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

shook hands with Bess, relieved Venters and put the girl at ease. After Venters’s words and one quick look at Lassiter, her agitation stilled, and, though she was shy, if she were conscious of anything out of the ordinary in the situation, certainly she did not show it.

“I reckon I’ll only stay a little while,” Lassiter was saying. “An’ if you don’t mind troublin’, I’m hungry. I fetched some biscuits along, but they’re gone. Venters, this place is sure the wonderfullest ever seen. Them cut steps on the slope! That outlet into the gorge! An’ it’s like climbin’ up through hell into heaven to climb through that gorge into this valley! There’s a queer-lookin’ rock at the top of the passage. I didn’t have time to stop. I’m wonderin’ how you ever found this place. It’s sure interestin’.”

During the preparation and eating of dinner Lassiter listened mostly, as was his wont, and occasionally he spoke in his quaint and dry way. Venters noted, however, that the rider showed an increasing interest in Bess. He asked her no questions, and only directed his attention to her while she was occupied and had no opportunity to observe his scrutiny. It seemed to Venters that Lassiter grew more and more absorbed in his study of Bess, and that he lost his coolness in some strange, softening sympathy. Then, quite abruptly, he arose and announced the necessity for his early departure. He said goodbye to Bess in a voice gentle and somewhat broken, and turned hurriedly away. Venters accompanied him, and they had traversed the terrace, climbed the weathered slope, and passed under the stone bridge before either spoke again.

Then Lassiter put a great hand on Venters’s shoulder and wheeled him to meet a smoldering fire of gray eyes.

“Lassiter, I couldn’t tell Jane! I couldn’t,” burst out Venters, reading his friend’s mind. “I tried. But I couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand, and she has troubles enough. And I love the girl!”

“Venters, I reckon this beats me. I’ve seen some queer things in my time, too. This girl⁠—who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know! What is she, then?”

“I don’t know that, either. Oh, it’s the strangest story you ever heard. I must tell you. But you’ll never believe.”

“Venters, women were always puzzles to me. But for all that, if this girl ain’t a child, an’ as innocent, I’m no fit person to think of virtue an’ goodness in anybody. Are you goin’ to be square with her?”

“I am⁠—so help me God!”

“I reckoned so. Mebbe my temper oughtn’t led me to make sure. But, man, she’s a woman in all but years. She’s sweeter’n the sage.”

“Lassiter, I know, I know. And the hell of it is that in spite of her innocence and charm she’s⁠—she’s not what she seems!”

“I wouldn’t want to⁠—of course, I couldn’t call you a liar, Venters,” said the older man.

“What’s more, she was Oldring’s Masked Rider!”

Venters expected to floor his friend with that statement, but he was not in any way prepared for the shock his words gave. For an instant he was astounded to see Lassiter stunned; then his own passionate eagerness to unbosom himself, to tell the wonderful story, precluded any other thought.

“Son, tell me all about this,” presently said Lassiter as he seated himself on a stone and wiped his moist brow.

Thereupon Venters began his narrative at the point where he had shot the rustler and Oldring’s Masked Rider, and he rushed through it, telling all, not holding back even Bess’s unreserved avowal of her love or his deepest emotions.

“That’s the story,” he said, concluding. “I love her, though I’ve never told her. If I did tell her I’d be ready to marry her, and that seems impossible in this country. I’d be afraid to risk taking her anywhere. So I intend to do the best I can for her here.”

“The longer I live the stranger life is,” mused Lassiter, with downcast eyes. “I’m reminded of somethin’ you once said to Jane about hands in her game of life. There’s that unseen hand of power, an’ Tull’s black hand, an’ my red one, an’ your indifferent one, an’ the girl’s little brown, helpless one. An’, Venters there’s another one that’s all-wise an’ all-wonderful. That’s the hand guidin’ Jane Withersteen’s game of life!⁠ ⁠… Your story’s one to daze a far clearer head than mine. I can’t offer no advice, even if you asked for it. Mebbe I can help you. Anyway, I’ll hold Oldrin’ up when he comes to the village an’ find out about this girl. I knew the rustler years ago. He’ll remember me.”

“Lassiter, if I ever meet Oldring I’ll kill him!” cried Venters, with sudden intensity.

“I reckon that’d be perfectly natural,” replied the rider.

“Make him think Bess is dead⁠—as she is to him and that old life.”

“Sure, sure, son. Cool down now. If you’re goin’ to begin pullin’ guns on Tull an’ Oldrin’ you want to be cool. I reckon, though, you’d better keep hid here. Well, I must be leavin’.”

“One thing, Lassiter. You’ll not tell Jane about Bess? Please don’t!”

“I reckon not. But I wouldn’t be afraid to bet that after she’d got over anger at your secrecy⁠—Venters, she’d be furious once in her life!⁠—she’d think more of you. I don’t mind sayin’ for myself that I think you’re a good deal of a man.”

In the further ascent Venters halted several times with the intention of saying goodbye, yet he changed his mind and kept on climbing till they reached Balancing Rock. Lassiter examined the huge rock, listened to Venters’s idea of its position and suggestion, and curiously placed a strong hand upon it.

“Hold on!” cried Venters. “I heaved at it once and have never gotten over my scare.”

“Well, you do seem uncommon nervous,” replied Lassiter, much amused. “Now, as for me, why I always had the funniest notion to roll stones! When I was a kid I did it, an’ the bigger I got the bigger stones I’d roll. Ain’t that funny? Honest⁠—even now I often get