Riders of the Purple Sage, Zane Grey [best classic novels TXT] 📗

shots⁠—hoarse yells⁠—pound of hoofs⁠—shrill neighs of horses⁠—commingling of echoes⁠—and again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mind⁠—Greek and Roman wars, dark, medieval times, the crimes in the name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhere⁠—shooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom⁠—for these, men killed one another.

She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelike foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care.

More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding of weathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again the clear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry of death. Then rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Jane’s hiding-place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air. After that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased under long, thundering fire from heavier guns.

Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened until Lassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When he appeared he was covered with blood.

“All right, Jane,” he said. “I come back. An’ don’t worry.”

With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.

“Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, en’ tie up these places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse’n this at over my ear. There⁠—you’re doin’ fine! Not a bit nervous⁠—no tremblin’. I reckon I ain’t done your courage justice. I’m glad you’re brave jest now⁠—you’ll need to be. Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shootin’ me deep, but they was slingin’ lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells, an’ en I went after them. Mebbe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had to use up every shell in my own gun, an’ they did, too, as I seen. Rustlers an’ Mormons, Jane! An’ now I’m packin’ five bullet holes in my carcass, an’ guns without shells. Hurry, now.”

He unstrapped the saddlebags from the burros, slipped the saddles and let them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stones and cedars to an open where two horses stood.

“Jane, are you strong?” he asked.

“I think so. I’m not tired,” Jane replied.

“I don’t mean that way. Can you bear up?”

“I think I can bear anything.”

“I reckon you look a little cold an’ thick. So I’m preparin’ you.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. I couldn’t tell you. I believe you’d have died. But I can tell you now⁠—if you’ll bear up under a shock?”

“Go on, my friend.”

“I’ve got little Fay! Alive⁠—bad hurt⁠—but she’ll live!”

Jane Withersteen’s deadlocked feeling, rent by Lassiter’s deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life.

“Here,” he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass.

Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By that long, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fay’s loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she was not dead⁠—her heart beat⁠—and Jane Withersteen gathered strength and lived again.

“You see I jest had to go after Fay,” Lassiter was saying, as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. “But I reckon I don’t want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in that bunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, that’s why they were holding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, en’ was hard put to it to figure out a way to get her. An’ I wanted hosses, too. I had to take chances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with little Fay, an’ when I shot him, of course she dropped. She’s stunned an’ bruised⁠—she fell right on her head. Jane, she’s comin’ to! She ain’t bad hurt!”

Fay’s long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence⁠—bewilderment⁠—memory⁠—and sudden wonderful joy.

“Muvver⁠—Jane!” she whispered.

“Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her.

“Now, we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grim coolness. “Jane, look down the Pass!”

Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.

“Tull!” she almost screamed.

“I reckon. But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands. They’re ridin’ tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. He wouldn’t forget that. An’ we’ve fresh hosses.”

Hurriedly he strapped on the saddlebags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.

“Lift little Fay up,” he said.

With shaking arms Jane complied.

“Get back your nerve, woman! This’s life or death now. Mind that. Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hoss’s goin’ en’ ride!”

Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed her soul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canyon where the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls. The wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and sage and grass moved under her. Lassiter’s bandaged, bloodstained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; he looked back down the Pass; he spurred his horse. Jane clung on, spurring likewise. And the