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

Black Star’s neck.

“Oh, Bern! I love him!” she cried. “He’s beautiful; he knows; and how he can run! I’ve had fast horses. But Black Star!⁠ ⁠… Wrangle never beat him!”

“I’m wondering if I didn’t dream that. Bess, the blacks are grand. What it must have cost Jane⁠—ah!⁠—well, when we get out of this wild country with Star and Night, back to my old home in Illinois, we’ll buy a beautiful farm with meadows and springs and cool shade. There we’ll turn the horses free⁠—free to roam and browse and drink⁠—never to feel a spur again⁠—never to be ridden!”

“I would like that,” said Bess.

They rested. Then, mounting, they rode side by side up the white trail. The sun rose higher behind them. Far to the left a low line of green marked the site of Cottonwoods. Venters looked once and looked no more. Bess gazed only straight ahead. They put the blacks to the long, swinging rider’s canter, and at times pulled them to a trot, and occasionally to a walk. The hours passed, the miles slipped behind, and the wall of rock loomed in the fore. The Notch opened wide. It was a rugged, stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Venters and Bess ran the blacks through it. An old trail led off to the right, taking the line of the wall, and this Venters knew to be the trail mentioned by Lassiter.

The little hamlet, Glaze, a white and green patch in the vast waste of purple, lay miles down a slope much like the Cottonwoods slope, only this descended to the west. And miles farther west a faint green spot marked the location of Stone Bridge. All the rest of that world was seemingly smooth, undulating sage, with no ragged lines of canyons to accentuate its wildness.

“Bess, we’re safe⁠—we’re free!” said Venters. “We’re alone on the sage. We’re half way to Sterling.”

“Ah! I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Withersteen.”

“Never fear, Bess. He’ll outwit Tull. He’ll get away and hide her safely. He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I don’t think he’ll go so far.”

“Bern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?”

“No. But, dear, listen. Well go back some day, after years⁠—ten years. Then we’ll be forgotten. And our valley will be just as we left it.”

“What if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the Pass?”

“I’ve thought of that. I’ll pack in ropes and ropes. And if the outlet’s closed we’ll climb up the cliffs and over them to the valley and go down on rope ladders. It could be done. I know just where to make the climb, and I’ll never forget.”

“Oh yes, let us go back!”

“It’s something sweet to look forward to. Bess, it’s like all the future looks to me.”

“Call me⁠—Elizabeth,” she said, shyly.

“Elizabeth Erne! It’s a beautiful name. But I’ll never forget Bess. Do you know⁠—have you thought that very soon⁠—by this time tomorrow⁠—you will be Elizabeth Venters?”

So they rode on down the old trail. And the sun sloped to the west, and a golden sheen lay on the sage. The hours sped now; the afternoon waned. Often they rested the horses. The glisten of a pool of water in a hollow caught Venters’s eye, and here he unsaddled the blacks and let them roll and drink and browse. When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sun was low, a crimson ball, and the valley seemed veiled in purple fire and smoke. It was that short time when the sun appeared to rest before setting, and silence, like a cloak of invisible life, lay heavy on all that shimmering world of sage.

They watched the sun begin to bury its red curve under the dark horizon.

“We’ll ride on till late,” he said. “Then you can sleep a little, while I watch and graze the horses. And we’ll ride into Sterling early tomorrow. We’ll be married!⁠ ⁠… We’ll be in time to catch the stage. We’ll tie Black Star and Night behind⁠—and then⁠—for a country not wild and terrible like this!”

“Oh, Bern!⁠ ⁠… But look! The sun is setting on the sage⁠—the last time for us till we dare come again to the Utah border. Ten years! Oh, Bern, look, so you will never forget!”

Slumbering, fading purple fire burned over the undulating sage ridges. Long streaks and bars and shafts and spears fringed the far western slope. Drifting, golden veils mingled with low, purple shadows. Colors and shades changed in slow, wondrous transformation.

Suddenly Venters was startled by a low, rumbling roar⁠—so low that it was like the roar in a seashell.

“Bess, did you hear anything?” he whispered.

“No.”

“Listen!⁠ ⁠… Maybe I only imagined⁠—Ah!”

Out of the east or north from remote distance, breathed an infinitely low, continuously long sound⁠—deep, weird, detonating, thundering, deadening⁠—dying.

XXIII The Fall of Balancing Rock

Through tear-blurred sight Jane Withersteen watched Venters and Elizabeth Erne and the black racers disappear over the ridge of sage.

“They’re gone!” said Lassiter. “An’ they’re safe now. An’ there’ll never be a day of their comin’ happy lives but what they’ll remember Jane Withersteen an’⁠—an’ Uncle Jim!⁠ ⁠… I reckon, Jane, we’d better be on our way.”

The burros obediently wheeled and started down the break with little cautious steps, but Lassiter had to leash the whining dogs and lead them. Jane felt herself bound in a feeling that was neither listlessness nor indifference, yet which rendered her incapable of interest. She was still strong in body, but emotionally tired. That hour at the entrance to Deception Pass had been the climax of her suffering⁠—the flood of her wrath⁠—the last of her sacrifice⁠—the supremity of her love⁠—and the attainment of peace. She thought that if she had little Fay she would not ask any more of life.

Like an automaton she followed Lassiter down the steep trail of dust and bits of weathered stone; and when the little slides moved with her or piled around her knees she experienced no alarm. Vague relief came to her in the