-standing thunderbolt of the little stone-menplunge down to close forever the outlet to Deception Pass. 

And while he was giving way to unaccountable dread imaginations thedescent was accomplished without mishap. 

"I'm glad that's over, " he said, breathing more freely. "I hope I'm bythat hanging rock for good and all. Since almost the moment I first sawit I've had an idea that it was waiting for me. Now, when it does fall, if I'm thousands of miles away, I'll hear it. "

With the first glimpses of the smooth slope leading down to thegrotesque cedars and out to the Pass, Venters's cool nerve returned. Onelong survey to the left, then one to the right, satisfied his caution. Leading the burros down to the spur of rock, he halted at the steepincline. 

"Bess, here's the bad place, the place I told you about, with the cutsteps. You start down, leading your burro. Take your time and hold on tohim if you slip. I've got a rope on him and a half-hitch on this pointof rock, so I can let him down safely. Coming up here was a killing job. But it'll be easy going down. "

Both burros passed down the difficult stairs cut by the cliff-dwellers, and did it without a misstep. After that the descent down the slope andover the mile of scrawled, ripped, and ridged rock required only carefulguidance, and Venters got the burros to level ground in a condition thatcaused him to congratulate himself. 

"Oh, if we only had Wrangle!" exclaimed Venters. "But we're lucky. That's the worst of our trail passed. We've only men to fear now. If weget up in the sage we can hide and slip along like coyotes. "

They mounted and rode west through the valley and entered the canyon. From time to time Venters walked, leading his burro. When they got byall the canyons and gullies opening into the Pass they went faster andwith fewer halts. Venters did not confide in Bess the alarming fact thathe had seen horses and smoke less than a mile up one of the intersectingcanyons. He did not talk at all. And long after he had passed thiscanyon and felt secure once more in the certainty that they had beenunobserved he never relaxed his watchfulness. But he did not walk anymore, and he kept the burros at a steady trot. Night fell before theyreached the last water in the Pass and they made camp by starlight. Venters did not want the burros to stray, so he tied them with longhalters in the grass near the spring. Bess, tired out and silent, laidher head in a saddle and went to sleep between the two dogs. Ventersdid not close his eyes. The canyon silence appeared full of the low, continuous hum of insects. He listened until the hum grew into a roar, and then, breaking the spell, once more he heard it low and clear. Hewatched the stars and the moving shadows, and always his glance returnedto the girl's dimly pale face. And he remembered how white and stillit had once looked in the starlight. And again stern thought fought hisstrange fancies. Would all his labor and his love be for naught? Wouldhe lose her, after all? What did the dark shadow around her portend? Didcalamity lurk on that long upland trail through the sage? Why should hisheart swell and throb with nameless fear? He listened to the silenceand told himself that in the broad light of day he could dispel thisleaden-weighted dread. 

At the first hint of gray over the eastern rim he awoke Bess, saddledthe burros, and began the day's travel. He wanted to get out of the Passbefore there was any chance of riders coming down. They gained the breakas the first red rays of the rising sun colored the rim. 

For once, so eager was he to get up to level ground, he did not sendRing or Whitie in advance. Encouraging Bess to hurry pulling at hispatient, plodding burro, he climbed the soft, steep trail. 

Brighter and brighter grew the light. He mounted the last broken edge ofrim to have the sun-fired, purple sage-slope burst upon him as a glory. Bess panted up to his side, tugging on the halter of her burro. 

"We're up!" he cried, joyously. "There's not a dot on the sage We'resafe. We'll not be seen! Oh, Bess--"

Ring growled and sniffed the keen air and bristled. Venters clutchedat his rifle. Whitie sometimes made a mistake, but Ring never. The dullthud of hoofs almost deprived Venters of power to turn and see fromwhere disaster threatened. He felt his eyes dilate as he stared atLassiter leading Black Star and Night out of the sage, with JaneWithersteen, in rider's costume, close beside them. 

For an instant Venters felt himself whirl dizzily in the center of vastcircles of sage. He recovered partially, enough to see Lassiter standingwith a glad smile and Jane riveted in astonishment. 

"Why, Bern!" she exclaimed. "How good it is to see you! We're ridingaway, you see. The storm burst--and I'm a ruined woman!. .. I thought youwere alone. "

Venters, unable to speak for consternation, and bewildered out of allsense of what he ought or ought not to do, simply stared at Jane. 

"Son, where are you bound for?" asked Lassiter. 

"Not safe--where I was. I'm--we're going out of Utah--back East, " hefound tongue to say. 

"I reckon this meetin's the luckiest thing that ever happened to you an'to me--an' to Jane--an' to Bess, " said Lassiter, coolly. 

"Bess!" cried Jane, with a sudden leap of blood to her pale cheek. 

It was entirely beyond Venters to see any luck in that meeting. 

Jane Withersteen took one flashing, woman's glance at Bess's scarletface, at her slender, shapely form. 

"Venters! is this a girl--a woman?" she questioned, in a voice thatstung. 

"Yes. "

"Did you have her in that wonderful valley?"

"Yes, but Jane--"

"All the time you were gone?"

"Yes, but I couldn't tell--"

"Was it for her you asked me to give you supplies? Was it for her thatyou wanted to make your valley a paradise?"

"Oh--Jane--"

"Answer me. "

"Yes. "

"Oh, you liar!" And with these passionate words Jane Withersteensuccumbed to fury. For the second time in her life she fell into theungovernable rage that had been her father's weakness. And it was worsethan his, for she was a jealous woman--jealous even of her friends. 

As best he could, he bore the brunt of her anger. It was not only hisdeceit to her that she visited upon him, but her betrayal by religion, by life itself. 

Her passion, like fire at white heat, consumed itself in little time. Her physical strength failed, and still her spirit attempted to go on inmagnificent denunciation of those who had wronged her. Like a treecut deep into its roots, she began to quiver and shake, and her angerweakened into despair. And her ringing voice sank into a broken, huskywhisper. Then, spent and pitiable, upheld by Lassiter's arm, she turnedand hid her face in Black Star's mane. 

Numb as Venters was when at length Jane Withersteen lifted her head andlooked at him, he yet suffered a pang. 

"Jane, the girl is innocent!" he cried. 

"Can you expect me to believe that?" she asked, with weary, bitter eyes. 

"I'm not that kind of a liar. And you know it. If I lied--if I keptsilent when honor should have made me speak, it was to spare you. I cameto Cottonwoods to tell you. But I couldn't add to your pain. I intendedto tell you I had come to love this girl. But, Jane I hadn't forgottenhow good you were to me. I haven't changed at all toward you. I prizeyour friendship as I always have. But, however it may look to you--don'tbe unjust. The girl is innocent. Ask Lassiter. "

"Jane, she's jest as sweet an' innocent as little Fay, " said Lassiter. There was a faint smile upon his face and a beautiful light. 

Venters saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Withersteen's torturedsoul wrestled with hate and threw it--with scorn doubt, suspicion, andovercame all. 

"Bern, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I crave forgiveness, " shesaid. "I'm not what I once was. Tell me--who is this girl?"

"Jane, she is Oldring's daughter, and his Masked Rider. Lassiter willtell you how I shot her for a rustler, saved her life--all the story. It's a strange story, Jane, as wild as the sage. But it's true--true asher innocence. That you must believe. "

"Oldring's Masked Rider! Oldring's daughter!" exclaimed Jane "And she'sinnocent! You ask me to believe much. If this girl is--is what you say, how could she be going away with the man who killed her father?"

"Why did you tell that?" cried Venters, passionately. 

Jane's question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her eyes suddenlydarkened and dilated. She stepped toward Venters and held up both handsas if to ward off a blow. 

"Did--did you kill Oldring?"

"I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I never dreamedhe was your father. I thought he'd wronged you. I killed him when I wasmadly jealous. "

For a moment Bess was shocked into silence. 

"But he was my father!" she broke out, at last. "And now I must goback--I can't go with you. It's all over--that beautiful dream. Oh, Iknew it couldn't come true. You can't take me now. "

"If you forgive me, Bess, it'll all come right in the end!" imploredVenters. 

"It can't be right. I'll go back. After all, I loved him. He was good tome. I can't forget that. "

"If you go back to Oldring's men I'll follow you, and then they'll killme, " said Venters, hoarsely. 

"Oh no, Bern, you'll not come. Let me go. It's best for you to forgetmot I've brought you only pain and dishonor. "

She did not weep. But the sweet bloom and life died out of her face. She looked haggard and sad, all at once stunted; and her hands droppedlistlessly; and her head drooped in slow, final acceptance of a hopelessfate. 

"Jane, look there!" cried Venters, in despairing grief. "Need you havetold her? Where was all your kindness of heart? This girl has had awretched, lonely life. And I'd found a way to make her happy. You'vekilled it. You've killed something sweet and pure and hopeful, just assure as you breathe. "

"Oh, Bern! It was a slip. I never thought--I never thought!" repliedJane. "How could I tell she didn't know?"

Lassiter suddenly moved forward, and with the beautiful light on hisface now strangely luminous, he looked at Jane and Venters and then lethis soft, bright gaze rest on Bess. 

"Well, I reckon you've all had your say, an' now it's Lassiter's turn. Why, I was jest praying for this meetin'. Bess, jest look here. "

Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, and thenoutspread his great hand to disclose a shiny, battered gold locket. 

"Open it, " he said, with a singularly rich voice. 

Bess complied, but listlessly. 

"Jane--Venters--come closer, " went on Lassiter. "Take a look at thepicture. Don't you know the woman?"

Jane, after one glance, drew back. 

"Milly Erne!" she cried, wonderingly. 

Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognizedin the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne. 

"Yes, that's Milly, " said Lassiter, softly. "Bess, did you ever see herface--look hard--with all your heart an' soul?"

"The eyes seem to haunt me, " whispered Bess. "Oh, I can'tremember--they're eyes of my dreams--but--but--"

Lassiter's strong arm went round her and he bent his head. 

"Child, I thought you'd remember her eyes. They're the same beautifuleyes you'd see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring. They're yourmother's eyes. You are Milly Erne's child. Your name is Elizabeth Erne. You're not Oldring's daughter. You're the daughter of Frank Erne, a manonce my best friend. Look! Here's his picture beside Milly's. He washandsome, an' as fine an' gallant a Southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. You come of the best of blood, lass, andblood tells. "

Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the locket to herbosom, and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes. 

"It--can't--be--true!"

"Thank God, lass, it is true, " replied Lassiter. "Jane an' Bernhere--they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you. They're soknocked out they can't tell you, that's all. "

"Who are you?" whispered Bess. 

"I reckon I'm Milly's brother an' your uncle!. .. Uncle Jim! Ain't thatfine?"

"Oh, I can't believe--Don't raise me! Bern, let me kneel. I see truthin your face--in Miss Withersteen's. But let me hear it all--all on myknees. Tell me how it's true!"

"Well, Elizabeth, listen, " said Lassiter. "Before you was born yourfather made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named Dyer. They was bothministers an' come to be rivals. Dyer stole your mother away from herhome. She gave birth to you in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she wastaken to Utah, from place to place, an' finally to the last bordersettlement--Cottonwoods. You was about three years old when you wastaken away from Milly. She never knew what had become of you. But shelived a good while hopin' and prayin' to have you again. Then she gaveup an' died. An' I may as well put in here your father died ten yearsago. Well, I spent my time tracin' Milly, an' some months back I landedin Cottonwoods. An' jest lately I learned all about you. I had a talkwith Oldrin' an' told him you was dead, an' he told me what I had solong been wantin' to know. It was Dyer, of course, who stole you fromMilly. Part reason he was sore because Milly refused to give you Mormonteachin', but mostly he still hated Frank Erne so infernally that hemade a deal with Oldrin' to take you an' bring you up as an infamousrustler an' rustler's girl. The idea was to break Frank Erne's heartif he ever came to Utah--to show him his daughter with a band of lowrustlers. Well--Oldrin' took you, brought you up from childhood, an'then made you his Masked Rider. He made you infamous. He kept that partof the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughter an' never letany but his own men know you was a girl. I heard him say that with myown ears, an' I saw his big eyes grow dim. He told me how he had guardedyou always, kept you locked up in his absence, was always at your sideor near you on those rides that made you famous on the sage. He said hean' an old rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read an' write. They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought up thevilest of the vile! An' Oldrin' brought you up the innocentest of theinnocent. He said you didn't know what vileness was. I can hear his bigvoice tremble now as he said it. He told me how the men--rustlers an'outlaws--who from time to time tried to approach you familiarly--he toldme how he shot them dead. I'm tellin' you this 'specially because you'veshowed such shame--sayin' you was nameless an' all that. Nothin' onearth can be wronger than that idea of yours. An' the truth of it ishere. Oldrin' swore to me that if Dyer died, releasin' the contract, he intended to hunt up your father an' give you back to him. It seemsOldrin' wasn't all bad, en' he sure loved you. "

Venters leaned forward in passionate remorse. 

"Oh, Bess! I know Lassiter speaks the truth. For when I shot Oldring hedropped to his knees and fought with unearthly power to speak. And hesaid: 'Man--why--didn't--you--wait? Bess was--' Then he fell dead. And I've been haunted by his look and words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing for Oldring to do! It all seems impossible. But, dear, you really are not what you thought. "

"Elizabeth Erne!" cried Jane Withersteen. "I loved your mother and I seeher in you!"

What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in the tone, look, and gesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for Bess. With littletremblings of all her slender body she rocked to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was realizing happiness. And as the process of thoughtwas slow, so were the variations of her expression. Her eyes reflectedthe transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless belief--cloudsof gloom--drifted, paled, vanished in glorious light. An exquisite roseflush--a glow--shone from her face as she slowly began to rise from herknees. A spirit uplifted her. All that she had held as base dropped fromher. 

Venters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he divinedsomething of what Lassiter's revelation meant to Bess, but he knew hecould only faintly understand. That moment when she seemed to be liftedby some spiritual transfiguration was the most beautiful moment of hislife. She stood with parted, quivering lips, with hands tightly claspingthe locket to her heaving breast. A new conscious pride of worthdignified the old wild, free grace and poise. 

"Uncle Jim!" she said, tremulously, with a different smile from anyVenters had ever seen on her face. 

Lassiter took her into his arms. 

"I reckon. It's powerful fine to hear that, " replied Lassiter, unsteadily. 

Venters, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away, and foundhimself looking at Jane Withersteen. He had almost forgotten herpresence. Tenderness and sympathy were fast hiding traces of heragitation. Venters read her mind--felt the reaction of her nobleheart--saw the joy she was beginning to feel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded, choked by his emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what she would do presently; she would make some magnificentamend for her anger; she would give some manifestation of her love;probably all in a moment, as she had loved Milly Erne, so would she loveElizabeth Erne. 

"'Pears to me, folks, that we'd better talk a little serious now, "remarked Lassiter, at length. "Time flies. "

"You're right, " replied Venters, instantly. "I'd forgottentime--place--danger. Lassiter, you're riding away. Jane's leavingWithersteen House?"

"Forever, " replied Jane. 

"I fired Withersteen House, " said Lassiter. 

"Dyer?" questioned Venters, sharply. 

"I reckon where Dyer's gone there won't be any kidnappin' of girls. "

"Ah! I knew it. I told Judkins--And Tull?" went on Venters, passionately. 

"Tull wasn't around when I broke loose. By now he's likely on our trailwith his riders. "

"Lassiter, you're going into the Pass to hide till all this storm blowsover?"

"I reckon that's Jane's idea. I'm thinkin' the storm'll be a powerfullong time blowin' over. I was comin' to join you in Surprise Valley. You'll go back now with me?"

"No. I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter, Bess found gold in thevalley. We've a saddle-bag full of gold. If we can reach Sterling--"

"Man! how're you ever goin' to do that? Sterlin' is a hundred miles. "

"My plan is to ride on, keeping sharp lookout. Somewhere up the trailwe'll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods and then hit the trailagain. "

"It's a bad plan. You'll kill the burros in two days. "

"Then we'll walk. "

"That's more bad an' worse. Better go back down the Pass with me. "

"Lassiter, this girl has been hidden all her life in that lonely place, "went on Venters. "Oldring's men are hunting me. We'd not be safe thereany longer. Even if we would be I'd take this chance to get her out. I want to marry her. She shall have some of the pleasures of life--seecities and people. We've gold--we'll be rich. Why, life opens sweetfor both of us. And, by Heaven! I'll get her out or lose my life in theattempt!"

"I reckon if you go on with them burros you'll lose your life all right. Tull will have riders all over this sage. You can't get out on themburros. It's a fool idea. That's not doin' best by the girl. Come withme en' take chances on the rustlers. "

Lassiter's cool argument made Venters waver, not in determination to go, but in hope of success. 

"Bess, I want you to know. Lassiter says the trip's almost useless now. I'm afraid he's right. We've got about one chance in a hundred to gothrough. Shall we take it? Shall we go on?"

"We'll go on, " replied Bess. 

"That settles it, Lassiter. "

Lassiter spread wide his hands, as if to signify he could do no more, and his face clouded. 

Venters felt a touch on his elbow. Jane stood beside him with a handon his arm. She was smiling. Something radiated from her, and like anelectric current accelerated the motion of his blood. 

"Bern, you'd be right to die rather than not take Elizabeth out ofUtah--out of this wild country. You must do it. You'll show her thegreat world, with all its wonders. Think how little she has seen! Thinkwhat delight is in store for her! You have gold, You will be free; youwill make her happy. What a glorious prospect! I share it with you. I'llthink of you--dream of you--pray for you. "

"Thank you, Jane, " replied Venters, trying to steady his voice. "It doeslook bright. Oh, if we were only across that wide, open waste of sage!"

"Bern, the trip's as good as made. It'll be safe--easy. It'll be aglorious ride, " she said, softly. 

Venters stared. Had Jane's troubles made her insane? Lassiter, too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero round in handsthat actually shook. 

"You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of your lives, "added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she were musing toherself. 

"Jane!" he cried. 

"I give you Black Star and Night!"

"Black Star and Night!" he echoed. 

"It's done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros. "

Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did Venters'sclogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to catch Lassiter'sbusy hands. 

"No, no! What are you doing?" he demanded, in a kind of fury. "I won'ttake her racers. What do you think I am? It'd be monstrous. Lassiter!stop it, I say!. .. You've got her to save. You've miles and miles to go. Tull is trailing you. There are rustlers in the Pass. Give me back thatsaddle-bag!"

"Son--cool down, " returned Lassiter, in a voice he might have used to achild. But the grip with which he tore away Venters's grasping hands wasthat of a giant. "Listen--you fool boy! Jane's sized up the situation. The burros'll do for us. Well sneak along an' hide. I'll take your dogsan' your rifle. Why, it's the trick. The blacks are yours, an' sure as Ican throw a gun you're goin' to ride safe out of the sage. "

"Jane--stop him--please stop him, " gasped Venters. "I've lost mystrength. I can't do--anything. This is hell for me! Can't you see that?I've ruined you--it was through me you lost all. You've only Black Starand Night left. You love these horses. Oh! I know how you must love themnow! And--you're trying to give them to me. To help me out of Utah! Tosave the girl I love!"

"That will be my glory. "

Then in the white, rapt face, in the unfathomable eyes, Venters saw JaneWithersteen in a supreme moment. This moment was one wherein she reachedup to the height for which her noble soul had ever yearned. He, afterdisrupting the calm tenor of her peace, after bringing down on her headthe implacable hostility of her churchmen, after teaching her a bitterlesson of life--he was to be her salvation. And he turned away again, this time shaken to the core of his soul. Jane Withersteen was theincarnation of selflessness. He experienced wonder and terror, exquisitepain and rapture. What were all the shocks life had dealt him comparedto the thought of such loyal and generous friendship?

And instantly, as if by some divine insight, he knew himself in theremaking--tried, found wanting; but stronger, better, surer--and hewheeled to Jane Withersteen, eager, joyous, passionate, wild, exalted. He bent to her; he left tears and kisses on her hands. 

"Jane, I--I can't find words--now, " he said. "I'm beyond words. Only--Iunderstand. And I'll take the blacks. "

"Don't be losin' no more time, " cut in Lassiter. "I ain't certain, butI think I seen a speck up the sage-slope. Mebbe I was mistaken. But, anyway, we must all be movin'. I've shortened the stirrups on BlackStar. Put Bess on him. "

Jane Withersteen held out her arms. 

"Elizabeth Erne!" she cried, and Bess flew to her. 

How inconceivably strange and beautiful it was for Venters to see Bessclasped to Jane Withersteen's breast!

Then he leaped astride Night. 

"Venters, ride straight on up the slope, " Lassiter was saying, "'anif you don't meet any riders keep on till you're a few miles from thevillage, then cut off in the sage an' go round to the trail. But you'llmost likely meet riders with Tull. Jest keep right on till you're jestout of gunshot an' then make your cut-off into the sage. They'll rideafter you, but it won't be no use. You can ride, an' Bess can ride. When you're out of reach turn on round to the west, an' hit the trailsomewhere. Save the hosses all you can, but don't be afraid. Black Starand Night are good for a hundred miles before sundown, if you have topush them. You can get to Sterlin' by night if you want. But better makeit along about to-morrow mornin'. When you get through the notch on theGlaze trail, swing to the right. You'll be able to see both Glaze an'Stone Bridge. Keep away from them villages. You won't run no risk ofmeetin' any of Oldrin's rustlers from Sterlin' on. You'll find water inthem deep hollows north of the Notch. There's an old trail there, notmuch used, en' it leads to Sterlin'. That's your trail. An' one thingmore. If Tull pushes you--or keeps on persistent-like, for a fewmiles--jest let the blacks out an' lose him an' his riders. "

"Lassiter, may we meet again!" said Venters, in a deep voice. 

"Son, it ain't likely--it ain't likely. Well, Bess Oldrin'--MaskedRider--Elizabeth Erne--now you climb on Black Star. I've heard you couldride. Well, every rider loves a good horse. An', lass, there never wasbut one that could beat Black Star. "

"Ah, Lassiter, there never was any horse that could beat Black Star, "said Jane, with the old pride. 

"I often wondered--mebbe Venters rode out that race when he brought backthe blacks. Son, was Wrangle the best hoss?"

"No, Lassiter, " replied Venters. For this lie he had his reward inJane's quick smile. 

"Well, well, my hoss-sense ain't always right. An' here I'm talkie' alot, wastin' time. It ain't so easy to find an' lose a pretty niece allin one hour! Elizabeth--good-by!"

"Oh, Uncle Jim!. .. Good-by!"

"Elizabeth Erne, be happy! Good-by, " said Jane. 

"Good-by--oh--good-by!" In lithe, supple action Bess swung up to BlackStar's saddle. 

"Jane Withersteen!. .. Good-by!" called Venters hoarsely. 

"Bern--Bess--riders of the purple sage--good-by!"

CHAPTER XXII. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward alongthe white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard a mournfulhowl from Ring, but Whitie was silent. The blacks settled into theirfleet, long-striding gallop. The wind sweetly fanned Venters's hot face. From the summit of the first low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiterwaved his hand; Jane waved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in hisstirrups and holding high his sombrero. Then the dip of the ridge hidthem. From the height of the next he turned once more. Lassiter, Jane, and the burros had disappeared. They had gone down into the Pass. Venters felt a sensation of irreparable loss. 

"Bern--look!" called Bess, pointing up the long slope. 

A small, dark, moving dot split the line where purple sage met blue sky. That dot was a band of riders. 

"Pull the black, Bess. "

They slowed from gallop to canter, then to trot. The fresh and eagerhorses did not like the check. 

"Bern, Black Star has great eyesight. "

"I wonder if they're Tull's riders. They might be rustlers. But it's allthe same to us. "

The black dot grew to a dark patch moving under low dust clouds. It grewall the time, though very slowly. There were long periods when it was inplain sight, and intervals when it dropped behind the sage. The blackstrotted for half an hour, for another half-hour, and still the movingpatch appeared to stay on the horizon line. Gradually, however, as timepassed, it began to enlarge, to creep down the slope, to encroach uponthe intervening distance. 

"Bess, what do you make them out?" asked Venters. "I don't think they'rerustlers. "

"They're sage-riders, " replied Bess. "I see a white horse and severalgrays. Rustlers seldom ride any horses but bays and blacks. "

"That white horse is Tull's. Pull the black, Bess. I'll get down andcinch up. We're in for some riding. Are you afraid?"

"Not now, " answered the girl, smiling. 

"You needn't be. Bess, you don't weigh enough to make Black Star knowyou're on him. I won't be able to stay with you. You'll leave Tull andhis riders as if they were standing still. "

"How about you?"

"Never fear. If I can't stay with you I can still laugh at Tull. "

"Look, Bern! They've stopped on that ridge. They see us. "

"Yes. But we're too far yet for them to make out who we are. They'llrecognize the blacks first. We've passed most of the ridges and thethickest sage. Now, when I give the word, let Black Star go and ride!"

Venters calculated that a mile or more still intervened between themand the riders. They were approaching at a swift canter. Soon Ventersrecognized Tull's white horse, and concluded that the riders hadlikewise recognized Black Star and Night. But it would be impossible forTull yet to see that the blacks were not ridden by Lassiter and Jane. Venters noted that Tull and the line of horsemen, perhaps ten or twelvein number, stopped several times and evidently looked hard down theslope. It must have been a puzzling circumstance for Tull. Venterslaughed grimly at the thought of what Tull's rage would be when hefinally discovered the trick. Venters meant to sheer out into the sagebefore Tull could possibly be sure who rode the blacks. 

The gap closed to a distance to half a mile. Tull halted. His riderscame up and formed a dark group around him. Venters thought he saw himwave his arms and was certain of it when the riders dashed into thesage, to right and left of the trail. Tull had anticipated just the moveheld in mind by Venters. 

"Now Bess!" shouted Venters. "Strike north. Go round those riders andturn west. "

Black Star sailed over the low sage, and in a few leaps got into hisstride and was running. Venters spurred Night after him. It was hardgoing in the sage. The horses could run as well there, but keen eyesightand judgment must constantly be used by the riders in choosing ground. And continuous swerving from aisle to aisle between the brush, andleaping little washes and mounds of the pack-rats, and breaking throughsage, made rough riding. When Venters had turned into a long aisle hehad time to look up at Tull's riders. They were now strung out into anextended line riding northeast. And, as Venters and Bess were holdingdue north, this meant, if the horses of Tull and his riders had thespeed and the staying power, they would head the blacks and turn themback down the slope. Tull's men were not saving their mounts; they weredriving them desperately. Venters feared only an accident to Black Staror Night, and skilful riding would mitigate possibility of that. Oneglance ahead served to show him that Bess could pick a course throughthe sage as well as he. She looked neither back nor at the runningriders, and bent forward over Black Star's neck and studied the groundahead. 

It struck Venters, presently, after he had glanced up from time to time, that Bess was drawing away from him as he had expected. He had, however, only thought of the light weight Black Star was carrying and of hissuperior speed; he saw now that the black was being ridden as neverbefore, except when Jerry Card lost the race to Wrangle. How easily, gracefully, naturally, Bess sat her saddle! She could ride! SuddenlyVenters remembered she had said she could ride. But he had not dreamedshe was capable of such superb horsemanship. Then all at once, flashingover him, thrilling him, came the recollection that Bess was Oldring'sMasked Rider. 

He forgot Tull--the running riders--the race. He let Night have a freerein and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing he would keep toBlack Star's course, knowing that he had been chosen by the best ridernow on the upland sage. For Jerry Card was dead. And fame had rivaledhim with only one rider, and that was the slender girl who now swung soeasily with Black Star's stride. Venters had abhorred her notoriety, butnow he took passionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power overa horse. And he delved into his memory, recalling famous rides which hehad heard related in the villages and round the camp-fires. Oldring'sMasked Rider! Many times this strange rider, at once well known andunknown, had escaped pursuers by matchless riding. He had to run thegantlet of vigilantes down the main street of Stone Bridge, leaving deadhorses and dead rustlers behind. He had jumped his horse over the GerberWash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields of Glaze from thewild sage. He had been surrounded north of Sterling; and he had brokenthrough the line. How often had been told the story of day stampedes, of night raids, of pursuit, and then how the Masked Rider, swift as thewind, was gone in the sage! A fleet, dark horse--a slender, dark form--ablack mask--a driving run down the slope--a dot on the purple sage--ashadowy, muffled steed disappearing in the night!

And this Masked Rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth Erne!

The sweet sage wind rushed in Venters's face and sang a song in hisears. He heard the dull, rapid beat of Night's hoofs; he saw Black Stardrawing away, farther and farther. He realized both horses were swingingto the west. Then gunshots in the rear reminded him of Tull. Venterslooked back. Far to the side, dropping behind, trooped the riders. Theywere shooting. Venters saw no puffs or dust, heard no whistling bullets. He was out of range. When he looked back again Tull's riders had givenup pursuit. The best they could do, no doubt, had been to get nearenough to recognize who really rode the blacks. Venters saw Tulldrooping in his saddle. 

Then Venters pulled Night out of his running stride. Those few miles hadscarcely warmed the black, but Venters wished to save him. Bess turned, and, though she was far away, Venters caught the white glint of herwaving hand. He held Night to a trot and rode on, seeing Bess and BlackStar, and the sloping upward stretch of sage, and from time to time thereceding black riders behind. Soon they disappeared behind a ridge, andhe turned no more. They would go back to Lassiter's trail and follow it, and follow in vain. So Venters rode on, with the wind growing sweeterto taste and smell, and the purple sage richer and the sky bluer in hissight; and the song in his ears ringing. By and by Bess halted to waitfor him, and he knew she had come to the trail. When he reached her itwas to smile at sight of her standing with arms round Black Star's neck. 

"Oh, Bern! I love him!" she cried. "He's beautiful; he knows; and howhe can run! I've had fast horses. But Black Star!. .. Wrangle never beathim!"

"I'm wondering if I didn't dream that. Bess, the blacks are grand. Whatit must have cost Jane--ah!--well, when we get out of this wild countrywith Star and Night, back to my old home in Illinois, we'll buy abeautiful farm with meadows and springs and cool shade. There we'll turnthe horses free--free to roam and browse and drink--never to feel a spuragain--never to be ridden!"

"I would like that, " said Bess. 

They rested. Then, mounting, they rode side by side up the white trail. The sun rose higher behind them. Far to the left a low fine of greenmarked the site of Cottonwoods. Venters looked once and looked nomore. Bess gazed only straight ahead. They put the blacks to thelong, swinging rider's canter, and at times pulled them to a trot, andoccasionally to a walk. The hours passed, the miles slipped behind, andthe wall of rock loomed in the fore. The Notch opened wide. It was arugged, stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Venters and Bessran the blacks through it. An old trail led off to the right, takingthe line of the wall, and his Venters knew to be the trail mentioned byLassiter. 

The little hamlet, Glaze, a white and green patch in the vast waste ofpurple, lay miles down a slope much like the Cottonwoods slope, onlythis descended to the west. And miles farther west a faint green spotmarked the location of Stone Bridge. All the rest of that world wasseemingly smooth, undulating sage, with no ragged lines of canyons toaccentuate its wildness. 

"Bess, we're safe--we're free!" said Venters. "We're alone on the sage. We're half way to Sterling. "

"Ah! I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Withersteen. "

"Never fear, Bess. He'll outwit Tull. He'll get away and hide hersafely. He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I don't think he'll goso far. "

"Bern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?"

"No. But, dear, listen. Well go back some day, after years--ten years. Then we'll be forgotten. And our valley will be just as we left it. "

"What if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the Pass?"

"I've thought of that. I'll pack in ropes and ropes. And if the outlet'sclosed we'll climb up the cliffs and over them to the valley and go downon rope ladders. It could be done. I know just where to make the climb, and I'll never forget. "

"Oh yes, let us go back!"

"It's something sweet to look forward to. Bess, it's like all the futurelooks to me. "

"Call me--Elizabeth, " she said, shyly. 

"Elizabeth Erne! It's a beautiful name. But I'll never forget Bess. Doyou know--have you thought that very soon--by this time to-morrow--youwill be Elizabeth Venters?"

So they rode on down the old trail. And the sun sloped to the west, anda golden sheen lay on the sage. The hours sped now; the afternoon waned. Often they rested the horses. The glisten of a pool of water in a hollowcaught Venters's eye, and here he unsaddled the blacks and let them rolland drink and browse. When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sunwas low, a crimson ball, and the valley seemed veiled in purple fireand smoke. It was that short time when the sun appeared to rest beforesetting, and silence, like a cloak of invisible life, lay heavy on allthat shimmering world of sage. 

They watched the sun begin to bury its red curve under the dark horizon. 

"We'll ride on till late, " he said. "Then you can sleep a little, while I watch and graze the horses. And we'll ride into Sterling earlyto-morrow. We'll be married!. .. We'll be in time to catch the stage. We'll tie Black Star and Night behind--and then--for a country not wildand terrible like this!"

"Oh, Bern!. .. But look! The sun is setting on the sage--the last timefor us till we dare come again to the Utah border. Ten years! Oh, Bern, look, so you will never forget!"

Slumbering, fading purple fire burned over the undulating sage ridges. Long streaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed the far westernslope. Drifting, golden veils mingled with low, purple shadows. Colorsand shades changed in slow, wondrous transformation. 

Suddenly Venters was startled by a low, rumbling roar--so low that itwas like the roar in a sea-shell. 

"Bess, did you hear anything?" he whispered. 

"No. "

"Listen!. .. Maybe I only imagined--Ah!"

Out of the east or north from remote distance, breathed an infinitelylow, continuously long sound--deep, weird, detonating, thundering, deadening--dying. 

CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALL OF BALANCING ROCK

Through tear-blurred sight Jane Withersteen watched Venters andElizabeth Erne and the black racers disappear over the ridge of sage. 

"They're gone!" said Lassiter. "An' they're safe now. An' there'll neverbe a day of their comin' happy lives but what they'll remember JaneWithersteen an'--an' Uncle Jim!. .. I reckon, Jane, we'd better be on ourway. "

The burros obediently wheeled and started down the break with littlecautious steps, but Lassiter had to leash the whining dogs and leadthem. Jane felt herself bound in a feeling that was neither listlessnessnor indifference, yet which rendered her incapable of interest. She wasstill strong in body, but emotionally tired. That hour at the entranceto Deception Pass had been the climax of her suffering--the flood ofher wrath--the last of her sacrifice--the supremity of her love--and theattainment of peace. She thought that if she had little Fay she wouldnot ask any more of life. 

Like an automaton she followed Lassiter down the steep trail of dust andbits of weathered stone; and when the little slides moved with her orpiled around her knees she experienced no alarm. Vague relief came toher in the sense of being enclosed between dark stone walls, deep hiddenfrom the glare of sun, from the glistening sage. Lassiter lengthened thestirrup straps on one of the burros and bade her mount and ride closeto him. She was to keep the burro from cracking his little hard hoofs onstones. Then she was riding on between dark, gleaming walls. There werequiet and rest and coolness in this canyon. She noted indifferently thatthey passed close under shady, bulging shelves of cliff, through patchesof grass and sage and thicket and groves of slender trees, and overwhite, pebbly washes, and around masses of broken rock. The burrostrotted tirelessly; the dogs, once more free, pattered tirelessly; andLassiter led on with never a stop, and at every open place he lookedback. The shade under the walls gave place to sunlight. And presentlythey came to a dense thicket of slender trees, through which they passedto rich, green grass and water. Here Lassiter rested the burros for alittle while, but he was restless, uneasy, silent, always listening, peering under the trees. She dully reflected that enemies were behindthem--before them; still the thought awakened no dread or concern orinterest. 

At his bidding she mounted and rode on close to the heels of his burro. The canyon narrowed; the walls lifted their rugged rims higher; andthe sun shone down hot from the center of the blue stream of sky above. Lassiter traveled slower, with more exceeding care as to the groundhe chose, and he kept speaking low to the dogs. They were nowhunting-dogs--keen, alert, suspicious, sniffing the warm breeze. The monotony of the yellow walls broke in change of color and smoothsurface, and the rugged outline of rims grew craggy. Splits appearedin deep breaks, and gorges running at right angles, and then the Passopened wide at a junction of intersecting canyons. 

Lassiter dismounted, led his burro, called the dogs close, and proceededat snail pace through dark masses of rock and dense thickets under theleft wall. Long he watched and listened before venturing to cross themouths of side canyons. At length he halted, fled his burro, lifted awarning hand to Jane, and then slipped away among the boulders, and, followed by the stealthy dogs, disappeared from sight. The time heremained absent was neither short nor long to Jane Withersteen. 

When he reached her side again he was pale, and his lips were set in ahard line, and his gray eyes glittered coldly. Bidding her dismount, heled the burros into a covert of stones and cedars, and tied them. 

"Jane, I've run into the fellers I've been lookin' for, an' I'm goin'after them, " he said. 

"Why?" she asked. 

"I reckon I won't take time to tell you. "

"Couldn't we slip by without being seen?"

"Likely enough. But that ain't my game. An' I'd like to know, in case Idon't come back, what you'll do. "

"What can I do?"

"I reckon you can go back to Tull. Or stay in the Pass an' be taken offby rustlers. Which'll you do?"

"I don't know. I can't think very well. But I believe I'd rather betaken off by rustlers. "

Lassiter sat down, put his head in his hands, and remained for a fewmoments in what appeared to be deep and painful thought. When he liftedhis face it was haggard, lined, cold as sculptured marble. 

"I'll go. I only mentioned that chance of my not comin' back. I'm prettysure to come. "

"Need you risk so much? Must you fight more? Haven't you shed enoughblood?"

"I'd like to tell you why I'm goin', " he continued, in coldness he hadseldom used to her. She remarked it, but it was the same to her as if hehad spoken with his old gentle warmth. "But I reckon I won't. Only, I'llsay that mercy an' goodness, such as is in you, though they're the grandthings in human nature, can't be lived up to on this Utah border. Life'shell out here. You think--or you used to think--that your religion madethis life heaven. Mebbe them scales on your eyes has dropped now. Jane, I wouldn't have you no different, an' that's why I'm going to try tohide you somewhere in this Pass. I'd like to hide many more women, forI've come to see there are more like you among your people. An' I'd likeyou to see jest how hard an' cruel this border life is. It's bloody. You'd think churches an' churchmen would make it better. They make itworse. You give names to things--bishops, elders, ministers, Mormonism, duty, faith, glory. You dream--or you're driven mad. I'm a man, an'I know. I name fanatics, followers, blind women, oppressors, thieves, ranchers, rustlers, riders. An' we have--what you've lived through theselast months. It can't be helped. But it can't last always. An' rememberhis--some day the border'll be better, cleaner, for the ways of ten likeLassiter!"

She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely andsteadfastly, and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocksand trees. Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, remained withJane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be ofher body. And she sat down in the shade and tried to think. She saw acreeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once the meanest flower, a color, the flight of the bee, or any living thing had given her deepest joy. Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust, probablyto his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in hersorrow. 

Suddenly from the mouth of the canyon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercinglyhigh yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped, in grimimitation. Dull revolver shots--hoarse yells--pound of hoofs--shrillneighs of horses--commingling of echoes--and again silence! Lassitermust be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of thehistory of the world flashed through her mind--Greek and Roman wars, dark, mediaeval times, the crimes in the name of religion. On sea, onland, everywhere--shooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men!Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom--for these, men killed one another. 

She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelikefoliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care. 

More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding ofweathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again theclear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry ofdeath. Then rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Jane's hiding-place; one struck a stone and whinedaway in the air. After that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; andthen they ceased under long, thundering fire from heavier guns. 

Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses' hoofs on thestones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened untilLassiter's soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When heappeared he was covered with blood. 

"All right, Jane, " he said. "I come back. An' don't worry. "

With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands. 

"Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, en' tie up these places. Thathole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse 'n this at over my ear. There--you're doin' fine! Not a bit nervous--no tremblin'. I reckon Iain't done your courage justice. I'm glad you're brave jest now--you'llneed to be. Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them fromshootin' me deep, but they was slingin' lead close all the time. I usedup all the rifle shells, an' en I went after them. Mebbe you heard. Itwas then I got hit. Had to use up every shell in my own gun, an' theydid, too, as I seen. Rustlers an' Mormons, Jane! An' now I'm packin'five bullet holes in my carcass, an' guns without shells. Hurry, now. "

He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the saddles andlet them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led theway through stones and cedars to an open where two horses stood. 

"Jane, are you strong?" he asked. 

"I think so. I'm not tired, " Jane replied. 

"I don't mean that way. Can you bear up?"

"I think I can bear anything. "

"I reckon you look a little cold an' thick. So I'm preparin' you. "

"For what?"

"I didn't tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. I couldn'ttell you. I believe you'd have died. But I can tell you now--if you'llbear up under a shock?"

"Go on, my friend. "

"I've got little Fay! Alive--bad hurt--but she'll live!"

Jane Withersteen's dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiter's deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life. 

"Here, " he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass. 

Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By thatlong, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fay'sloveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. Butshe was not dead--her heart beat--and Jane Withersteen gathered strengthand lived again. 

"You see I jest had to go after Fay, " Lassiter was saying, as he kneltto bathe her little pale face. "But I reckon I don't want no morechoices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in thatbunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, that's why they wereholding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, en' was hard put to itto figure out a way to get her. An' I wanted hosses, too. I had to takechances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss withlittle Fay, an' when I shot him, of course she dropped. She's stunnedan' bruised--she fell right on her head. Jane, she's comin' to! Sheain't bad hurt!"

Fay's long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemedglazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence--bewilderment--memory--and sudden wonderfuljoy. 

"Muvver--Jane!" she whispered. 

"Oh, little Fay, little Fay!" cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child toher. 

"Now, we've got to rustle!" said Lassiter, in grim coolness. "Jane, lookdown the Pass!"

Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of ridersfiling out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a whitehorse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew. 

"Tull!" she almost screamed. 

"I reckon. But, Jane, we've still got the game in our hands. They'reridin' tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. He wouldn'tforget that. An' we've fresh hosses. "

Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girthsand cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride. 

"Lift little Fay up, " he said. 

With shaking arms Jane complied. 

"Get back your nerve, woman! This's life or death now. Mind that. Climbup! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hoss's goin' en'ride!"

Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed hersoul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canyon where the rapid clatter of hoofsrapped sharply from the walls. The wind roared in her ears; the gleamingcliffs swept by; trail and sage and grass moved under her. Lassiter'sbandaged, blood-stained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; helooked back down the Pass; he spurred his horse. Jane clung on, spurringlikewise. And the horses settled from hard, furious gallop into along-striding, driving run. She had never ridden at anything like thatpace; desperately she tried to get the swing of the horse, to be of somehelp to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guidehim into it. But she failed of everything except to keep her seat thesaddle, and to spur and spur. At times she closed her eyes unable tobear sight of Fay's golden curls streaming in the wind. She could notpray; she could not rail; she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiter'sride with little Fay to safety. She would have tried to turn theiron-jawed brute she rode, she would have given herself to thatrelentless, dark-browed Tull. But she knew Lassiter would turn with her, so she rode on and on. 

Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could nottell. Lassiter's horse covered her with froth that blew back in whitestreams. Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time tosave them, and went on dripping, heaving, staggering. 

"Oh, Lassiter, we must run--we must run!"

He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown from his head, and blood trickled down his face. He was bowing under the strainof injuries, of the ride, of his burden. Yet how cool and gay helooked--how intrepid!

The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Hourssped or dragged. Time was an instant--an eternity. Jane Withersteen felthell pursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall fromher horse. 

"Oh, Lassiter! Is he coming?"

The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fay's goldenhair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; the walls gleamed; the sageglistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the walls shaded, thesage paled. The horses walked--trotted--galloped--ran--to fall againto walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The canyon turned, brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again thesun, lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, scrawledstone appeared to block the Pass. 

"Bear up, Jane, bear up!" called Lassiter. "It's our game, if you don'tweaken. "

"Lassiter! Go on--alone! Save little Fay!"

"Only with you!"

"Oh!--I'm a coward--a miserable coward! I can't fight or think or hopeor pray! I'm lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is he coming? I'll not--holdout--"

"Keep your breath, woman, an' ride not for yourself or for me, but forFay!"

A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter's horse to a walk. 

"He's done, " said the rider. 

"Oh, no--no!" moaned Jane. 

"Look back, Jane, look back. Three--four miles we've come across thisvalley, en' no Tull yet in sight. Only a few more miles!"

Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gapin the wall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horsein the lead. Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. Theweight of cold, horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at thedogs, at Lassiter's limping horse, at the blood on his face, at therocks growing nearer, last at Fay's golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believedwould see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, Lassiter's horse stumbled and fell. 

He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle. 

"Jane, take the child, " he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane clasped herarms suddenly strong. "They're gainin', " went on Lassiter, as he watchedthe pursuing riders. "But we'll beat 'em yet. "

Turning with Jane's bridle in his hand, he was about to start when hesaw the saddle-bag on the fallen horse. 

"I've jest about got time, " he muttered, and with swift fingers thatdid not blunder or fumble he loosened the bag and threw it over hisshoulder. Then he started to run, leading Jane's horse, and he ran, andtrotted, and walked, and ran again. Close ahead now Jane saw a rise ofbare rock. Lassiter reached it, searched along the base, and, findinga low place, dragged the weary horse up and over round, smooth stone. Looking backward, Jane saw Tull's white horse not a mile distant, withriders strung out in a long line behind him. Looking forward, she sawmore valley to the right, and to the left a towering cliff. Lassiterpulled the horse and kept on. 

Little Fay lay in her arms with wide-open eyes--eyes which were stillshadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. The goldencurls blew across Jane's lips; the little hands feebly clasped her arm;a ghost of a troubled, trustful smile hovered round the sweet lips. AndJane Withersteen awoke to the spirit of a lioness. 

Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward cedar trees oftwisted and bleached appearance. Among these he halted. 

"Jane, give me the girl en' get down, " he said. As if it wrenched him heunbuckled the empty black guns with a strange air of finality. He thenreceived Fay in his arms and stood a moment looking backward. Tull'swhite horse mounted the ridge of round stone, and several bays or blacksfollowed. "I wonder what he'll think when he sees them empty guns. Jane, bring your saddle-bag and climb after me. "

A glistening, wonderful bare slope, with little holes, swelled up andup to lose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely watched hersteps and climbed behind Lassiter. He moved slowly. Perhaps he was onlyhusbanding his strength. But she saw drops of blood on the stone, andthen she knew. They climbed and climbed without looking back. Her breastlabored; she began to feel as if little points of fiery steel werepenetrating her side into her lungs. She heard the panting of Lassiterand the quicker panting of the dogs. 

"Wait--here, " he said. 

Before her rose a bulge of stone, nicked with little cut steps, andabove that a corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that a vast, ponderous cliff. 

The dogs pattered up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter mountedthe steps with Fay, and he swayed like a drunken man, and he toodisappeared. But instantly he returned alone, and half ran, half slippeddown to her. 

Then from below pealed up hoarse shouts of angry men. Tull and severalof his riders had reached the spot where Lassiter had parted with hisguns. 

"You'll need that breath--mebbe!" said Lassiter, facing downward, withglittering eyes. 

"Now, Jane, the last pull, " he went on. "Walk up them little steps. I'llfollow an' steady you. Don't think. Jest go. Little Fay's above. Hereyes are open. She jest said to me, 'Where's muvver Jane?'"

Without a fear or a tremor or a slip or a touch of Lassiter's hand JaneWithersteen walked up that ladder of cut steps. 

He pushed her round the corner of the wall. Fay lay, with wide staringeyes, in the shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs waited. Lassiter pickedup the child and turned into a dark cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazed at a wonderfully smooth and steep inclineleading up between ruined, splintered, toppling walls. A red hazefrom the setting sun filled this passage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured steps, and blood dripped from him to make splotches on thewhite stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, but was compelled, forshe found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to drag her down; shegasped for breath, she thought her heart was bursting. Slower, sloweryet the rider climbed, whistling as he breathed. The incline widened. Huge pinnacles and monuments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunset haze shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane didnot look high, but she felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. She felt that it was a fearful, menacing place. And she climbed on inheartrending effort. And she fell beside Lassiter and Fay at the top ofthe incline in a narrow, smooth divide. 

He staggered to his feet--staggered to a huge, leaning rock that restedon a small pedestal. He put his hand on it--the hand that had been shotthrough--and Jane saw blood drip from the ragged hole. Then he fell. 

"Jane--I--can't--do--it!" he whispered. 

"What?"

"Roll the--stone!. .. All my--life I've loved--to roll stones--en' nowI--can't!"

"What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone?"

"I planned to--fetch you here--to roll this stone. See! It'll smash thecrags--loosen the walls--close the outlet!"

As Jane Withersteen gazed down that long incline, walled in by crumblingcliffs, awaiting only the slightest jar to make them fall asunder, she saw Tull appear at the bottom and begin to climb. A rider followedhim--another--and another. 

"See! Tull! The riders!"

"Yes--they'll get us--now. "

"Why? Haven't you strength left to roll the stone?"

"Jane--it ain't that--I've lost my nerve!"

"You!. .. Lassiter!"

"I wanted to roll it--meant to--but I--can't. Venters's valley is downbehind here. We could--live there. But if I roll the stone--we're shutin for always. I don't dare. I'm thinkin' of you!"

"Lassiter! Roll the stone!" she cried. 

He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed the bloodyhand on the Balancing Rock. Jane Withersteen gazed from him down thepassageway. Tull was climbing. Almost, she thought, she saw his dark, relentless face. Behind him more riders climbed. What did they mean forFay--for Lassiter--for herself?

"Roll the stone!. .. Lassiter, I love you!"

Under all his deathly pallor, and the blood, and the iron of searedcheek and lined brow, worked a great change. He placed both hands on therock and then leaned his shoulder there and braced his powerful body. 

ROLL THE STONE!

It stirred, it groaned, it grated, it moved, and with a slow grinding, as of wrathful relief, began to lean. It had waited ages to fall, andnow was slow in starting. Then, as if suddenly instinct with life, itleaped hurtingly down to alight on the steep incline, to bound moreswiftly into the air, to gather momentum, to plunge into the loftyleaning crag below. The crag thundered into atoms. A wave of air--asplitting shock! Dust shrouded the sunset red of shaking rims; dustshrouded Tull as he fell on his knees with uplifted arms. Shafts andmonuments and sections of wall fell majestically. 

From the depths there rose a long-drawn rumbling roar. The outlet toDeception Pass closed forever.