by Zane Grey
Venters saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Withersteen’s tortured soul wrestled with hate and threw it—with scorn doubt, suspicion, and overcame all.
“Bern, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I crave forgiveness,” she said. “I’m not what I once was. Tell me—who is this girl?”
“Jane, she is Oldring’s daughter, and his Masked Rider. Lassiter will tell you how I shot her for a rustler, saved her life—all the story. It’s a strange story, Jane, as wild as the sage. But it’s true—true as her innocence. That you must believe.”
“Oldring’s Masked Rider! Oldring’s daughter!” exclaimed Jane “And she’s innocent! You ask me to believe much. If this girl is—is what you say, how could she be going away with the man who killed her father?”
“Why did you tell that?” cried Venters, passionately.
Jane’s question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her eyes suddenly darkened and dilated. She stepped toward Venters and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow.
“Did—did you kill Oldring?”
“I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I never dreamed he was your father. I thought he’d wronged you. I killed him when I was madly jealous.”
For a moment Bess was shocked into silence.
“But he was my father!” she broke out, at last. “And now I must go back—I can’t go with you. It’s all over—that beautiful dream. Oh, I knew it couldn’t come true. You can’t take me now.”
“If you forgive me, Bess, it’ll all come right in the end!” implored Venters.
“It can’t be right. I’ll go back. After all, I loved him. He was good to me. I can’t forget that.”
“If you go back to Oldring’s men I’ll follow you, and then they’ll kill me,” said Venters, hoarsely.
“Oh no, Bern, you’ll not come. Let me go. It’s best for you to forget me. I’ve brought you only pain and dishonor.”
She did not weep. But the sweet bloom and life died out of her face. She looked haggard and sad, all at once stunted; and her hands dropped listlessly; and her head drooped in slow, final acceptance of a hopeless fate.
“Jane, look there!” cried Venters, in despairing grief. “Need you have told her? Where was all your kindness of heart? This girl has had a wretched, lonely life. And I’d found a way to make her happy. You’ve killed it. You’ve killed something sweet and pure and hopeful, just as sure as you breathe.”
“Oh, Bern! It was a slip. I never thought—I never thought!” replied Jane. “How could I tell she didn’t know?”
Lassiter suddenly moved forward, and with the beautiful light on his face now strangely luminous, he looked at Jane and Venters and then let his soft, bright gaze rest on Bess.
“Well, I reckon you’ve all had your say, an’ now it’s Lassiter’s turn. Why, I was jest praying for this meetin’. Bess, jest look here.”
Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, and then outspread his great hand to disclose a shiny, battered gold locket.
“Open it,” he said, with a singularly rich voice.
Bess complied, but listlessly.
“Jane—Venters—come closer,” went on Lassiter. “Take a look at the picture. Don’t you know the woman?”
Jane, after one glance, drew back.
“Milly Erne!” she cried, wonderingly.
Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognized in the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne.
“Yes, that’s Milly,” said Lassiter, softly. “Bess, did you ever see her face—look hard—with all your heart an’ soul?”
“The eyes seem to haunt me,” whispered Bess. “Oh, I can’t remember—they’re eyes of my dreams—but—but—”
Lassiter’s strong arm went round her and he bent his head.
“Child, I thought you’d remember her eyes. They’re the same beautiful eyes you’d see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring. They’re your mother’s eyes. You are Milly Erne’s child. Your name is Elizabeth Erne. You’re not Oldring’s daughter. You’re the daughter of Frank Erne, a man once my best friend. Look! Here’s his picture beside Milly’s. He was handsome, an’ as fine an’ gallant a Southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. You come of the best of blood, lass, and blood tells.”
Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the locket to her bosom, and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes.
“It—can’t—be—true!”
“Thank God, lass, it is true,” replied Lassiter. “Jane an’ Bern here—they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you. They’re so knocked out they can’t tell you, that’s all.”
“Who are you?” whispered Bess.
“I reckon I’m Milly’s brother an’ your uncle!… Uncle Jim! Ain’t that fine?”
“Oh, I can’t believe—Don’t raise me! Bern, let me kneel. I see truth in your face—in Miss Withersteen’s. But let me hear it all—all on my knees. Tell me how it’s true!”
“Well, Elizabeth, listen,” said Lassiter. “Before you was born your father made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named Dyer. They was both ministers an’ come to be rivals. Dyer stole your mother away from her home. She gave birth to you in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she was taken to Utah, from place to place, an’ finally to the last border settlement—Cottonwoods. You was about three years old when you was taken away from Milly. She never knew what had become of you. But she lived a good while hopin’ and prayin’ to have you again. Then she gave up an’ died. An’ I may as well put in here your father died ten years ago. Well, I spent my time tracin’ Milly, an’ some months back I landed in Cottonwoods. An’ jest lately I learned all about you. I had a talk with Oldrin’ an’ told him you was dead, an’ he told me what I had so long been wantin’ to know. It was Dyer, of course, who stole you from Milly. Part reason he was sore because Milly refused to give you Mormon teachin’, but mostly he still hated Frank Erne so infernally that he made a deal with Oldrin’ to take you an’ bring you up as an infamous rustler an’ rustler’s girl. The idea was to break Frank Erne’s heart if he ever came to Utah—to show him his daughter with a band of low rustlers. Well—Oldrin’ took you, brought you up from childhood, an’ then made you his Masked Rider. He made you infamous. He kept that part of the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughter an’ never let any but his own men know you was a girl. I heard him say that with my own ears, an’ I saw his big eyes grow dim. He told me how he had guarded you always, kept you locked up in his absence, was always at your side or near you on those rides that made you famous on the sage. He said he an’ an old rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read an’ write. They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought up the vilest of the vile! An’ Oldrin’ brought you up the innocentest of the innocent. He said you didn’t know what vileness was. I can hear his big voice tremble now as he said it. He told me how the men—rustlers an’ outlaws—who from time to time tried to approach you familiarly—he told me how he shot them dead. I’m tellin’ you this ’specially because you’ve showed such shame—sayin’ you was nameless an’ all that. Nothin’ on earth can be wronger than that idea of yours. An’ the truth of it is here. Oldrin’ swore to me that if Dyer died, releasin’ the contract, he intended to hunt up your father an’ give you back to him. It seems Oldrin’ wasn’t all bad, en’ he sure loved you.”
Venters leaned forward in passionate remorse.
“Oh, Bess! I know Lassiter speaks the truth. For when I shot Oldring he dropped to his knees and fought with unearthly power to speak. And he said: ‘Man—why—didn’t—you—wait? Bess was—’ Then he fell dead. And I’ve been haunted by his look and words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing for Oldring to do! It all seems impossible. But, dear, you really are not what you thought.”
“
Elizabeth Erne!” cried Jane Withersteen. “I loved your mother and I see her in you!”
What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in the tone, look, and gesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for Bess. With little tremblings of all her slender body she rocked to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was realizing happiness. And as the process of thought was slow, so were the variations of her expression. Her eyes reflected the transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless belief—clouds of gloom—drifted, paled, vanished in glorious light. An exquisite rose flush—a glow—shone from her face as she slowly began to rise from her knees. A spirit uplifted her. All that she had held as base dropped from her.
Venters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he divined something of what Lassiter’s revelation meant to Bess, but he knew he could only faintly understand. That moment when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritual transfiguration was the most beautiful moment of his life. She stood with parted, quivering lips, with hands tightly clasping the locket to her heaving breast. A new conscious pride of worth dignified the old wild, free grace and poise.
“Uncle Jim!” she said, tremulously, with a different smile from any Venters had ever seen on her face.
Lassiter took her into his arms.
“I reckon. It’s powerful fine to hear that,” replied Lassiter, unsteadily.
Venters, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away, and found himself looking at Jane Withersteen. He had almost forgotten her presence. Tenderness and sympathy were fast hiding traces of her agitation. Venters read her mind—felt the reaction of her noble heart—saw the joy she was beginning to feel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded, choked by his emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what she would do presently; she would make some magnificent amend for her anger; she would give some manifestation of her love; probably all in a moment, as she had loved Milly Erne, so would she love Elizabeth Erne.
“’Pears to me, folks, that we’d better talk a little serious now,” remarked Lassiter, at length. “Time flies.”
“You’re right,” replied Venters, instantly. “I’d forgotten time—place—danger. Lassiter, you’re riding away. Jane’s leaving Withersteen House?”
“Forever,” replied Jane.
“I fired Withersteen House,” said Lassiter.
“Dyer?” questioned Venters, sharply.
“I reckon where Dyer’s gone there won’t be any kidnappin’ of girls.”
“Ah! I knew it. I told Judkins—And Tull?” went on Venters, passionately.
“Tull wasn’t around when I broke loose. By now he’s likely on our trail with his riders.”
“Lassiter, you’re going into the Pass to hide till all this storm blows over?”
“I reckon that’s Jane’s idea. I’m thinkin’ the storm’ll be a powerful long time blowin’ over. I was comin’ to join you in Surprise Valley. You’ll go back now with me?”
“No. I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter, Bess found gold in the valley. We’ve a saddle-bag full of gold. If we can reach Sterling—”
“Man! how’re you ever goin’ to do that? Sterlin’ is a hundred miles.”
“My plan is to ride on, keeping sharp lookout. Somewhere up the trail we’ll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods and then hit the trail again.”
“It’s a bad plan. You’ll kill the burros in two days.”
“Then we’ll walk.”
“That’s more bad an’ worse. Better go back down the Pass with me.”
“Lassiter, this girl has been hidden all her life in that lonely place,” went on Venters. “Oldring’s men are hunting me. We’d not be safe there any longer. Even if we would be I’d take this chance to get her out. I want to marry her. She shall have some of the pleasures of life—see cities and people. We’ve gold—we’ll be rich. Why, life opens sweet for both of us. And, by Heaven! I’ll get her out or lose my life in the attempt!”
“I reckon if you go on with them burros you’ll lose your life all right. Tull will have riders all over this sage. You can’t get out on them burros. It’s a fool idea. That’s not doin’ best by the girl. Come with me en’ take chances on the rustlers.”
Lassiter’s cool argument made Venters waver, not in determination to go, but in hope of success.
“Bess, I want you to know. Lassiter says the trip’s almost useless now. I’m afraid he’s right. We’ve got about one chance in a hundred to go through. Shall we take it? Shall we go on?”
“We’ll go on,” replied Bess.
“That settles it, Lassiter.”
Lassiter spread wide his hands, as if to signify he could do no more, and his face clouded.
Venters felt a touch on his elbow. Jane stood beside him with a hand on his arm. She was smiling. Something radiated from her, and like an electric current accelerated the motion of his blood.
“Bern, you’d be right to die rather than not take Elizabeth out of Utah—out of this wild country. You must do it. You’ll show her the great world, with all its wonders. Think how little she has seen! Think what delight is in store for her! You have gold, You will be free; you will make her happy. What a glorious prospect! I share it with you. I’ll think of you—dream of you—pray for you.”
“Thank you, Jane,” replied Venters, trying to steady his voice. “It does look bright. Oh, if we were only across that wide, open waste of sage!”
“Bern, the trip’s as good as made. It’ll be safe—easy. It’ll be a glorious ride,” she said, softly.
Venters stared. Had Jane’s troubles made her insane? Lassiter, too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero round in hands that actually shook.
“You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of your lives,” added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she were musing to herself.
“Jane!” he cried.
“I give you Black Star and Night!”
“Black Star and Night!” he echoed.
“It’s done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros.”
Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did Venters’s clogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to catch Lassiter’s busy hands.
“No, no! What are you doing?” he demanded, in a kind of fury. “I won’t take her racers. What do you think I am? It’d be monstrous. Lassiter! stop it, I say!… You’ve got her to save. You’ve miles and miles to go. Tull is trailing you. There are rustlers in the Pass. Give me back that saddle-bag!”
“Son—cool down,” returned Lassiter, in a voice he might have used to a child. But the grip with which he tore away Venters’s grasping hands was that of a giant. “Listen—you fool boy! Jane’s sized up the situation. The burros’ll do for us. We’ll sneak along an’ hide. I’ll take your dogs an’ your rifle. Why, it’s the trick. The blacks are yours, an’ sure as I can throw a gun you’re goin’ to ride safe out of the sage.”
“Jane—stop him—please stop him,” gasped Venters. “I’ve lost my strength. I can’t do—anything. This is hell for me! Can’t you see that? I’ve ruined you—it was through me you lost all. You’ve only Black Star and Night left. You love these horses. Oh! I know how you must love them now! And—you’re trying to give them to me. To help me out of Utah! To save the girl I love!”
“That will be my glory.”
Then in the white, rapt face, in the unfathomable eyes, Venters saw Jane Withersteen in a supreme moment. This moment was one wherein she reached up to the height for which her noble soul had ever yearned. He, after disrupting the calm tenor of her peace, after bringing down on her head the implacable hostility of her churchmen, after teaching her a bitter lesson of life—he was to be her salvation. And he turned away again, this time shaken to the
core of his soul. Jane Withersteen was the incarnation of selflessness. He experienced wonder and terror, exquisite pain and rapture. What were all the shocks life had dealt him compared to the thought of such loyal and generous friendship?
And instantly, as if by some divine insight, he knew himself in the remaking—tried, found wanting; but stronger, better, surer—and he wheeled to Jane Withersteen, eager, joyous, passionate, wild, exalted. He bent to her; he left tears and kisses on her hands.
“Jane, I—I can’t find words—now,” he said. “I’m beyond words. Only—I understand. And I’ll take the blacks.”
“Don’t be losin’ no more time,” cut in Lassiter. “I ain’t certain, but I think I seen a speck up the sage-slope. Mebbe I was mistaken. But, anyway, we must all be movin’. I’ve shortened the stirrups on Black Star. Put Bess on him.”
Jane Withersteen held out her arms.
“Elizabeth Erne!” she cried, and Bess flew to her.
How inconceivably strange and beautiful it was for Venters to see Bess clasped to Jane Withersteen’s breast!
Then he leaped astride Night.
“Venters, ride straight on up the slope,” Lassiter was saying, “an’ if you don’t meet any riders, keep on till you’re a few miles from the village, then cut off in the sage an’ go round to the trail. But you’ll most likely meet riders with Tull. Jest keep right on till you’re jest out of gunshot an’ then make your cut-off into the sage. They’ll ride after you, but it won’t be no use. You can ride, an’ Bess can ride. When you’re out of reach turn on round to the west, an’ hit the trail somewhere. Save the hosses all you can, but don’t be afraid. Black Star and Night are good for a hundred miles before sundown, if you have to push them. You can get to Sterlin’ by night if you want. But better make it along about tomorrow mornin’. When you get through the notch on the Glaze trail, swing to the right. You’ll be able to see both Glaze an’ Stone Bridge. Keep away from them villages. You won’t run no risk of meetin’ any of Oldrin’s rustlers from Sterlin’ on. You’ll find water in them deep hollows north of the Notch. There’s an old trail there, not much used, en’ it leads to Sterlin’. That’s your trail. An’ one thing more. If Tull pushes you—or keeps on persistent-like, for a few miles—jest let the blacks out an’ lose him an’ his riders.”