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

answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So she’ll grow up gradually takin’ on that falseness, an’ be like the rest of the women, an’ men, too. An’ the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin’ to love me when you don’t. Things aren’t what they seem.”

“Lassiter, you’re right. A child should be told the absolute truth. But⁠—is that possible? I haven’t been able to do it, and all my life I’ve loved the truth, and I’ve prided myself upon being truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. I’m learning much, my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And⁠—and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal. How much, how little, I couldn’t say. My heart is almost broken, Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attempt serious thought I’m dazed. I don’t think. I don’t care any more. I don’t pray!⁠ ⁠… Think of that, my friend! But in spite of my numb feeling I believe I’ll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God. I’m on the rack now; I’m senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. I’m waiting the hour.”

“It’ll soon come, Jane,” replied Lassiter, soberly. “Then I’m afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an’ for years you’ve been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe as you⁠—that you’ll come out of it all a finer woman. I’m waitin’, too. An’ I’m wonderin’⁠—I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?”

“Lassiter!⁠ ⁠… My dear friend!⁠ ⁠… It’s impossible for us to marry!”

“Why⁠—as Fay says?” inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence.

“Why! I never thought why. But it’s not possible. I am Jane, daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of his grave. I’m of Mormon birth. I’m being broken. But I’m still a Mormon woman. And you⁠—you are Lassiter!”

“Mebbe I’m not so much Lassiter as I used to be.”

“What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself! You can’t change the one habit⁠—the purpose of your life. For you still pack those black guns! You still nurse your passion for blood.”

A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face.

“No.”

“Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you⁠—don’t you lie to me. I’ve great respect for you. I believe you’re softened toward most, perhaps all, my people except⁠—But when I speak of your purpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. I don’t believe you’ve changed.”

For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid it with the heavy, swing gun-sheaths in her lap.

“Lassiter!” Jane whispered, as she gazed from him to the black, cold guns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength, defenseless, a smaller man. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, conscious of only one motive⁠—refusal to see this man called craven by his enemies⁠—she rose, and with blundering fingers buckled the belt round his waist where it belonged.

“Lassiter, I am a coward.”

“Come with me out of Utah⁠—where I can put away my guns an’ be a man,” he said. “I reckon I’ll prove it to you then! Come! You’ve got Black Star back, an’ Night an’ Bells. Let’s take the racers an’ little Fay, en’ race out of Utah. The hosses an’ the child are all you have left. Come!”

“No, no, Lassiter. I’ll never leave Utah. What would I do in the world with my broken fortunes and my broken heart? I’ll never leave these purple slopes I love so well.”

“I reckon I ought to’ve knowed that. Presently you’ll be livin’ down here in a hovel, en’ presently Jane Withersteen will be a memory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you how a man⁠—any man⁠—can be better ’n he was. If we left Utah I could prove⁠—I reckon I could prove this thing you call love. It’s strange, an’ hell an’ heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. ’Pears to me that you’ve thrown away your big heart on love⁠—love of religion an’ duty an’ churchmen, an’ riders an’ poor families an’ poor children! Yet you can’t see what love is⁠—how it changes a person!⁠ ⁠… Listen, an’ in tellin’ you Milly Erne’s story I’ll show you how love changed her.

“Milly an’ me was children when our family moved from Missouri to Texas, an’ we growed up in Texas ways same as if we’d been born there. We had been poor, an’ there we prospered. In time the little village where we went became a town, an’ strangers an’ new families kept movin’ in. Milly was the belle them days. I can see her now, a little girl no bigger ’n a bird, an’ as pretty. She had the finest eyes, dark blue-black when she was excited, an’ beautiful all the time. You remember Milly’s eyes! An’ she had light-brown hair with streaks of gold, an’ a mouth that every feller wanted to kiss.

“An’ about the time Milly was the prettiest an’ the sweetest, along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race with the other fellers for Milly. An’ he won. Milly had always been strong on religion, an’ when she met Frank Erne she went in heart an’ soul for the salvation of souls. Fact was, Milly, through study of the Bible an’ attendin’ church an’ revivals, went a little out of her head. It didn’t worry the old folks none, an’ the only worry to me was Milly’s everlastin’ prayin’ an’ workin’ to save my soul. She never converted me, but we was the best of comrades, an’ I reckon no brother an’ sister ever loved each other better. Well, Frank Erne an me hit up a great friendship. He was a strappin’ feller, good to look at,