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

“You might change your mind when you get to the village⁠—among old friends⁠—”

“I won’t change my mind. As for old friends⁠—” He uttered a short, expressive laugh.

“Then⁠—there⁠—there must be a⁠—a woman!” Dark red mantled the clear tan of temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes of shame, upheld a long moment by intense, straining search for the verification of her fear. Suddenly they drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flew to her hot cheeks.

“Bess⁠—look here,” said Venters, with a sharpness due to the violence with which he checked his quick, surging emotion.

As if compelled against her will⁠—answering to an irresistible voice⁠—Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, and tried to whisper with tremulous lips.

“There’s no woman,” went on Venters, deliberately holding her glance with his. “Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keep me away.”

Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; but like the vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as he had never beheld her.

“I am nothing⁠—I am lost⁠—I am nameless!”

“Do you want me to come back?” he asked, with sudden stern coldness. “Maybe you want to go back to Oldring!”

That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, proud eyes and mute lips refuting his insinuation.

“Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that. But you angered me. I intend to work⁠—to make a home for you here⁠—to be a⁠—a brother to you as long as ever you need me. And you must forget what you are⁠—were⁠—I mean, and be happy. When you remember that old life you are bitter, and it hurts me.”

“I was happy⁠—I shall be very happy. Oh, you’re so good that⁠—that it kills me! If I think, I can’t believe it. I grow sick with wondering why. I’m only a⁠—let me say it⁠—only a lost, nameless⁠—girl of the rustlers. Oldring’s Girl, they called me. That you should save me⁠—be so good and kind⁠—want to make me happy⁠—why, it’s beyond belief. No wonder I’m wretched at the thought of your leaving me. But I’ll be wretched and bitter no more. I promise you. If only I could repay you even a little⁠—”

“You’ve repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?”

“Believe you! I couldn’t do else.”

“Then listen!⁠ ⁠… Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valley with you, I’ve found myself. I’ve learned to think while I was dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what you say about yourself. I can’t explain it. There are things too deep to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you’ve suffered, God holds you blameless. I see that⁠—feel that in you every moment you are near me. I’ve a mother and a sister ’way back in Illinois. If I could I’d take you to them⁠—tomorrow.”

“If it were true! Oh, I might⁠—I might lift my head!” she cried.

“Lift it then⁠—you child. For I swear it’s true.”

She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a part of her actions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which always tortured Venters, but now with something more⁠—a spirit rising from the depths that linked itself to his brave words.

“I’ve been thinking⁠—too,” she cried, with quivering smile and swelling breast. “I’ve discovered myself⁠—too. I’m young⁠—I’m alive⁠—I’m so full⁠—oh! I’m a woman!”

“Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery⁠—before you,” Venters said, and laughed.

“Oh, there’s more⁠—there’s something I must tell you.”

“Tell it, then.”

“When will you go to Cottonwoods?”

“As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them.”

“I’ll tell you before you go. I can’t now. I don’t know how I shall then. But it must be told. I’d never let you leave me without knowing. For in spite of what you say there’s a chance you mightn’t come back.”

Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after day the clouds clustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sang and the caves rang with Oldring’s knell, and the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, the echoes crashed and crashed, and the rains flooded the valley. Wild flowers sprang up everywhere, swaying with the lengthening grass on the terraces, smiling wanly from shady nooks, peeping wondrously from year-dry crevices of the walls. The valley bloomed into a paradise. Every single moment, from the breaking of the gold bar through the bridge at dawn on to the reddening of rays over the western wall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick, transparent haze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in the twilight. At the end of every storm a rainbow curved down into the leaf-bright forest to shine and fade and leave lingeringly some faint essence of its rosy iris in the air.

Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched the lights change on the walls, and faced the wind from out of the west.

Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours. It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly the song of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings⁠—youth in the shady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the hedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours on grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes⁠—everywhere in far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips⁠—from all the world tidings of unquenchable love.

Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and asked himself of what was she dreaming? For the changing light of the valley reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in the changing light of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more than he saw in