Riders of the Purple Sage, Zane Grey [best books to read now TXT] 📗

life itself.

Her passion, like fire at white heat, consumed itself in little time. Her physical strength failed, and still her spirit attempted to go on in magnificent denunciation of those who had wronged her. Like a tree cut deep into its roots, she began to quiver and shake, and her anger weakened into despair. And her ringing voice sank into a broken, husky whisper. Then, spent and pitiable, upheld by Lassiter’s arm, she turned and hid her face in Black Star’s mane.

Numb as Venters was when at length Jane Withersteen lifted her head and looked at him, he yet suffered a pang.

“Jane, the girl is innocent!” he cried.

“Can you expect me to believe that?” she asked, with weary, bitter eyes.

“I’m not that kind of a liar. And you know it. If I lied—if I kept silent when honor should have made me speak, it was to spare you. I came to Cottonwoods to tell you. But I couldn’t add to your pain. I intended to tell you I had come to love this girl. But, Jane I hadn’t forgotten how good you were to me. I haven’t changed at all toward you. I prize your friendship as I always have. But, however it may look to you—don’t be unjust. The girl is innocent. Ask Lassiter.”

“Jane, she’s jest as sweet an’ innocent as little Fay,” said Lassiter. There was a faint smile upon his face and a beautiful light.

Venters saw, and knew that Lassiter saw, how Jane Withersteen’s tortured soul wrestled with hate and threw it—with scorn doubt, suspicion, and overcame all.

“Bern, if in my misery I accused you unjustly, I crave forgiveness,” she said. “I’m not what I once was. Tell me—who is this girl?”

“Jane, she is Oldring’s daughter, and his Masked Rider. Lassiter will tell you how I shot her for a rustler, saved her life—all the story. It’s a strange story, Jane, as wild as the sage. But it’s true—true as her innocence. That you must believe.”

“Oldring’s Masked Rider! Oldring’s daughter!” exclaimed Jane. “And she’s innocent! You ask me to believe much. If this girl is—is what you say, how could she be going away with the man who killed her father?”

“Why did you tell that?” cried Venters, passionately.

Jane’s question had roused Bess out of stupefaction. Her eyes suddenly darkened and dilated. She stepped toward Venters and held up both hands as if to ward off a blow.

“Did—did you kill Oldring?”

“I did, Bess, and I hate myself for it. But you know I never dreamed he was your father. I thought he’d wronged you. I killed him when I was madly jealous.”

For a moment Bess was shocked into silence.

“But he was my father!” she broke out, at last. “And now I must go back—I can’t go with you. It’s all over—that beautiful dream. Oh, I knew it couldn’t come true. You can’t take me now.”

“If you forgive me, Bess, it’ll all come right in the end!” implored Venters.

“It can’t be right. I’ll go back. After all, I loved him. He was good to me. I can’t forget that.”

“If you go back to Oldring’s men I’ll follow you, and then they’ll kill me,” said Venters, hoarsely.

“Oh no, Bern, you’ll not come. Let me go. It’s best for you to forget me. I’ve brought you only pain and dishonor.”

She did not weep. But the sweet bloom and life died out of her face. She looked haggard and sad, all at once stunted; and her hands dropped listlessly; and her head drooped in slow, final acceptance of a hopeless fate.

“Jane, look there!” cried Venters, in despairing grief. “Need you have told her? Where was all your kindness of heart? This girl has had a wretched, lonely life. And I’d found a way to make her happy. You’ve killed it. You’ve killed something sweet and pure and hopeful, just as sure as you breathe.”

“Oh, Bern! It was a slip. I never thought—I never thought!” replied Jane. “How could I tell she didn’t know?”

Lassiter suddenly moved forward, and with the beautiful light on his face now strangely luminous, he looked at Jane and Venters and then let his soft, bright gaze rest on Bess.

“Well, I reckon you’ve all had your say, an’ now it’s Lassiter’s turn. Why, I was jest praying for this meetin’. Bess, jest look here.”

Gently he touched her arm and turned her to face the others, and then outspread his great hand to disclose a shiny, battered gold locket.

“Open it,” he said, with a singularly rich voice.

Bess complied, but listlessly.

“Jane—Venters—come closer,” went on Lassiter. “Take a look at the picture. Don’t you know the woman?”

Jane, after one glance, drew back.

“Milly Erne!” she cried, wonderingly.

Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognized in the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne.

“Yes, that’s Milly,” said Lassiter, softly. “Bess, did you ever see her face—look hard—with all your heart an’ soul?”

“The eyes seem to haunt me,” whispered Bess. “Oh, I can’t remember—they’re eyes of my dreams—but—but—”

Lassiter’s strong arm went round her and he bent his head.

“Child, I thought you’d remember her eyes. They’re the same beautiful eyes you’d see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring. They’re your mother’s eyes. You are Milly Erne’s child. Your name is Elizabeth Erne. You’re not Oldring’s daughter. You’re the daughter of Frank Erne, a man once my best friend. Look! Here’s his picture beside Milly’s. He was handsome, an’ as fine an’ gallant a Southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. You come of the best of blood, lass, and blood tells.”

Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the locket to her bosom, and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes.

“It—can’t—be—true!”

“Thank God, lass, it is true,” replied Lassiter. “Jane an’ Bern here—they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you. They’re so knocked out they can’t tell you, that’s all.”

“Who are you?” whispered Bess.

“I reckon I’m Milly’s brother an’ your uncle!... Uncle Jim! Ain’t that fine?”

“Oh, I can’t believe—Don’t raise me! Bern, let me kneel. I see truth in your face—in Miss Withersteen’s. But let me hear it all—all on my knees. Tell me how it’s true!”

“Well, Elizabeth, listen,” said Lassiter. “Before you was born your father made a mortal enemy of a Mormon named Dyer. They was both ministers an’ come to be rivals. Dyer stole your mother away from her home. She gave birth to you in Texas eighteen years ago. Then she was taken to Utah, from place to place, an’ finally to the last border settlement—Cottonwoods. You was about three years old when you was taken away from Milly. She never knew what had become of you. But she lived a good while hopin’ and prayin’ to have you again. Then she gave up an’ died. An’ I may as well put in here your father died ten years ago. Well, I spent my time tracin’ Milly, an’ some months back I landed in Cottonwoods. An’ jest lately I learned all about you. I had a talk with Oldrin’ an’ told him you was dead, an’ he told me what I had so long been wantin’ to know. It was Dyer, of course, who stole you from Milly. Part reason he was sore because Milly refused to give you Mormon teachin’, but mostly he still hated Frank Erne so infernally that he made a deal with Oldrin’ to take you an’ bring you up as an infamous rustler an’ rustler’s girl. The idea was to break Frank Erne’s heart if he ever came to Utah—to show him his daughter with a band of low rustlers. Well—Oldrin’ took you, brought you up from childhood, an’ then made you his Masked Rider. He made you infamous. He kept that part of the contract, but he learned to love you as a daughter an’ never let any but his own men know you was a girl. I heard him say that with my own ears, an’ I saw his big eyes grow dim. He told me how he had guarded you always, kept you locked up in his absence, was always at your side or near you on those rides that made you famous on the sage. He said he an’ an old rustler whom he trusted had taught you how to read an’ write. They selected the books for you. Dyer had wanted you brought up the vilest of the vile! An’ Oldrin’ brought you up the innocentest of the innocent. He said you didn’t know what vileness was. I can hear his big voice tremble now as he said it. He told me how the men—rustlers an’ outlaws—who from time to time tried to approach you familiarly—he told me how he shot them dead. I’m tellin’ you this ’specially because you’ve showed such shame—sayin’ you was nameless an’ all that. Nothin’ on earth can be wronger than that idea of yours. An’ the truth of it is here. Oldrin’ swore to me that if Dyer died, releasin’ the contract, he intended to hunt up your father an’ give you back to him. It seems Oldrin’ wasn’t all bad, en’ he sure loved you.”

Venters leaned forward in passionate remorse.

“Oh, Bess! I know Lassiter speaks the truth. For when I shot Oldring he dropped to his knees and fought with unearthly power to speak. And he said: ‘Man—why—didn’t—you—wait? Bess was—’ Then he fell dead. And I’ve been haunted by his look and words. Oh, Bess, what a strange, splendid thing for Oldring to do! It all seems impossible. But, dear, you really are not what you thought.”

“Elizabeth Erne!” cried Jane Withersteen. “I loved your mother and I see her in you!”

What had been incredible from the lips of men became, in the tone, look, and gesture of a woman, a wonderful truth for Bess. With little tremblings of all her slender body she rocked to and fro on her knees. The yearning wistfulness of her eyes changed to solemn splendor of joy. She believed. She was realizing happiness. And as the process of thought was slow, so were the variations of her expression. Her eyes reflected the transformation of her soul. Dark, brooding, hopeless belief—clouds of gloom—drifted, paled, vanished in glorious light. An exquisite rose flush—a glow—shone from her face as she slowly began to rise from her knees. A spirit uplifted her. All that she had held as base dropped from her.

Venters watched her in joy too deep for words. By it he divined something of what Lassiter’s revelation meant to Bess, but he knew he could only faintly understand. That moment when she seemed to be lifted by some spiritual transfiguration was the most beautiful moment of his life. She stood with parted, quivering lips, with hands tightly clasping the locket to her heaving breast. A new conscious pride of worth dignified the old wild, free grace and poise.

“Uncle Jim!” she said, tremulously, with a different smile from any Venters had ever seen on her face.

Lassiter took her into his arms.

“I reckon. It’s powerful fine to hear that,” replied Lassiter, unsteadily.

Venters, feeling his eyes grow hot and wet, turned away, and found himself looking at Jane Withersteen. He had almost forgotten her presence. Tenderness and sympathy were fast hiding traces of her agitation. Venters read her mind—felt the reaction of her noble heart—saw the joy she was beginning to feel at the happiness of others. And suddenly blinded, choked by his emotions, he turned from her also. He knew what she would do presently; she would make some magnificent amend for her anger; she would give some manifestation of her love; probably all in a moment, as she had loved Milly Erne, so would she love Elizabeth Erne.

“’Pears to me, folks, that we’d better talk a little serious now,” remarked Lassiter, at length. “Time flies.”

“You’re right,” replied Venters, instantly. “I’d forgotten time—place—danger. Lassiter, you’re riding away. Jane’s leaving Withersteen House?”

“Forever,” replied Jane.

“I fired Withersteen House,” said Lassiter.

“Dyer?” questioned Venters, sharply.

“I reckon where Dyer’s gone there won’t be any kidnappin’ of girls.”

“Ah! I knew it. I told Judkins—And Tull?” went on Venters, passionately.

“Tull wasn’t around when I broke loose. By now he’s likely on our trail with his riders.”

“Lassiter, you’re going into the Pass to hide till all this storm blows over?”

“I reckon that’s Jane’s idea. I’m thinkin’ the storm’ll be a powerful long time blowin’ over. I was comin’ to join you in Surprise Valley. You’ll go back now with me?”

“No. I want to take Bess out of Utah. Lassiter, Bess found gold in the valley. We’ve a saddle-bag full of gold. If we can reach Sterling—”

“Man! how’re you ever goin’ to do that? Sterlin’ is a hundred miles.”

“My plan is to ride on, keeping sharp lookout. Somewhere up the trail we’ll take to the sage and go round Cottonwoods and then hit the trail again.”

“It’s a bad plan. You’ll kill the burros in two days.”

“Then we’ll walk.”

“That’s more bad an’ worse.