Riders of the Purple Sage

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER X. LOVE

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

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

  "Will you be gone long?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Venters tried to subdue a hot tingling.

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

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

  "What for?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Ah!"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Jerry Card?" suggested Venters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Indeed I did."

  "What would you like?"

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

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

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

  "I stole that from Oldring."

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

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

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

  "Last night."

  "While I was asleep?"

  "Yes."

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

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

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

  "You went five nights!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Bess, are you thinking?" he asked.

  "Yes--oh yes!"

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

  "Yes."

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

  "I never thought--till now."

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

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

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