Riders of the Purple Sage

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"Hester," said Jane, sternly, "you may go home, and you need not
come back."

Jane shut the door and returned to Lassiter. Standing unsteadily,
she put her hand on his arm. She let him see that doubt had gone,
and how this 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
spared her. "It's begun again--that work in the dark."

"Nay, Lassiter--it never stopped!"

So bitter certainty claimed her at last, and trust fled
Withersteen House and fled forever. The women who owed much to
Jane Withersteen changed not in love for her, nor in devotion to
their household work, but they poisoned both by a thousand acts
of stealth and cunning and duplicity. Jane broke out once and
caught them in strange, stone-faced, unhesitating falsehood.
Thereafter she broke out no more. She forgave them because they
were driven. Poor, fettered, and sealed Hagars, how she pitied
them! What terrible thing bound them and locked their lips, when
they showed neither consciousness of guilt toward their
benefactress nor distress at the slow wearing apart of
long-established and dear ties?

"The blindness again!" cried Jane Withersteen. "In my sisters as
in me!...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 went about the underhand work to which they had
been bidden. The gloom of the house and the gloom of its
mistress, which darkened even the bright spirit of little Fay,
did not pervade these women. Happiness was not among them, but
they were aloof from gloom. They spied and listened; they
received and sent secret messengers; and they stole Jane's books
and 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 by one, without leave or explanation or
farewell, they left Withersteen House, and never
returned.

Coincident with this disappearance Jane's gardeners and workers
in the alfalfa fields and stable men quit her, not even asking
for their wages. Of all her Mormon employees about the great
ranch only Jerd remained. He went on with his duty, but talked no
more of the change than if it had never occurred.

"Jerd," said Jane, "what stock you can't take care of turn out in
the sage. Let your first thought be for Black Star and Night.
Keep them in perfect condition. Run them every day and watch them
always."

Though Jane Withersteen gave them such liberality, she loved her
possessions. She loved the rich, green stretches of alfalfa, and
the farms, and the grove, and the old stone house, and the
beautiful, ever-faithful amber spring, and every one of a myriad
of horses and colts and burros and fowls down to the smallest
rabbit that nipped her vegetables; but she loved best her noble
Arabian steeds. In common with all riders of the upland sage Jane
cherished two material things--the cold, sweet, brown water that
made life possible in the wilderness and the horses which were a
part of that life. When Lassiter asked her what Lassiter would be
without his guns he was assuming that his horse was part of
himself. So Jane loved Black Star and Night because it was her
nature to love all beautiful creatures--perhaps all living
things; and then she loved them because she herself was of the
sage and in her had been born and bred the rider's instinct to
rely on his four-footed brother. And when Jane gave Jerd the
order to keep her favorites trained down to the day it was a
half-conscious admission that presaged a time when she would need
her fleet horses.

Jane had now, however, no leisure to brood over the coils that
were closing round her. Mrs. Larkin grew weaker as the August
days began; she required constant care; there was little Fay to
look after; and such household work as was imperative. Lassiter
put Bells in the stable with the other racers, and directed his
efforts to a closer attendance upon Jane. She welcomed the
change. He was always at hand to help, and it was her fortune to
learn that his boast of being awkward around women had its root
in humility and was not true.

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways
which a woman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and was
of especial help to her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The woman
suffered most at night, and this often broke Jane's rest. So it
came about that Lassiter would stay by Mrs. Larkin during the
day, when she needed care, and Jane would make up the sleep she
lost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly to 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. How sad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Jane
thought lost beyond all redemption! Yet ever and ever Lassiter
towered above her, and behind or through his black, sinister
figure shone something luminous that strangely affected Jane.
Good and evil began to seem incomprehensibly blended in her
judgment. It was her belief that evil could not come forth 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
one morning Judkins presented himself before her in the
courtyard.

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him,
with his leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots worn
through on the stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. He
wore two guns and carried a Winchester.

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread and
drink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The men
exchanged glances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry and
Judkins's bold reply, 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 'moss always 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 good while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no
trouble. Why, even the sage dogs left us. But it's begun
agin--thet flashin' of lights over ridge tips, an' queer puffin'
of smoke, en' then at night strange whistles 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 got the 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 know what
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 drive the
herd on the far side of the first break of Deception Pass.
There's a great round valley over there, an' no ridges or piles
of rocks to aid these stampeders. The rains are due. We'll hev
plenty of water fer a while. An' we can hold thet herd from
anybody except Oldrin'. I come in fer supplies. I'll pack a
couple of burros an' drive out after dark to-night."

"Judkins, take what you want from the store-room. Lassiter will
help you. I--I can't thank you enough...but--wait."

Jane went to the room that had once been her father's, and from a
secret chamber in the thick stone wall she took a bag of gold,
and, carrying it back to the court, she gave it to the rider.

"There, Judkins, and understand that I regard it as little for
your loyalty. 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 much in--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 faithful
friends. I've fallen upon evil days. God only knows what will
become of me and mine! So take the gold."

She smiled in understanding of his speechless gratitude, and left
him with Lassiter. Presently she heard him speaking low at first,
then in louder 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 may seem bad to you, but it ain't bad--yet. Some of
these wall-eyed fellers who 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 things that are really hell-bent."

Jane covered her ears and ran to her own room, and there like
caged lioness she paced to and fro till the coming of little Fay
reversed her dark thoughts.

The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhile
Jane was resting in the court, a horseman clattered through he
grove and up to the hitching-rack. He leaped off and approached
Jane with the manner of a man determined to execute difficult
mission, yet fearful of its reception. In the gaunt, wiry figure
and the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormon
riders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken.
Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, and
as he stepped before her, removing his hat and making manly
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't think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy.
When she was living and your riders quit, I had to also. I was
afraid of what might be done- -said to her....Miss Withersteen,
we can't talk of--of what's going on now--"

"Blake, do you know?"

"I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. But
without explanation or excuse I offer my services. I'm a
Mormon--I hope a good one. But--there are some things!...It's no
use, Miss Withersteen, I can'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 to you!"

"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 you pretty well--know you'll never give in. I wouldn't if I
were you. And I--I must--Something makes me tell you the worst is
yet to come. That's all. I absolutely can't say more. Will you
take me back--let me ride for you--show everybody what I
mean?"

"Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when
they quit!" Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash
down upon her hands. "I thought so much of them--tried so hard to
be good to them. And not one was true. You've made it easy to
forgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare not
return to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet I
want you so much."

"Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson to
Mormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is
right. I believe in 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
every rider aches in his secret heart to do for you....Miss
Withersteen, I hoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that my
mother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how the
thing galled me--she told me to come back....Will you take me?"

"God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And will
you--will you accept gold from me?"

"Miss Withersteen!"

"I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If you
will not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a
few months-- weeks--days till the storm breaks. Then you'd have
nothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm you
against poverty, and me against endless regret. I'll give you
gold which you can hide--till some future time."

"Well, if it pleases you," replied Blake. "But you know I never
thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to
see this man Lassiter. Is he here?"

"Yes, but, Blake--what--Need you see him? Why?" asked Jane,
instantly worried. "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,"
answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for the
rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step--then his tall
form crossed the threshold.

"Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back
to me and 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 a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I've
come to beg her to take me back. Now I don't know you; but I
know--what you are. So I've this to say to your face. It would
never occur to this woman to imagine--let alone suspect me to be
a spy. She couldn't think it might just be a low plot to come
here and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen 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
contrasted with Blake's hot, impulsive words! "You might have
saved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your
mind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! An'
mebbe--"

"Blake," interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a
colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. "Go at once
and fetch me a report of my horses."

"Miss Withersteen!...You mean the big drove--down in the
sage-cleared fields?"

"Of course," replied Jane. "My horses are all there, except the
blooded stock 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 flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of
what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise
immediately from such a blow.

"My horses! My horses! What's become of them?"

"Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring....And I
trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass."

"My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next.
I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be
like parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter--Blake--am I
in danger of losing my racers?"

"A rustler--or--or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most of
all want the blacks," said Lassiter. His evasive reply was
affirmative enough. 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't be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star
and Night, if you put such store on their value."

"Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reason
why I mustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd
every day when he runs the horses, and don't let them out of your
sight. If you would please me--win my gratitude, guard my black
racers."

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter
regarded Jane 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. Now I ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are the
handsomest hosses I ever seen. 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, but he can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only
Wrangle can do that."

"I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels to
your black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase,
Wrangle could kill your favorites."

"No, no," replied Jane, impatiently. "Lassiter, why do you say
that so often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believe
it's only kindness. You're always trying to keep my mind off
worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?"

"I reckon so." Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in
her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if
counting the silver pieces on the band. "Well, Jane, I've sort of
read a little that's passin' in your mind."

"You think I might fly from my home--from Cottonwoods--from the
Utah border?"

"I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks I
wouldn't like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could
catch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe
he hasn't got him now....Besides--things are happenin', an'
somethin' of the same queer nature might have happened to
Venters."

"God knows you're right!...Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In my
trouble I've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fear
for him. I've heard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf....

"As to your reading my thoughts--well, your suggestion makes an
actual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I
dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I've
strange dreams. I'm not always practical and thinking of my many
duties, as you said once. For instance--if I dared--if I dared
I'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me--and hide
me."

"Jane!"

The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seen
Lassiter's cool calm broken--when he had met little Fay, when he
had learned how and why he had come to love both child and
mistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But one
and all they could not be considered in the light of his present
agitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white--not only did he grow
tense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly,
violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to his
breast.

"Lassiter!" cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she
took sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released
her. "Forgive me!" went on Jane. "I'm always forgetting
your--your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I'm
always making you out more than human...only, let me say--I meant
that--about riding away. I'm wretched, sick of this--this--Oh,
something hitter and black grows on my heart!"

"Jane, the hell--of it," he replied, with deep intake of breath,
"is you can't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for my
grabbin' you--that way, as much as the crazy boy's rapture your
words gave me. I don't understand 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 tell you!"

"Tell me all. It's uncertainty that makes me a coward. It's faith
and hope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every
day I awake believing--still believing. The day grows, and with
it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and
hotter into my heart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all,
and for myself--I sleep--and I awake free once more, trustful,
faithful, to believe--to hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a
thousand years till night again!...But if you want to see me a
woman, tell me why I can't ride away--tell me what more I'm to
lose--tell me the worst."

"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, except
when you're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. The
cottonwood grove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indians
in the grass. When you 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 into the house. Jane Withersteen,
you know, never locked a door! This here grove's a hummin'
bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't so much 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 to shoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit to
watch only. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. You
can't get away-- not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, you
might. But that's sure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattle
that's left--your home en' ranch--en' amber Spring. You can't
even hide a sack of gold! For it couldn'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 before about 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. If you'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--a Mormon, yet I can't see! I've not failed in
religion--in duty. For years I'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 become poor. What am I,
what are my possessions to set in motion such intensity of secret
oppression?"

"Jane, the mind behind it all is an empire builder."

"But, Lassiter, I would give freely--all I own to avert
this--this wretched thing. If I gave--that would leave me with
faith still. Surely my--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
it something of pity. "You are a woman, fine en' big an' strong,
an' your heart matches your size. But in mind you're a child.
I'll say a little more--then I'm done. I'll never mention this
again. Among many thousands of women you're one who has bucked
against your churchmen. They tried you out, an' failed of
persuasion, an' finally of threats. You meet now the 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
do they care for your soul?"

CHAPTER XIII. SOLITUDE AND STORM

In his hidden valley Venters awakened from sleep, and his ears
rang with innumerable melodies from full-throated mockingbirds,
and his eyes opened wide upon the glorious golden shaft of
sunlight shining through the great stone bridge. The circle of
cliffs surrounding Surprise Valley lay shrouded in morning mist,
a dim blue low down along the terraces, a creamy, moving cloud
along the ramparts. The oak forest in the center was a plumed and
tufted oval of gold.

He saw Bess under the spruces. Upon her complete recovery of
strength she always rose with the dawn. At the moment she was
feeding the quail she had tamed. And she had begun to tame the
mocking-birds. They fluttered among the branches overhead and
some left off their songs to flit down and shyly hop near the
twittering quail. Little gray and white rabbits crouched in the
grass, now nibbling, now laying long ears flat and watching the
dogs.

Venters's swift glance took in the brightening valley, and Bess
and her pets, and Ring and Whitie. It swept over all to return
again and rest upon the girl. She had changed. To the dark
trousers and blouse she had added moccasins of her own make, but
she no longer resembled a boy. No eye could have failed to mark
the rounded contours of a woman. The change had been to grace and
beauty. A glint of warm gold gleamed from her hair, and a tint of
red shone in the clear dark brown of cheeks. The haunting
sweetness of her lips and eyes, that earlier had been illusive, a
promise, had become a living fact. She fitted harmoniously into
that wonderful 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 of the summer rains. The rains were due soon. But until
their arrival and the necessity for his trip to the village he
sequestered in a far corner of mind all thought of peril, of his
past life, and almost that of the present. It was enough to live.
He did not want to know what lay hidden in the dim and distant
future. Surprise Valley had enchanted him. In this home of the
cliff-dwellers there were peace and quiet and solitude, and
another thing, wondrous as the golden morning shaft of sunlight,
that he dared not ponder over long enough to understand.

The solitude he had hated when alone he had now come to love. He
was assimilating something from this valley of gleams and
shadows. From this strange girl he was assimilating more.

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