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Riders of the Purple Sage

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Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey
Etext prepared by Bill Brewer, billbrewer@ttu.edu

Corrections by Rick Fane, rfane@earthlink.net

RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

ZANE GREY

CHAPTER I. LASSITER

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

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

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

That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually
coming in the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border.
Glaze--Stone Bridge--Sterling, villages to the north, had risen
against the invasion of Gentile settlers and the forays of
rustlers. There had been opposition to the one and fighting with
the other. And now Cottonwoods had begun to wake and bestir
itself and grown hard.

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

While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward
change. The bray of a lazy burro broke the afternoon quiet, and
it was comfortingly suggestive of the drowsy farmyard, and the
open corrals, and the green alfalfa fields. Her clear sight
intensified the purple sage-slope as it rolled before her. Low
swells of prairie-like ground sloped up to the west. Dark, lonely
cedar-trees, few and far between, stood out strikingly, and at
long distances ruins of red rocks. Farther on, up the gradual
slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming dark purple
and stretching its solitary, mystic way, a wavering line that
faded in the north. Here to the westward was the light and color
and beauty. Northward the slope descended to a dim line of
canyons from which rose an up-Hinging of the earth, not
mountainous, but a vast heave of purple uplands, with ribbed and
fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs, and gray escarpments.
Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoon shadows.

The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question
at hand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and
threw their 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 to the village. He didn't come."

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

"Where is Venters?"

"I left him in the courtyard."

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

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

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

"I'll tell you presently," replied Tull. "But first tell me why
you defend this worthless rider?"

"Worthless!" exclaimed Jane, indignantly. "He's nothing of the
kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There's not a reason why
I shouldn't champion him and every reason why I should. It's no
little shame to me, Elder Tull, that through my friendship he has
roused the enmity of my people and become an outcast. Besides I
owe him eternal gratitude for saving the life of little Fay."

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

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

"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 on these beggars of Gentiles that I've an idea
you might love Venters."

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

"Maybe I do love him," said Jane. She felt both fear and anger
stir her heart. "I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow! he
certainly needs some one 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
into the lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But
he stood tall and straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with
the muscles of his bound arms rippling and a blue flame of
defiance in the gaze he bent on Tull.

For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters's real spirit.
She wondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her
emotion cooled to 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 cattle of my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods.
And now when I come into the village to see this woman you set
your men on me. You hound me. You trail me as if I were a
rustler. I've no more to lose--except my life."

"Will you leave Utah?"

"Oh! I know," went on Venters, tauntingly, "it galls you, the
idea of beautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor
Gentile. You want her all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You
have use for her--and Withersteen House and Amber Spring and
seven thousand head of cattle!"

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

"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 back you'll get worse."

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

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

Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her.

"That'll do from you. Understand, you'll not be allowed to hold
this boy to a friendship that's offensive to your Bishop. Jane
Withersteen, your father left you wealth and power. It has turned
your head. You haven't yet come to see the place of Mormon women.
We've reasoned with you, borne with you. We've patiently waited.
We've let you have your fling, which is more than I ever saw
granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven't come to your senses.
Now, once for all, you can't have any further friendship with
Venters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leave Utah!"

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

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

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

"I'll take it here--if I must," said Venters. "But by God!--Tull
you'd better kill me outright. That'll be a dear whipping for you
and your praying 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 personal and sinister, a deep of himself, an
engulfing abyss. As his religious mood was fanatical and
inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless.

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

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

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

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

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

"A rider!"

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

"Do you know him? Does 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 such a way that he concealed Venters.

The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slipping
action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a
peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch that while
performing it the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a
square front to the group before him.

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

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

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

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

The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black
sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely
regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow
walk, he seemed to relax.

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

Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted
instinctively and which riveted her attention. It had all the
characteristics of the range rider's--the leanness, the red burn
of the sun, and the set changelessness that came from years of
silence and solitude. But it was not these which held her, rather
the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, a piercing
wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the man was forever
looking for that which he never found. Jane's subtle woman's
intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a
hungering, a secret.

"Jane Withersteen, ma'am?" he inquired.

"Yes," she replied.

"The water here is yours?"

"Yes."

"May I water my horse?"

"Certainly. There's the trough."

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

"Stranger, it doesn't matter who you are. Water your horse. And
if you are thirsty and hungry come into my house."

"Thanks, ma'am. I can't accept for myself--but for my tired
horse--"

Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements
on the part of Tull's men broke up the little circle, exposing
the prisoner Venters.

"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 the bound Venters, and at the men who held him, and their
leader.

"In this here country all the rustlers an' thieves an'
cut-throats an' 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
Jane Withersteen, stilled the restlessness and brought a
momentary silence.

"Ask him," replied Jane, her voice rising high.

The rider stepped away from her, moving out with the same slow,
measured stride in which he had approached, and the fact that his
action placed her wholly to one side, and him no nearer to Tull
and his men, had a penetrating significance.

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

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

"Easy--easy--I ain't interferin' yet," replied the rider. The
tone of his voice had undergone a change. A different man had
spoken. Where, in addressing Jane, he had been mild and gentle,
now, with his first speech to Tull, he was dry, cool, biting.
"I've lest stumbled onto a queer deal. 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 that yet."

Tull fumed between amaze and anger.

"Meddler, we have a law here something different from woman's
whim-- 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 from kindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a
transformation in Tull and his companions. The leader gasped and
staggered backward at a blasphemous affront to an institution he
held most sacred. The man Jerry, holding the horses, dropped the
bridles and froze in his tracks. Like posts the other men stood
watchful-eyed, arms hanging rigid, all waiting.

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

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

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

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

"Well, young man, it seems to me that bein' a friend to such a
woman would be what you wouldn't want to help an' couldn't
help....What's to be done to you for it?"

"They intend to whip me. You know what that means--in Utah!"

"I reckon," replied the rider, slowly.

With his gray glance cold on the Mormons, with the restive
bit-champing of the horses, with Jane failing to repress her
mounting agitations, with Venters standing pale and still, the
tension of the moment tightened. Tull broke the spell with a
laugh, a laugh without mirth, a laugh that was only a sound
betraying fear.

"Come on, men!" he called.

Jane 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 way to teach you what you've never learned....Come men out of
here!"

"Mormon, the young man stays," said the rider.

Like a shot his voice halted Tull.

"What!"

"Who'll keep him? He's my prisoner!" cried Tull, hotly.
"Stranger, again I tell you--don't mix here. You've meddled
enough. Go your way now or--"

"Listen!...He stays."

Absolute certainty, beyond any shadow of doubt, breathed in the
rider's low voice.

"Who are you? We are seven here."

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

"LASSITER!"

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

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

CHAPTER II. COTTONWOODS

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

"I will water him myself," she said, and she led the horse to a
trough under a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers she
loosened the bridle and removed the bit. The horse snorted and
bent his head. The trough was of solid stone, hollowed out,
moss-covered and green and wet and cool, and the clear brown
water that fed it spouted and splashed from a wooden pipe.

"He has brought you far to-day?"

"Yes, ma'am, a matter of over sixty miles, 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 his eyes."

"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 are
unnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess it. They
have been driven, hated, scourged till their hearts have
hardened. But we women hope and pray for the time when our men
will soften."

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

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

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

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

Lassiter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his
weight from one leg to another, and turned his sombrero round and
round in his hands. "Ma'am," he began, presently, "I reckon your
kindness of heart makes you overlook things. Perhaps I ain't well
known hereabouts, but back up North there's Mormons who'd rest
uneasy in their graves at the idea 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 right to question my actions." She turned smilingly to Venters.
"You will come in, Bern, and Lassiter will come in. We'll eat and
be merry while we may."

"I'm only wonderin' if Tull an' his men'll raise a storm down in
the village," 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
great low-branching cottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun
sent golden bars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich,
welcome contrast to sage-tired eyes. Twittering quail darted
across the path, and from a tree-top somewhere a robin sang its
evening song, and on the still air floated the freshness and
murmur of flowing water.

The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cottonwoods,
and was a flat, long, red-stone structure with a covered court in
the center through which flowed a lively stream of amber-colored
water. In the massive blocks of stone and heavy timbers and solid
doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who had builded
against pillage and time; and in the flowers and mosses lining
the stone-bedded stream, in the bright colors of rugs and
blankets on the court floor, and the cozy corner with hammock and
books and the clean-linened table, showed the grace of a daughter
who lived for happiness and the day at hand.

Jane turned Lassiter's horse loose in the thick grass. "You will
want him to be near you," she said, "or I'd have him taken to the
alfalfa fields." At her call appeared women who began at once to
bustle about, hurrying to and fro, setting the table. Then Jane,
excusing herself, went within.

She passed through a huge low ceiled chamber, like the inside of
a fort, and into a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed in
an old open fireplace, and from this into her own room. It had
the same comfort as was manifested in the home-like outer court;
moreover, it was warm and rich in soft hues.

Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking into
her mirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty
which since early childhood she had never been allowed to forget.
Her relatives and friends, and later a horde of Mormon and
Gentile suitors, had fanned the flame of natural vanity in her.
So that at twenty-eight she scarcely thought at all of her
wonderful influence for good in the little community where her
father had left her practically its beneficent landlord, but
cared most for the dream and the assurance and the allurement of
her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into her glass with
more than the usual happy motive, without the usual slight
conscious smile. For she was thinking of more than the desire to
be fair in her own eyes, in those of her friend; she wondered if
she were to seem fair in the eyes of this Lassiter, this man
whose name had crossed the long, wild brakes of stone and plains
of sage, this gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a
killer of Mormons. It was not now her usual half-conscious vain
obsession that actuated her as she hurriedly changed her
riding-dress to one of white, and then looked long at the stately
form with its gracious contours, at the fair face with its strong
chin and full firm lips, at the dark-blue, proud, and passionate
eyes.

"If by some means I can keep him here a few days, a week--he will
never kill another Mormon," she mused. "Lassiter!...I shudder
when I think of that name, of him. But when I look at the man I
forget who he is--I almost like him. I remember only that he
saved Bern. He has suffered. I wonder what it was--did he love a
Mormon woman once? How splendidly he championed us poor
misunderstood souls! Somehow he knows--much."

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

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

"Why did you come to Cottonwoods?"

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

"Ma'am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevada for--
somethin'. An' through your name I learned where to find it--here
in 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 or more west of here. An' I heard it from a Gentile, a
rider who said you'd know 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
Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder.

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

"Did I claim to be anythin'?" he inquired. "I know
people--relatives-- who have long wanted to know where she's
buried, that's all."

"Relatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother who
was shot in Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne's grave is in a secret
burying-ground on my property."

"Will you take me there?...You'll be offendin' Mormons worse than
by breakin' 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
her and 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 did there's that gatherin' storm in the village below. No, no.
I'll go to the sage. I hope you won't suffer none for your
kindness to me."

"Lassiter," said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, "my bed too,
is the sage. 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
picked his blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle
him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand and
together they passed slowly into the shade of the cottonwoods.

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

"Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead,"
she interposed

"Tull would be--surely."

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

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

Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy
cartridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she
handed to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him
in silent eloquence.

"Jane," he said, in gentler voice, "don't look so. I'm not going
out to murder your churchman. I'll try to avoid him and all his
men. But can't you see I've reached the end of my rope? Jane,
you're a wonderful woman. Never was there a woman so unselfish
and good. Only you're blind in one way....Listen!"

From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses in a
rapid trot.

"Some of your riders," he continued. "It's getting time for the
night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talk
there."

It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading
cottonwoods shadows were obscuring the lanes. Venters drew Jane
off from one of these into a shrub-lined trail, just wide enough
for the two to walk abreast, and in a roundabout way led her far
from the house to a knoll on the edge of the grove. Here in a
secluded nook was a bench from which, through an opening in the
tree-tops, could be seen the sage-slope and the wall of rock and
the dim lines of canyons. Jane had not spoken since Venters had
shocked her with his first harsh speech; but all the way she had
clung to his arm, and now, as he stopped and laid his rifle
against the bench, she still clung to him.

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

"Bern!" she cried.

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

"I'll give you anything you--"

"Listen, please. When I say loss I don't mean what you think. I
mean loss of good-will, good name--that which would have enabled
me to stand up in this village without bitterness. Well, it's too
late....Now, as to the future, I think you'd do best to give me
up. Tull is implacable. You ought to see from his intention
to-day that--But you can't see. Your blindness--your damned
religion!...Jane, forgive me--I'm sore within and something
rankles. Well, I fear that invisible hand will turn its hidden
work to your ruin."

"Invisible hand? Bern!"

"I mean your Bishop." Venters said it deliberately and would not
release her 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 the Church."

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

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

"What do you know of her story?"

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

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

It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset
brightened momentarily before yielding to twilight. And for
Venters the outlook before him was in some sense similar to a
feeling of his future, and with searching eyes he studied the
beautiful purple, barren waste of sage. Here was the unknown and
the perilous. The whole scene impressed Venters as a wild,
austere, and mighty manifestation of nature. And as it somehow
reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenly resembled
the woman near him, only in her there were greater beauty and
peril, a mystery more unsolvable, and something nameless that
numbed his heart and dimmed his eye.

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

Venters moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman showed
dark on 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
your riders, more likely. Yes, I see him clearly now. And there's
another."

"I see them, too."

"Jane, your riders seem as many as the bunches of sage. I ran
into five yesterday 'way down near the trail to Deception Pass.
They were with the white herd."

"You still go to that canyon? Bern, I wish you wouldn't. Oldring
and his rustlers 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
me next. But, Jane, there's no water for fifty miles after I
leave here, and the nearest is in the canyon. I must drink and
water my horse. There! I see more riders. They are going out."

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

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

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

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

"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 a little like a Texan, like Milly Erne. Did you note that?"

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

"Jane, I only heard things, rumors, stories, most of which I
disbelieved. At Glaze his name was known, but none of the riders
or ranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stone Bridge I never
heard him mentioned. But at Sterling and villages north of there
he was spoken of often. I've never been in a village which he had
been known to visit. There were many conflicting stories about
him and his doings. Some said he had shot up this and that Mormon
village, and others denied it. I'm inclined to believe he has,
and you know how Mormons hide the truth. But there was one
feature about Lassiter upon which all agree--that he was what
riders in this country call a gun-man. He's a man with a
marvelous quickness and accuracy in the use of a Colt. And now
that I've seen him I know more. Lassiter was born without fear. I
watched him with eyes which saw him my friend. I'll never forget
the moment I recognized him from what had been told me of his
crouch before the draw. It was then I yelled his name. I believe
that yell saved Tull's life. At any rate, I know this, between
Tull and death then there was not the breadth of the littlest
hair. If he or any of his men had moved a finger downward--"

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

The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging of
twilight into night. The sage now spread out black and gloomy.
One dim star glimmered in the southwest sky. The sound of
trotting horses had ceased, and there was silence broken only by
a faint, dry pattering of cottonwood leaves in the soft night
wind.

Into this peace and calm suddenly broke the high-keyed yelp of a
coyote, and from far off in the darkness came the faint answering
note of a trailing mate.

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

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

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

"Just think! Men like Lassiter and you have no home, no comfort,
no rest, no place to lay your weary heads. Well!...Let us be
patient. Tull's anger may cool, and time may help us. You might
do some service to the village--who can tell? Suppose you
discovered the long-unknown hiding-place of Oldring and his band,
and told it to my riders? That would disarm Tull's ugly hints and
put you in favor. For years my riders have trailed the tracks of
stolen cattle. You know as well as I how dearly we've paid for
our ranges in this wild country. Oldring drives our cattle down
into the network of deceiving canyons, and somewhere far to the
north or east he drives them up and out to Utah markets. If you
will spend time in Deception 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 you again. 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
soon vanished in the shadows.

Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she had
reached the house, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly
slipped through the bushes, down the knoll, and on under the dark
trees to the edge of the grove. The sky was now turning from gray
to blue; stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness; and
from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant
with the breath of sage. Keeping close to the edge of the
cottonwoods, he went swiftly and silently westward. The grove was
long, and he had not reached the end when he heard something that
brought him to a halt. Low padded thuds told him horses were
coming this way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting, listening.
Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to his amazement
he descried horsemen near at hand. They were riding along the
border of the sage, and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses
were muffled. Then the pale starlight afforded him indistinct
sight of the riders. But his eyes were keen and used to the dark,
and by peering closely he recognized the huge bulk and
black-bearded visage of Oldring and the lithe, supple form of the
rustler's lieutenant, a masked rider. They passed on; the
darkness swallowed them. Then, farther out on the sage, a dark,
compact body of horsemen went by, almost without sound, almost
like 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 visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to
prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled
meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to Venters the
presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially
ominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode
through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly;
riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there
always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore.
Oldring's band did not confine themselves to the rustling of
cattle.

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this
chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe
to move on. Then, with sudden impulse, he turned the other way
and went back along the grove. When he reached the path leading
to Jane's home he decided to go down to the village. So he
hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove he
entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall
poplars, and under each row of trees, inside the foot-path, were
ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen's spring.

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

So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began
retracing his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next
to it was also dark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any
night at this hour there would be lights here, and Venters marked
the unusual omission.

As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he
once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently
he descried two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the
shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him,
and he made out Tull's stalwart figure, and beside him the short,
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 of
the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His
thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who
had been his friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a
gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or people or
purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret
power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous
store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to
those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only the
divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her
heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.

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

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage,
climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a
western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard
only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and
rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly
somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly.
Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him.
He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully,
and then went down. Here it was darker, and sheltered from the
wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and this one
was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal
awoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle
for a pillow, rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the
stars. The white dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and
pattered a few yards to the rise of ground and there crouched on
guard. And in that wild covert Venters shut his eyes under the
great white stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparing
their loneliness to his own, and fell asleep.

When he awoke, day had dawned and all about him was bright
steel-gray. The air had a cold tang. Arising, he greeted the
fawning dogs and stretched his cramped body, and then, gathering
together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted a fire. Strips
of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served him and the
dogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing else in his
outfit; he had grown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the
fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been his chief
occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited for
unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action
in the immediate present; the day promised another meeting with
Lassiter and Lane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he
meant to take the trail to Deception Pass.

And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring
and Whitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound,
superb in build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen
fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value to him,
and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitie
watched him with somber eyes of love, and Ring, crouched on the
little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun
rose, the white dog took the place of the other, and Ring went to
sleep at his master's feet.

By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his
meager pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. He
saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to
fetch him. In that country, where every rider boasted of a fine
mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the
wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof
of his misfortunes.

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

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

It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting
from a man. Lassiter's warmed in him something that had grown
cold from neglect. And when he had returned it, with a strong
grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he
knew that Lassiter and he were 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've got." With a rider's eye he took in the points
of Venter's horse, but did not speak his thought. "Well, did
anythin' come off after I left you last night?"

Venters told him about the rustlers.

"I was snug hid in the sage," replied Lassiter, "an' didn't see
or hear no one. Oldrin's got a high hand here, I reckon. It's no
news up in Utah how he holes in canyons an' leaves no track."
Lassiter was silent a moment. "Me an' Oldrin' wasn't exactly
strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil's
Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got 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" declared
Venters.

"Mebbe so."

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

"I never did."

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

The older man's sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had
left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had
never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and
there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over
the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau
through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he became
a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time
prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane
Withersteen.

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

"Well, it'd be no news to me. I know Mormons. I've seen their
women's strange love en' patience en' sacrifice an' silence en'
whet I call madness for their idea of God. An' over against that
I've seen the tricks 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. For Mormons are slow to kill.
That's the only good I ever seen in their religion. Venters, take
this from me, these Mormons ain't just right in their minds. Else
could a Mormon marry one woman when he already has a wife, 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
of them?" inquired the rider, curiously.

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

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

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

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

"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 even looks at me I'll draw!"

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

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

"Milly Erne's story? Well, Lassiter, I'll tell you what I know.
Milly Erne had been in Cottonwoods years when I first arrived
there, and most of what I tell you happened before my arrival. I
got to know her pretty well. She was a slip of a woman, and crazy
on religion. I conceived an idea that I never mentioned--I
thought she was at heart more Gentile than Mormon. But she passed
as a Mormon, and certainly she had the Mormon woman's locked
lips. You know, in every Mormon village there are women who seem
mysterious to us, but about Milly there was more than the
ordinary mystery. When she came to Cottonwoods she had a
beautiful little girl whom she loved passionately. Milly was not
known openly in Cottonwoods as a Mormon wife. That she really was
a Mormon wife I have no doubt. Perhaps the Mormon's other wife or
wives would not acknowledge Milly. Such things happen in these
villages. Mormon wives wear yokes, but they get jealous. Well,
whatever had brought Milly to this country-- love or madness of
religion--she repented of it. She gave up teaching the village
school. She quit the church. And she began to fight Mormon
upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormons put on the
screws-- slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared.
'Lost' was the report. The child was stolen, I know that. So do
you. That wrecked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She
became a slave. She worked her heart and soul and life out to get
back her child. She never heard of it again. Then she sank....I
can see her now, a frail thing, so transparent you could almost
look through her--white like ashes--and her eyes!...Her eyes have
always haunted me. She had one real friend--Jane Withersteen. 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; "nor has 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
and Venters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope
they entered a luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came into an
open space carpeted with grass like deep green velvet. The
rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears. Venters
led his comrade to a shady bower and showed him Amber Spring. It
was a magnificent outburst of clear, amber water pouring from a
dark, stone-lined hole. Lassiter knelt and drank, lingered there
to drink again. He made no comment, but Venters did not need
words. Next to his horse a rider of the sage loved a spring. And
this spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known to the
upland riders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made old
Withersteen a feudal lord and now enabled his daughter to return
the toll which her father had exacted from the toilers of the
sage.

The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down
joyously to make its swift way along a willow-skirted channel.
Moss and ferns and lilies overhung its green banks. Except for
the rough-hewn stones that held and directed the water, this
willow thicket and glade had been left as nature had made it.

Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the other
in banks of raised earth, and round about them rose the lofty
green-foliaged shafts of poplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy
surface of the lakes; a blue heron stood motionless on a
water-gate; kingfishers darted with shrieking flight along the
shady banks; a white hawk sailed above; and from the trees and
shrubs came the song of robins and cat-birds. It was all in
strange contrast to the endless slopes of lonely sage and the
wild rock environs beyond. Venters thought of the woman who loved
the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of the
water.

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

Venters and Lassiter were turning toward the house when Jane
appeared in the lane leading a horse. In riding-skirt and blouse
she seemed to have lost some of her statuesque proportions, and
looked more like a girl rider than the mistress of Withersteen.
She was brightly smiling, and her greeting was warmly cordial.

"Good news," she announced. "I've been to the village. All is
quiet. I expected--I don't know what. But there's no excitement.
And Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze."

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

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

"Well, ma'am, the one you've been 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 are you? Here, bring out the horses."

The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the
horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp.
Then they came pounding out of the door, a file of thoroughbreds,
to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails up, manes flying.
They halted afar off, squared away to look, came slowly forward
with whinnies for their mistress, and doubtful snorts for the
strangers and their horses.

"Come--come--come," called Jane, holding out her hands. "Why,
Bells-- Wrangle, where are your manners? Come, Black Star--come,
Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!"

Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black Star.
Venters never looked at them without delight. The first was soft
dead black, the other glittering black, and they were perfectly
matched in size, both being high and long-bodied, wide through
the shoulders, with lithe, powerful legs. That they were a
woman's pets showed in the gloss of skin, the fineness of mane.
It showed, too, in the light of big eyes and the gentle reach of
eagerness.

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

Lassiter ended there with dry humor, yet behind that was meaning.
Jane blushed 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's grave. 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 made to worry."

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

"I refuse to borrow trouble. Come," said Jane.

They mounted, and, with Jane in the lead, rode down the lane,
and, turning off into a cattle trail, proceeded westward.
Venters's dogs trotted behind them. On this side of the ranch the
outlook was different from that on the other; the immediate
foreground was rough and the sage more rugged and less colorful;
there were no dark-blue lines of canyons to hold the eye, nor any
uprearing rock walls. It was a long roll and slope into gray
obscurity. Soon Jane left the trail and rode into the sage, and
presently she dismounted and threw her bridle. The men did
likewise. Then, on foot, they followed her, coming out at length
on the rim of a low escarpment. She passed by several little
ridges of earth to halt before a faintly defined mound. It lay in
the shade of a sweeping sage-brush close to the edge of the
promontory; and a rider could have jumped his horse over it
without recognizing a grave.

"Here!"

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

"I only come here to remember and to pray," she said. "But I
leave no trail!"

A grave in the sage! How lonely this resting-place of Milly Erne!
The cottonwoods or the alfalfa fields were not in sight, nor was
there any rock or ridge or cedar to lend contrast to the
monotony. Gray slopes, tinging the purple, barren and wild, with
the wind waving the sage, swept away to the dim
horizon.

Lassiter looked at the grave and then out into space. At that
moment he seemed a figure of bronze.

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

"Bern!" cried Jane, when they were out of hearing. "Suppose
Lassiter were 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'll come."

So they mounted and rode out to the cattle trail and began to
climb. From the height of the ridge, where they had started down,
Venters looked back. He did not see Lassiter, but his glance,
drawn irresistibly farther out on the gradual slope, caught sight
of a moving cloud of dust.

"Hello, a rider!"

"Yes, I see," said Jane.

"That fellow's riding hard. Jane, there's something wrong."

"Oh yes, there must be....How he rides!"

The horse disappeared in the sage, and then puffs of dust marked
his course.

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV. DECEPTION PASS

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

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

"Nothin' much Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the shoulder. I'm
some wet 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 this mornin' the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot
at me on sight. They chased 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't regular 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
rode down, 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
riders haven'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's happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house with me.
Your wound must 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
shooting mood."

"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
hundred head 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 too bold 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.
Which one--Black Star--Night?"

"Jane, I won't take either," said Venters, emphatically. "I
wouldn't risk 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's the biggest en' fastest hoss on the sage."

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

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

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

"Wrangle don't 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 smells the sage!"

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

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

A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping
glance told Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor
steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were lying down
in the sage. Ring loped in the lead and Whitie loped in the rear.
Wrangle settled gradually into an easy swinging canter, and
Venters's thoughts, now that the rush and flurry 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 of
subsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; Oldring
and his Masked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses; the
report that Tull had ridden out that morning with his man Jerry
on the trail to Glaze, the strange disappearance of Jane
Withersteen's riders, the unusually determined attempt to kill
the one Gentile still in her employ, an intention frustrated, no
doubt, only by Judkin's magnificent riding of her racer, and
lastly the driving of the red herd. These events, to Venters's
color of mind, had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane's
accusation of bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancor
in judging Tull. But it was bitter knowledge that made him see
the truth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand; he had
watched till he saw its dim outline, and then he had traced it to
a man's hate, to the rivalry of a Mormon Elder, to the power of a
Bishop, to the long, far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. That
unseen hand had made its first move against Jane Withersteen. Her
riders had been called in, leaving her without help to drive
seven thousand head of cattle. But to Venters it seemed
extraordinary that the power which had called in these riders had
left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers and harried by
wolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate greed;
they were one and the same.

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

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

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

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

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

The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable natural
phenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of sage,
uplands insulated by gigantic red walls, and deep canyons of
mysterious source and outlet. Here the valley floor was level,
and here opened a narrow chasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls of
stone. The trail down the five hundred feet of sheer depth always
tested Venters's nerve. It was bad going for even a burro. But
Wrangle, as Venters led him, snorted defiance or disgust rather
than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on the jump, lifted his
ponderous iron-shod fore hoofs and crashed down over the first
rough step. Venters warmed to greater admiration of the sorrel;
and, giving him a loose bridle, he stepped down foot by foot.
Oftentimes the stones and shale started by Wrangle buried Venters
to his knees; again he was hard put to it to dodge a rolling
boulder, there were times when he could not see Wrangle for dust,
and once he and the horse rode a sliding shelf of yellow,
weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be no stops,
and, therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not
take long in the descent.

Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a sudden
assurance in the success of his enterprise. For at first it had
been a reckless determination to achieve something at any cost,
and now it resolved itself into an adventure worthy of all his
reason and cunning, and keenness of eye and ear.

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

There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these
Utah uplands had been satisfying to Venters. But that was before
the oppression of enemies had made the change in his mind. As a
rider guarding the herd he had never thought of the night's
wildness and loneliness; as an outcast, now when the full silence
set in, and the deep darkness, and trains of radiant stars shone
cold and calm, he lay with an ache in his heart. For a year he
had lived as a black fox, driven from his kind. He longed for the
sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. In the daytime there was
riding from place to place, and the gun practice to which
something drove him, and other tasks that at least necessitated
action, at night, before he won sleep, there was strife in his
soul. He yearned to leave the endless sage slopes, the wilderness
of canyons, and it was in the lonely night that this yearning
grew unbearable. It was then that he reached forth to feel Ring
or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love and companionship
of two dogs.

On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old
habit of sad thought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it
evolved a conviction that his useless life had undergone a subtle
change. He had sensed it first when Wrangle swung him up to the
high saddle, he knew it now when he lay in the gateway of
Deception Pass. He had no thrill of adventure, rather a gloomy
perception of great hazard, perhaps death. He meant to find
Oldring's retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but none that
could catch Wrangle. Venters knew no rustler could creep upon him
at night when Ring and Whitie guarded his hiding-place. For the
rest, he had eyes and ears, and a long rifle and an unerring aim,
which he meant to use. Strangely his foreshadowing of change did
not hold a thought of the killing of Tull. It related only to
what was to happen to him in Deception Pass; and he could no more
lift the veil of that mystery than tell where the trails led to
in that unexplored canyon. Moreover, he did not care. And at
length, tired out by stress of thought, he fell asleep.

When his eyes unclosed, day had come again, and he saw the rim of
the opposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments
sufficed for the morning's simple camp duties. Near at hand he
found Wrangle, and to his surprise the horse came to him. Wrangle
was one of the horses that left his viciousness in the home
corral. What he wanted was to be free of mules and burros and
steers, to roll in dust-patches, and then to run down the wide,
open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse and sleep in the
cool wet grass of a springhole. Jerd knew the sorrel when he said
of him, "Wait till he smells the sage!"

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

He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and
then proceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The
canyon assumed proportions that dwarfed those of its first ten
miles. Venters rode on and on, not losing in the interest of his
wide surroundings any of his caution or keen search for tracks or
sight of living thing. If there ever had been a trail here, he
could not find it. He rode through sage and clumps of pinon trees
and grassy plots where long-petaled purple lilies bloomed. He
rode through a dark constriction of the pass no wider than the
lane in the grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into a great
amphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a
confluences of intersecting canyons.

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

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

In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when
he had proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing
white tails of a herd of running antelope. He rode along the edge
of the stream which wound toward the western end of the slowly
looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated out of sight
behind the nearer protection. To Venters the valley appeared to
have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone that had
hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the
stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Venters quit the
dark slit which baffled further search in that direction, and
rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. It
was not long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle
readily climbed up.

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

He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, he
commenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not
successful and concluded the water dropped into an underground
passage. Then he returned to where he had left Wrangle, and led
him down off the stone to the sage. It was a short ride to the
opening canyons. There was no reason for a choice of which one to
enter. The one he rode into was a clear, sharp shaft in yellow
stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderful wind-worn caves low
down and high above buttressed and turreted ramparts. Farther on
Venters came into a region where deep indentations marked the
line of canyon walls. These were huge, cove-like blind pockets
extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth of
underbrush and trees.

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and looked
over the sage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding across
the oval. He sank down, startled and trembling. "Rustlers!" he
muttered. Hurriedly he glanced about for a place to hide. Near at
hand there was nothing but sage-brush. He dared not risk crossing
the open patches to reach the rocks. Again he peeped over the
sage. The rustlers--four--five--seven--eight in all, were
approaching, but not directly in line with him. That was relief
for a cold deadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his
veins. He crouched down with bated breath and held the bristling
dog.

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

The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval.
Venters kept a steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there
were more, to see from what canyon they rode. A quarter of an
hour went by. Reward for his vigilance came when he descried
three more mounted men, far over to the north. But out of what
canyon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the
three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner where
the others had gone.

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

A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks
all pointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of the
canyon into which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the
cattle had been driven out of it across the oval. There were no
tracks pointing the other way. It had been in his mind that
Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous, and not
from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and
where did it lead? Venters knew he wasted time in pondering the
question, but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. For
many years Oldring's mysterious entrance and exit to Deception
Pass had been all-absorbing topics to sage-riders.

All at once the dog put an end to Venters's pondering. Ring
sniffed the air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and
then growled. Venters wheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred
yards, coming straight at him. 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
stopped short, snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler bent
forward, as if keenly peering ahead. Then, with a swift sweep, he
jerked a gun from its sheath and fired.

The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of wood
struck Venters, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in
one leap. Like a flash the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level
and he shot once--twice.

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

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

CHAPTER V. THE MASKED RIDER

Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyon
where the others had disappeared. He calculated on the time
needed for running horses to return to the open, if their riders
heard shots. He waited breathlessly. But the estimated time
dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently to
believe that the rifle reports had not penetrated into the
recesses of the canyon, and felt safe for the immediate present.

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

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

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

"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
told Venters the rider still lived.

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

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