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

Venters got away. I thought mebbe you’d heard that shot, en’ I was worried some.”

“What was it⁠—who fired?”

“Well⁠—some fool feller tried to stop Venters out there in the sage⁠—an’ he only stopped lead!⁠ ⁠… I think it’ll be all right. I haven’t seen or heard of any other fellers round. Venters’ll go through safe. An’, Jane, I’ve got Bells saddled, an’ I’m going to trail Venters. Mind, I won’t show myself unless he falls foul of somebody an’ needs me. I want to see if this place where he’s goin’ is safe for him. He says nobody can track him there. I never seen the place yet I couldn’t track a man to. Now, Jane, you stay indoors while I’m gone, an’ keep close watch on Fay. Will you?”

“Yes! Oh yes!”

“An’ another thing, Jane,” he continued, then paused for long⁠—“another thing⁠—if you ain’t here when I come back⁠—if you’re gone⁠—don’t fear, I’ll trail you⁠—I’ll find you out.”

“My dear Lassiter, where could I be gone⁠—as you put it?” asked Jane, in curious surprise.

“I reckon you might be somewhere. Mebbe tied in an old barn⁠—or corralled in some gulch⁠—or chained in a cave! Milly Erne was⁠—till she give in! Mebbe that’s news to you⁠ ⁠… Well, if you’re gone I’ll hunt for you.”

“No, Lassiter,” she replied, sadly and low. “If I’m gone just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded selfish deceit you repaid with kindness and love.”

She heard a deep, muttering curse, under his breath, and then the silvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away.

Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared without his usual cheer; and Jerd wore a harassed look of a worn and worried man. And when Judkins put in appearance, riding a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazed expression told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words.

“Miss Withersteen, I have to report⁠—loss of the⁠—white herd,” said Judkins, hoarsely.

“Come, sit down, you look played out,” replied Jane, solicitously. She brought him brandy and food, and while he partook of refreshments, of which he appeared badly in need, she asked no questions.

“No one rider⁠—could hev done more⁠—Miss Withersteen,” he went on, presently.

“Judkins, don’t be distressed. You’ve done more than any other rider. I’ve long expected to lose the white herd. It’s no surprise. It’s in line with other things that are happening. I’m grateful for your service.”

“Miss Withersteen, I knew how you’d take it. But if anythin’, that makes it harder to tell. You see, a feller wants to do so much fer you, an’ I’d got fond of my job. We led the herd a ways off to the north of the break in the valley. There was a big level an’ pools of water an’ tip-top browse. But the cattle was in a high nervous condition. Wild⁠—as wild as antelope! You see, they’d been so scared they never slept. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you of the many tricks that were pulled off out there in the sage. But there wasn’t a day for weeks thet the herd didn’t get started to run. We allus managed to ride ’em close an’ drive ’em back an’ keep ’em bunched. Honest, Miss Withersteen, them steers was thin. They was thin when water and grass was everywhere. Thin at this season⁠—thet’ll tell you how your steers was pestered. Fer instance, one night a strange runnin’ streak of fire run right through the herd. That streak was a coyote⁠—with an oiled an’ blazin’ tail! Fer I shot it an’ found out. We had hell with the herd that night, an’ if the sage an’ grass hadn’t been wet⁠—we, hosses, steers, an’ all would hev burned up. But I said I wasn’t goin’ to tell you any of the tricks⁠ ⁠… Strange now, Miss Withersteen, when the stampede did come it was from natural cause⁠—jest a whirlin’ devil of dust. You’ve seen the like often. An’ this wasn’t no big whirl, fer the dust was mostly settled. It had dried out in a little swale, an’ ordinarily no steer would ever hev run fer it. But the herd was nervous en’ wild. An’ jest as Lassiter said, when that bunch of white steers got to movin’ they was as bad as buffalo. I’ve seen some buffalo stampedes back in Nebraska, an’ this bolt of the steers was the same kind.

“I tried to mill the herd jest as Lassiter did. But I wasn’t equal to it, Miss Withersteen. I don’t believe the rider lives who could hev turned thet herd. We kept along of the herd fer miles, an’ more’n one of my boys tried to get the steers a-millin’. It wasn’t no use. We got off level ground, goin’ down, an’ then the steers ran somethin’ fierce. We left the little gullies an’ washes level-full of dead steers. Finally I saw the herd was makin’ to pass a kind of low pocket between ridges. There was a hogback⁠—as we used to call ’em⁠—a pile of rocks stickin’ up, and I saw the herd was goin’ to split round it, or swing out to the left. An’ I wanted ’em to go to the right so mebbe we’d be able to drive ’em into the pocket. So, with all my boys except three, I rode hard to turn the herd a little to the right. We couldn’t budge ’em. They went on en’ split round the rocks, en’ the most of ’em was turned sharp to the left by a deep wash we hedn’t seen⁠—hed no chance to see.

“The other three boys⁠—Jimmy Vail, Joe Willis, an’ thet little Cairns boy⁠—a nervy kid! they, with Cairns leadin’, tried to buck thet herd round to the pocket. It was a wild, fool idee. I couldn’t do nothin’. The boys got hemmed in between the steers an’ the