by Zane Grey
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 today?”
“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?”
“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. Tomorrow, perhaps.”