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

“Oh! Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

“Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake. “One more rider won’t be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star and Night, if you put such store on their value.”

“Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there’s another reason why I mustn’t lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every day when he runs the horses, and don’t let them out of your sight. If you would please me⁠—win my gratitude, guard my black racers.”

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.

“ ’Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses. Now I ain’t gainsayin’ that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an’ run neck en’ neck with Black Star.”

“Lassiter, don’t tease me now. I’m miserable⁠—sick. Bells is fast, but he can’t stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only Wrangle can do that.”

“I’ll bet that big rawboned brute can more’n show his heels to your black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wrangle could kill your favorites.”

“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do you say that so often? I know you’ve teased me at times, and I believe it’s only kindness. You’re always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?”

“I reckon so.” Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting the silver pieces on the band. “Well, Jane, I’ve sort of read a little that’s passin’ in your mind.”

“You think I might fly from my home⁠—from Cottonwoods⁠—from the Utah border?”

“I reckon. An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks I wouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn’t got him now⁠ ⁠… Besides⁠—things are happenin’, an’ somethin’ of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”

“God knows you’re right!⁠ ⁠… Poor Bern, how long he’s gone! In my trouble I’ve been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I’ve little fear for him. I’ve heard my riders say he’s as keen as a wolf⁠ ⁠… As to your reading my thoughts⁠—well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I’ve strange dreams. I’m not always practical and thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance⁠—if I dared⁠—if I dared I’d ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me⁠—and hide me.”

“Jane!”

The rider’s sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seen Lassiter’s cool calm broken⁠—when he had met little Fay, when he had learned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne’s grave. But one and all they could not be considered in the light of his present agitation. Not only did Lassiter turn white⁠—not only did he grow tense, not only did he lose his coolness, but also he suddenly, violently, hungrily took her into his arms and crushed her to his breast.

“Lassiter!” cried Jane, trembling. It was an action for which she took sole blame. Instantly, as if dazed, weakened, he released her. “Forgive me!” went on Jane. “I’m always forgetting your⁠—your feelings. I thought of you as my faithful friend. I’m always making you out more than human⁠ ⁠… only, let me say⁠—I meant that⁠—about riding away. I’m wretched, sick of this⁠—this⁠—Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!”

“Jane, the hell⁠—of it,” he replied, with deep intake of breath, “is you can’t ride away. Mebbe realizin’ it accounts for my grabbin’ you⁠—that way, as much as the crazy boy’s rapture your words gave me. I don’t understand myself⁠ ⁠… But the hell of this game is⁠—you can’t ride away.”

“Lassiter!⁠ ⁠… What on earth do you mean? I’m an absolutely free woman.”

“You ain’t absolutely anythin’ of the kind⁠ ⁠… I reckon I’ve got to tell you!”

“Tell me all. It’s uncertainty that makes me a coward. It’s faith and hope⁠—blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every day I awake believing⁠—still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts, fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into my heart. Then comes night⁠—I pray⁠—I pray for all, and for myself⁠—I sleep⁠—and I awake free once more, trustful, faithful, to believe⁠—to hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a thousand years till night again!⁠ ⁠… But if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can’t ride away⁠—tell me what more I’m to lose⁠—tell me the worst.”

“Jane, you’re watched. There’s no single move of yours, except when you’re hid in your house, that ain’t seen by sharp eyes. The cottonwood grove’s full of creepin’, crawlin’ men. Like Indians in the grass. When you rode, which wasn’t often lately, the sage was full of sneakin’ men. At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an’ I reckon into the house. Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This here grove’s a hummin’ beehive of mysterious happenin’s. Jane, it ain’t so much that these spies keep out of my way as me keepin’ out of theirs. They’re goin’ to try to kill me. That’s plain. But mebbe I’m as hard to shoot in the back as in the face. So far I’ve seen fit to watch only. This all means, Jane, that you’re a marked woman. You can’t get away⁠—not now. Mebbe later, when you’re broken, you might. But that’s sure doubtful. Jane, you’re to lose the cattle that’s left⁠—your home an’ ranch⁠—an’ Amber Spring. You can’t even hide a sack of gold! For it couldn’t be slipped out of the house,