Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
Written by the bestselling Western author of all time, Riders of the Purple Sage can be seen at the original Western. When Lassiter, a gun-slinging avenger in black with a fearsome reputation, rides into the Mormon village of Cottonwoods in Southern Utah, he finds a town in turmoil. An underhand land battle is in full force. Beautiful young rancher Jane Withersteen is in possession of the richest land holding in the Cottonwoods, but the Mormon church have plans to take control by forcing the unwilling Jane into marrying Elder Tull. Outnumbered and outgunned, Jane sees no escape… until Lassiter arrives. A lone gunman fighting for justice, Lassiter has his own agenda. His sister has been kidnapped by a Mormon proselytizer and he is determined to find out what happened to her. Jane finds herself drawing ever closer to Lassiter while he tries to unravel the complex web of intrigue that underlies the corrupt village. Adapted five times for film in the past hundred years, the enduring affection for the Western genre doesn't show any sign of decreasing. In Lassiter, Zane Grey creates an iconic prototype hero that inspired many books and films to come. With a complex plot and engaging with issues of morality, isolation and religion, Riders of the Purple Sage is more than just the first Western - it is a classic.
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 533
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
ZANE GREY
Contents
CHAPTER I
LASSITER
A sharp clip-crop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died away, and clouds of yellow dust drifted from under the cottonwoods out over the sage.
Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with dreamy and troubled eyes. A rider had just left her and it was his message that held her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting the churchmen who were coming to resent and attack her right to befriend a Gentile.
She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to the little village of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And then she sighed, remembering that her father had founded this remotest border settlement of southern Utah and that he had left it to her. She owned all the ground and many of the cottages. Withersteen House was hers, and the great ranch, with its thousands of cattle, and the swiftest horses of the sage. To her belonged Amber Spring, the water which gave verdure and beauty to the village and made living possible on that wild purple upland waste. She could not escape being involved by whatever befell Cottonwoods.
That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually coming in the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border. Glaze – Stone Bridge – Sterling, villages to the north, had risen against the invasion of Gentile settlers and the forays of rustlers. There had been opposition to the one and fighting with the other. And now Cottonwoods had begun to wake and bestir itself and grown hard.
Jane prayed that the tranquility and sweetness of her life would not be permanently disrupted. She meant to do so much more for her people than she had done. She wanted the sleepy quiet pastoral days to last always. Trouble between the Mormons and the Gentiles of the community would make her unhappy. She was Mormon-born, and she was a friend to poor and unfortunate Gentiles. She wished only to go on doing good and being happy. And she thought of what that great ranch meant to her. She loved it all – the grove of cottonwoods, the old stone house, the amber-tinted water, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek, clean-limbed, blooded racers, and the browsing herds of cattle and the lean, sun-browned riders of the sage.
While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward change. The bray of a lazy burro broke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortingly suggestive of the drowsy farmyard, and the open corrals, and the green alfalfa fields. Her clear sight intensified the purple sage-slope as it rolled before her. Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up to the west. Dark, lonely cedar trees, few and far between, stood out strikingly, and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Further on, up the gradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming dark purple and stretching its solitary, mystic way, a wavering line that faded in the north. Here to the westward was the light and colour and beauty. Northward the slope descended to a dim line of canyons from which rose an up-flinging of the earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purple uplands, with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crowned cliffs, and grey escarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoon shadows.
The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question at hand. A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threw their bridles. They were seven in number, and Tull, the leader, a tall, dark man, was an elder of Jane’s church.
‘Did you get my message?’ he asked, curtly.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane.
‘I sent word I’d give that rider Venters half an hour to come down to the village. He didn’t come.’
‘He knows nothing of it,’ said Jane. ‘I didn’t tell him. I’ve been waiting here for you.’
‘Where is Venters?’
‘I left him in the courtyard.’
‘Here, Jerry,’ called Tull, turning to his men, ‘take the gang and fetch Venters out here if you have to rope him.’
The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily into the grove of cottonwoods and disappeared in the shade.
‘Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?’ demanded Jane. ‘If you must arrest Venters you might have the courtesy to wait till he leaves my home. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It’s absurd to accuse Venters of being mixed up in that shooting fray in the village last night. He was with me at the time. Besides, he let me take charge of his guns. You’re only using this as a pretext. What do you mean to do to Venters?’
‘I’ll tell you presently,’ replied Tull. ‘But first tell me why you defend this worthless rider?’
‘Worthless!’ exclaimed Jane, indignantly. ‘He’s nothing of the kind. He was the best rider I ever had. There’s not a reason why I shouldn’t champion him and every reason why I should. It’s no little shame to me, Elder Tull, that through my friendship he has roused the enmity of my people and become an outcast. Besides, I owe him eternal gratitude for saving the life of little Fay.’
‘I’ve heard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend to adopt her. But – Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!’
‘Yes. But, Elder, I don’t love the Mormon children any less because I love a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother will give her to me.’
‘I’m not so much against that. You can give the child Mormon teaching,’ said Tull. ‘But I’m sick of seeing this fellow Venters hang around you. I’m going to put a stop to it. You’ve so much love to throw away on these beggars of Gentiles that I’ve an idea you might love Venters.’
Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not be brooked and with the passion of a man in whom jealousy had kindled a consuming fire.
‘Maybe I do love him,’ said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir her heart. ‘I’d never thought of that. Poor fellow! he certainly needs someone to love him.’
‘This’ll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that,’ returned Tull, grimly.
Tull’s men appeared under the cottonwoods and led a young man out into the lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood tall and straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the muscles of his bound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent on Tull.
For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters’ real spirit. She wondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooled to the sobering sense of the issue at stake.
‘Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?’ asked Tull, tensely.
‘Why?’ rejoined the rider.
‘Because I order it.’
Venters laughed in cool disdain.
The red leaped to Tull’s dark cheek.
‘If you don’t go it means your ruin,’ he said, sharply.
‘Ruin!’ exclaimed Venters, passionately. ‘Haven’t you already ruined me? What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses and cattle of my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when I come into the village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. You trail me as if I were a rustler. I’ve no more to lose – except my life.’
‘Will you leave Utah?’
‘Oh! I know,’ went on Venters, tauntingly, ‘it galls you, the idea of beautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You want her all yourself. You’re a wiving Mormon. You have use for her – and Withersteen House and Amber Spring and seven thousand head of cattle!’
Tull’s hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of his neck.
‘Once more. Will you go?’
‘No!’
‘Then I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life,’ replied Tull, harshly. ‘I’ll turn you out in the sage. And if you ever come back you’ll get worse.’
Venters’ agitated face grew coldly set and the bronze changed.
Jane impulsively stepped forward. ‘Oh! Elder Tull!’ she cried. ‘You won’t do that!’
Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her.
‘That’ll do from you. Understand, you’ll not be allowed to hold this boy to a friendship that’s offensive to your Bishop. Jane Withersteen, your father left you wealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven’t yet come to see the place of Mormon women. We’ve reasoned with you, borne with you. We’ve patiently waited. We’ve let you have your fling, which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven’t come to your senses. Now, once for all, you can’t have any further friendship with Venters. He’s going to be whipped, and he’s got to leave Utah!’
‘Oh! Don’t whip him! It would be dastardly!’ implored Jane, with slow certainty of her failing courage.
Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she had feigned a boldness which she did not possess. He loomed up now in different guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysterious despotism she had known from childhood – the power of her creed.
‘Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go out in the sage?’ asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was more than inhuman, yet seemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam of righteousness.
‘I’ll take it here – if I must,’ said Venters. ‘But by God! – Tull you’d better kill me outright. That’ll be a dear whipping for you and your praying Mormons. You’ll make me another Lassiter!’
The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull’s face, might have been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty. But there was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personal and sinister, a deep of himself, an engulfing abyss. As his religious mood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless.
‘Elder, I – I repent my words,’ Jane faltered. The religion in her, the long habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke in her voice. ‘Spare the boy!’ she whispered.
‘You can’t save him now,’ replied Tull stridently.
Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth, when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, a hardening of gentle forces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all that had been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something new and unintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes. Jane Withersteen loved that wild and purple wilderness. In times of sorrow it had been her strength, in happiness its beauty was her continual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, ‘Whence cometh my help!’ It was a prayer, as if forth from those lonely purple reaches and walls of red and clefts of blue might ride a fearless man, neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraining hand in the faces of her ruthless people.
The restless movements of Tull’s men suddenly quieted down. Then followed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation.
‘Look!’ said one, pointing to the west.
‘A rider!’
Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against the western sky, coming riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from the left, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till close at hand. An answer to her prayer!
‘Do you know him? Does anyone know him?’ questioned Tull, hurriedly.
His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads.
‘He’s come from far,’ said one.
‘Thet’s a fine hoss,’ said another.
‘A strange rider.’
‘Huh! he wears black leather,’ added a fourth.
With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Tull stepped forward in such a way that he concealed Venters.
The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch that while performing it the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group before him.
‘Look!’ hoarsely whispered one of Tull’s companions. ‘He packs two black-butted guns – low down – they’re hard to see – black akin them black chaps.’
‘A gunman!’ whispered another. ‘Fellers, careful now about movin’ your hands.’
The stranger’s slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner of gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking; yet, as well, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances with men.
‘Hello, stranger!’ called Tull. No welcome was in this greeting, only a gruff curiosity.
The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax.
‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ he said to Jane, and removed his sombrero with quaint grace.
Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctively and which riveted her attention. It had all the characteristics of the range rider’s – the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the set changelessness that came from years of silence and solitude. But it was not these which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained weariness, a piercing wistfulness of keen, grey sight, as if the man was forever looking for that which he never found. Jane’s subtle woman’s intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, a secret.
‘Jane Withersteen, ma’am?’ he enquired.
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘The water here is yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I water my horse?’
‘Certainly. There’s the trough.’
‘But mebbe if you knew who I was –’ He hesitated, with his glance on the listening men. ‘Mebbe you wouldn’t let me water him – though I ain’t askin’ none for myself.’
‘Stranger, it doesn’t matter who you are. Water your horse. And if you are thirsty and hungry come into my house.’
‘Thanks, ma’am. I can’t accept for myself – but for my tired horse –’
Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements on the part of Tull’s men broke up the little circle, exposing the prisoner Venters.
‘Mebbe I’ve kind of hindered somethin’ – for a few moments, perhaps?’ enquired the rider.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane Withersteen, with a throb in her voice.
She felt the drawing power of his eyes; and then she saw him look at the bound Venters, and at the men who held him, and their leader.
‘In this here country all the rustlers an’ thieves an’ cut-throats an’ gun-throwers an’ all-round no-good men jest happen to be Gentiles. Ma’am, which of the no-good class does that young feller belong to?’
‘He belongs to none of them. He’s an honest boy.’
‘You know that, ma’am?’
‘Yes – yes.’
‘Then what has he done to get tied up that way?’
His clear and distinct question, meant for Tull as well as for Jane Withersteen, stilled the restlessness and brought a momentary silence.
‘Ask him,’ replied Jane, her voice rising high.
The rider stepped away from her, moving out with the same slow, measured stride in which he had approached, and the fact that his action placed her wholly to one side, and him no nearer to Tull and his men, had a penetrating significance.
‘Young feller, speak up,’ he said to Venters.
‘Here stranger, this’s none of your mix,’ began Tull. ‘Don’t try any interference. You’ve been asked to drink and eat. That’s more than you’d have got in any other village of the Utah border. Water your horse and be on your way.’
‘Easy – easy – I ain’t interferin’ yet,’ replied the rider. The tone of his voice had undergone a change. A different man had spoken. Where, in addressing Jane, he had been mild and gentle, now, with his first speech to Tull, he was dry, cool, biting. ‘I’ve lest stumbled onto a queer deal. Seven Mormons all packin’ guns, an’ a Gentile tied with a rope, an’ a woman who swears by his honesty! Queer, ain’t that?’
‘Queer or not, it’s none of your business,’ retorted Tull.
‘Where I was raised a woman’s word was law. I ain’t quite outgrowed that yet.’
Tull fumed between amaze and anger.
‘Meddler, we have a law here something different from woman’s whim – Mormon law!… Take care you don’t transgress it.’
‘To hell with your Mormon law!’
The deliberate speech marked the rider’s further change, this time from kindly interest to an awakening menace. It produced a transformation in Tull and his companions. The leader gasped and staggered backward at a blasphemous affront to an institution he held most sacred. The man Jerry, holding the horses, dropped the bridles and froze in his tracks. Like posts the other men stood watchful-eyed, arms hanging rigid, all waiting.
‘Speak up now, young man. What have you done to be roped that way?’
‘It’s a damned outrage!’ burst out Venters. ‘I’ve done no wrong. I’ve offended this Mormon Elder by being a friend to that woman.’
‘Ma’am, is it true – what he says?’ asked the rider of Jane, but his quiveringly alert eyes never left the little knot of quiet men.
‘True? Yes, perfectly true,’ she answered.
‘Well, young man, it seems to me that bein’ a friend to such a woman would be what you wouldn’t want to help an’ couldn’t help… What’s to be done to you for it?’
‘They intend to whip me. You know what that means – in Utah!’
‘I reckon,’ replied the rider, slowly.
With his grey glance cold on the Mormons, with the restive bit-champing of the horses, with Jane failing to repress her mounting agitations, with Venters standing pale and still, the tension of the moment tightened. Tull broke the spell with a laugh, a laugh without mirth, a laugh that was only a sound betraying fear.
‘Come on, men!’ he called.
Jane Withersteen turned again to the rider.
‘Stranger, can you do nothing to save Venters?’
‘Ma’am, you ask me to save him – from your own people?’
‘Ask you? I beg of you!’
‘But you don’t dream who you’re askin’.’
‘Oh, sir, I pray you – save him!’
‘These are Mormons, an’ I…’
‘At – at any cost – save him. For I – I care for him!’
Tull snarled. ‘You lovesick fool! Tell your secrets. There’ll be a way to teach you what you’ve never learned… Come, men, out of here!’
‘Mormon, the young man stays,’ said the rider.
Like a shot his voice halted Tull.
‘What!’
‘Who’ll keep him? He’s my prisoner!’ cried Tull, hotly. ‘Stranger, again I tell you – don’t mix here. You’ve meddled enough. Go your way now or –’
‘Listen!… He stays.’
Absolute certainty, beyond any shadow of doubt, breathed in the rider’s low voice.
‘Who are you? We are seven here.’
The rider dropped his sombrero and made a rapid movement, singular in that it left him somewhat crouched, arms bent and stiff, with the big black gun-sheaths swung round to the fore.
‘Lassiter!’
It was Venters’ wondering, thrilling cry that bridged the fateful connection between the rider’s singular position and the dreaded name.
Tull put out a groping hand. The life of his eyes dulled to the gloom with which men of his fear saw the approach of death. But death, while it hovered over him, did not descend, for the rider waited for the twitching fingers, the downward flash of hand that did not come. Tull, gathering himself together, turned to the horses, attended by his pale comrades.
CHAPTER II
COTTONWOODS
Venters appeared too deeply moved to speak the gratitude his face expressed. And Jane turned upon the rescuer and gripped his hands. Her smiles and tears seemingly dazed him. Presently as something like calmness returned, she went to Lassiter’s weary horse.
‘I will water him myself,’ she said, and she led the horse to a trough under a huge old cottonwood. With nimble fingers she loosened the bridle and removed the bit. The horse snorted and bent his head. The trough was of solid stone, hollowed out, moss-covered and green and wet and cool, and the clear brown water that fed it spouted and splashed from a wooden pipe.
‘He has brought you far today?’
‘Yes, ma’am, a matter of over sixty miles, mebbe seventy.’
‘A long ride – a ride that – Ah, he is blind!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Lassiter.
‘What blinded him?’
‘Some men once roped an’ tied him, an’ then held white-iron close to his eyes.’
‘Oh! Men? You mean devils… Were they your enemies – Mormons?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘To take revenge on a horse! Lassiter, the men of my creed are unnaturally cruel. To my everlasting sorrow I confess it. They have been driven, hated, scourged till their hearts have hardened. But we women hope and pray for the time when our men will soften.’
‘Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am – that time will never come.’
‘Oh, it will!… Lassiter, do you think Mormon women wicked? Has your hand been against them, too?’
‘No. I believe Mormon women are the best and noblest, the most long-sufferin’, and the blindest, unhappiest women on earth.’
‘Ah!’ She gave him a grave, thoughtful look. ‘Then you will break bread with me?’
Lassiter had no ready response, and he uneasily shifted his weight from one leg to another, and turned his sombrero round and round in his hands. ‘Ma’am,’ he began, presently, ‘I reckon your kindness of heart makes you overlook things. Perhaps I ain’t well known hereabouts, but back up North there’s Mormons who’d rest uneasy in their graves at the idea of me sittin’ to table with you.’
‘I dare say. But – will you do it, anyway?’ she asked.
‘Mebbe you have a brother or relative who might drop in an’ be offended, an’ I wouldn’t want to –’
‘I’ve not a relative in Utah that I know of. There’s no one with a right to question my actions.’ She turned smilingly to Venters. ‘You will come in, Bern, and Lassiter will come in. We’ll eat and be merry while we may.’
‘I’m only wonderin’ if Tull an’ his men’ll raise a storm down in the village,’ said Lassiter, in his last weakening stand.
‘Yes, he’ll raise the storm – after he has prayed,’ replied Jane. ‘Come.’
She led the way, with the bridle of Lassiter’s horse over her arm. They entered a grove and walked down a wide path shaded by great low-branching cottonwoods. The last rays of the setting sun sent golden bars through the leaves. The grass was deep and rich, welcome contrast to sage-tired eyes. Twittering quail darted across the path, and from a tree-top somewhere a robin sang its evening song, and on the still air floated the freshness and murmur of flowing water.
The home of Jane Withersteen stood in a circle of cottonwoods, and was a flat, long, red-stone structure with a covered court in the centre through which flowed a lively stream of amber-coloured water. In the massive blocks of stone and heavy timbers and solid doors and shutters showed the hand of a man who had builded against pillage and time; and in the flowers and mosses lining the stone-bedded stream, in the bright colours of rugs and blankets on the court floor, and the cosy corner with hammock and books and the clean-linened table, showed the grace of a daughter who lived for happiness and the day at hand.
Jane turned Lassiter’s horse loose in the thick grass. ‘You will want him to be near you,’ she said, ‘or I’d have him taken to the alfalfa fields.’ At her call appeared women who began at once to bustle about, hurrying to and fro, setting the table. Then Jane, excusing herself, went within.
She passed through a huge low-ceiled chamber, like the inside of a fort, and into a smaller one where a bright wood-fire blazed in an old open fireplace, and from this into her own room. It had the same comfort as was manifested in the homelike outer court; moreover, it was warm and rich in soft hues.
Seldom did Jane Withersteen enter her room without looking into her mirror. She knew she loved the reflection of that beauty which since early childhood she had never been allowed to forget. Her relatives and friends, and later a horde of Mormon and Gentile suitors, had fanned the flame of natural vanity in her. So that at twenty-eight she scarcely thought at all of her wonderful influence for good in the little community where her father had left her practically its beneficent landlord, but cared most for the dream and the assurance and the allurement of her beauty. This time, however, she gazed into her glass with more than the usual happy motive, without the usual slight conscious smile. For she was thinking of more than the desire to be fair in her own eyes, in those of her friend; she wondered if she were to seem fair in the eyes of this Lassiter, this man whose name had crossed the long, wild brakes of stone and plains of sage, this gentle-voiced, sad-faced man who was a hater and a killer of Mormons. It was not now her usual half-conscious vain obsession that actuated her as she hurriedly changed her riding-dress to one of white, and then looked long at the stately form with its gracious contours, at the fair face with its strong chin and full firm lips, at the dark blue, proud, and passionate eyes.
‘If by some means I can keep him here a few days, a week – he will never kill another Mormon,’ she mused. ‘Lassiter!… I shudder when I think of that name, of him. But when I look at the man I forget who he is – I almost like him. I remember only that he saved Bern. He has suffered. I wonder what it was – did he love a Mormon woman once? How splendidly he championed us poor misunderstood souls! Somehow he knows – much.’
Jane Withersteen joined her guests and bade them to her board. Dismissing her woman, she waited upon them with her own hands. It was a bountiful supper and a strange company. On her right sat the ragged and half-starved Venters; and though blind eyes could have seen what he counted for in the sum of her happiness, yet he looked the gloomy outcast his allegiance had made him, and about him there was the shadow of the ruin presaged by Tull. On her left sat black-leather-garbed Lassiter looking like a man in a dream. Hunger was not with him, nor composure, nor speech, and when he twisted in frequent unquiet movements the heavy guns that he had not removed knocked against the table-legs. If it had been otherwise possible to forget the presence of Lassiter those telling little jars would have rendered it unlikely. And Jane Withersteen talked and smiled and laughed with all the dazzling play of lips and eyes that a beautiful, daring woman could summon to her purpose.
When the meal ended, and the men pushed back their chairs, she leaned closer to Lassiter and looked square into his eyes.
‘Why did you come to Cottonwoods?’
Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as if he had just remembered himself and had tarried longer than his wont.
‘Ma’am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevada for – somethin’. An’ through your name I learned where to find it – here in Cottonwoods.’
‘My name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it and from whom?’
‘At the little village – Glaze, I think it’s called – some fifty miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a Gentile, a rider who said you’d know where to tell me to find –’
‘What?’ she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off.
‘Milly Erne’s grave,’ he answered low, and the words came with a wrench.
Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder.
‘Milly Erne’s grave?’ she echoed, in a whisper. ‘What do you know of Milly Erne, my best-beloved friend – who died in my arms? What were you to her?’
‘Did I claim to be anythin’?’ he enquired. ‘I know people – relatives – who have long wanted to know where she’s buried, that’s all.’
‘Relatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother who was shot in Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne’s grave is in a secret burying-ground on my property.’
‘Will you take me there?… You’ll be offendin’ Mormons worse than by breakin’ bread with me.’
‘Indeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. Tomorrow, perhaps.’
‘Thank you, Jane Withersteen,’ replied the rider, and he bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court.
‘Will you not stay – sleep under my roof?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am, an’ thanks again. I never sleep indoors. An’ even if I did there’s that gatherin’ storm in the village below. No, no. I’ll go to the sage. I hope you won’t suffer none for your kindness to me.’
‘Lassiter,’ said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, ‘my bed too, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there.’
‘Mebbe so. But the sage is wide an’ I won’t be near. Goodnight.’
At Lassiter’s low whistle the black horse whinnied, and carefully picked his blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand, and together they passed slowly into the shade of the cottonwoods.
‘Jane, I must be off soon,’ said Venters. ‘Give me my guns. If I’d had my guns –’
‘Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead,’ she interposed.
‘Tull would be – surely.’
‘Oh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach you forebearance, mercy? Bern, it’s divine to forgive your enemies. “Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath.”’
‘Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion – after today. Today this strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I’ll die a man!… Give me my guns.’
Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy cartridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him in silent eloquence.
‘Jane,’ he said, in gentler voice, ‘don’t look so. I’m not going out to murder your churchman. I’ll try to avoid him and all his men. But can’t you see I’ve reached the end of my rope? Jane, you’re a wonderful woman. Never was there a woman so unselfish and good. Only you’re blind in one way… Listen!’
From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses in a rapid trot.
‘Some of your riders,’ he continued. ‘It’s getting time for the night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talk there.’
It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading cottonwoods shadows were obscuring the lanes. Venters drew Jane off from one of these into a shrub-lined trail, just wide enough for the two to walk abreast, and in a roundabout way led her far from the house to a knoll on the edge of the grove. Here in a secluded nook was a bench from which, through an opening in the treetops, could be seen the sage-slope and the wall of rock and the dim lines of canyons. Jane had not spoken since Venters had shocked her with his first harsh speech; but all the way she had clung to his arm, and now, as he stopped and laid his rifle against the bench, she still clung to him.
‘Jane, I’m afraid I must leave you.’
‘Bern!’ she cried.
‘Yes, it looks that way. My position is not a happy one – I can’t feel right – I’ve lost all –’
‘I’ll give you anything you –’
‘Listen, please. When I say loss I don’t mean what you think. I mean loss of good-will, good name – that which would have enabled me to stand up in this village without bitterness. Well, it’s too late… Now, as to the future, I think you’d do best to give me up. Tull is implacable. You ought to see from his intention today that – But you can’t see. Your blindness – your damned religion!… Jane, forgive me – I’m sore within and something rankles. Well, I fear that invisible hand will turn its hidden work to your ruin.’
‘Invisible hand? Bern!’
‘I mean your Bishop.’ Venters said it deliberately and would not release her as she started back. ‘He’s the law. The edict went forth to ruin me. Well, look at me! It’ll now go forth to compel you to the will of the Church.’
‘You wrong Bishop Dyer. Tull is hard, I know. But then he has been in love with me for years.’
‘Oh, your faith and your excuses! You can’t see what I know – and if you did see it you’d not admit it to save your life. That’s the Mormon of you. These elders and bishops will do absolutely any deed to go on building up the power and wealth of their church, their empire. Think of what they’ve done to the Gentiles here, to me – think of Milly Erne’s fate!’
‘What do you know of her story?’
‘I know enough – all, perhaps, except the name of the Mormon who brought her here. But I must stop this kind of talk.’
She pressed his hand in response. He helped her to a seat beside him on the bench. And he respected a silence that he divined was full of woman’s deep emotion beyond his understanding.
It was the moment when the last ruddy rays of the sunset brightened momentarily before yielding to twilight. And for Venters the outlook before him was in some sense similar to a feeling of his future, and with searching eyes he studied the beautiful purple, barren waste of sage. Here was the unknown and the perilous. The whole scene impressed Venters as a wild, austere, and mighty manifestation of nature. And as it somehow reminded him of his prospect in life, so it suddenly resembled the woman near him, only in her there were greater beauty and peril, a mystery more unsolvable, and something nameless that numbed his heart and dimmed his eye.
‘Look! A rider!’ exclaimed Jane, breaking the silence. ‘Can that be Lassiter?’
Venters moved his glance once more to the west. A horseman showed dark on the skyline, then merged into the colour of the sage.
‘It might be. But I think not – that fellow was coming in. One of your riders, more likely. Yes, I see him clearly now. And there’s another.’
‘I see them, too.’
‘Jane, your riders seem as many as the bunches of sage. I ran into five yesterday ’way down near the trail to Deception Pass. They were with the white herd.’
‘You still go to that canyon? Bern, I wish you wouldn’t. Oldring and his rustlers live somewhere down there.’
‘Well, what of that?’
‘Tull has already hinted to your frequent trips into Deception Pass.’
‘I know.’ Venters uttered a short laugh. ‘He’ll make a rustler of me next. But, Jane, there’s no water for fifty miles after I leave here, and the nearest is in the canyon. I must drink and water my horse. There! I see more riders. They are going out.’
‘The red herd is on the slope, toward the Pass.’
Twilight was fast falling. A group of horsemen crossed the dark line of low ground to become more distinct as they climbed the slope. The silence broke to a clear call from an incoming rider, and, almost like the peal of a hunting-horn, floated back the answer. The outgoing riders moved swiftly, came sharply into sight as they topped a ridge to show wild and black above the horizon, and then passed down, dimming into the purple of the sage.
‘I hope they don’t meet Lassiter,’ said Jane.
‘So do I,’ replied Venters. ‘By this time the riders of the night shift know what happened today. But Lassiter will likely keep out of their way.’
‘Bern, who is Lassiter? He’s only a name to me – a terrible name.’
‘Who is he? I don’t know, Jane. Nobody I ever met knows him. He talks a little like a Texan, like Milly Erne. Did you note that?’
‘Yes. How strange of him to know of her! And she lived here ten years and has been dead two. Bern, what do you know of Lassiter? Tell me what he has done – why you spoke of him to Tull – threatening to become another Lassiter yourself?’
‘Jane, I only heard things, rumours, stories, most of which I disbelieved. At Glaze his name was known, but none of the riders or ranchers I knew there ever met him. At Stone Bridge I never heard him mentioned. But at Sterling and villages north of there he was spoken of often. I’ve never been in a village which he had been known to visit. There were many conflicting stories about him and his doings. Some said he had shot up this and that Mormon village, and others denied it. I’m inclined to believe he has, and you know how Mormons hide the truth. But there was one feature about Lassiter upon which all agree – that he was what riders in this country call a gunman. He’s a man with a marvellous quickness and accuracy in the use of a Colt. And now that I’ve seen him I know more. Lassiter was born without fear. I watched him with eyes which saw him my friend. I’ll never forget the moment I recognised him from what had been told me of his crouch before the draw. It was then I yelled his name. I believe that yell saved Tull’s life. At any rate, I know this, between Tull and death then there was not the breadth of the littlest hair. If he or any of his men had moved a finger downward –’
Venters left his meaning unspoken, but at the suggestion Jane shuddered.
The pale afterglow in the west darkened with the merging of twilight into night. The sage now spread out black and gloomy. One dim star glimmered in the southwest sky. The sound of trotting horses had ceased, and there was silence broken only by a faint, dry pattering of cottonwood leaves in the soft night wind.
Into this peace and calm suddenly broke the high-keyed yelp of a coyote, and from far off in the darkness came the faint answering note of a trailing mate.
‘Hello! the sage-dogs are barking,’ said Venters.
‘I don’t like to hear them,’ replied Jane. ‘At night, sometimes when I lie awake, listening to the long mourn or breaking bark or wild howl, I think of you asleep somewhere in the sage, and my heart aches.’
‘Jane, you couldn’t listen to sweeter music, nor could I have a better bed.’
‘Just think! Men like Lassiter and you have no home, no comfort, no rest, no place to lay your weary heads. Well!… Let us be patient. Tull’s anger may cool, and time may help us. You might do some service to the village – who can tell? Suppose you discovered the long-unknown hiding-place of Oldring and his band, and told it to my riders? That would disarm Tull’s ugly hints and put you in favour. For years my riders have trailed the tracks of stolen cattle. You know as well as I how dearly we’ve paid for our ranges in this wild country. Oldring drives our cattle down into the network of deceiving canyons, and somewhere far to the north or east he drives them up and out to Utah markets. If you will spend time in Deception Pass try to find the trails.’
‘Jane, I’ve thought of that. I’ll try.’
‘I must go now. And it hurts, for now I’ll never be sure of seeing you again. But tomorrow, Bern?’
‘Tomorrow surely. I’ll watch for Lassiter and ride in with him.’
‘Goodnight.’
Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape that soon vanished in the shadows.
Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she had reached the house, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly slipped through the bushes, down the knoll, and on under the dark trees to the edge of the grove. The sky was now turning from grey to blue; stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness; and from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant with the breath of sage. Keeping close to the edge of the cottonwoods, he went swiftly and silently westward. The grove was long, and he had not reached the end when he heard something that brought him to a halt. Low padded thuds told him horses were coming this way. He sank down in the gloom, waiting, listening. Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to his amazement he descried horsemen near at hand. They were riding along the border of the sage, and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses were muffled. Then the pale starlight afforded him indistinct sight of the riders. But his eyes were keen and used to the dark, and by peering closely he recognised the huge bulk and black-bearded visage of Oldring and the lithe, supple form of the rustler’s lieutenant, a masked rider. They passed on; the darkness swallowed them. Then, further out on the sage, a dark, compact body of horsemen went by, almost without sound, almost like spectres, and they, too, melted into the night.
CHAPTER III
AMBER SPRING
No unusual circumstance was it for Oldring and some of his men to visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to Venters the presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially ominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly; riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore. Oldring’s band did not confine themselves to the rustling of cattle.
Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe to move on. Then, with sudden impulse, he turned the other way and went back along the grove. When he reached the path leading to Jane’s home he decided to go down to the village. So he hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove he entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall poplars, and under each row of trees, inside the footpath, were ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen’s spring.
Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far down flared bright windows of the village stores. When Venters got closer to these he saw knots of men standing together in earnest conversation. The usual lounging on the corners and benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadow Venters went closer and closer until he could hear voices. But he could not distinguish what was said. He recognised many Mormons, and looked hard for Tull and his men, but looked in vain. Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the village street. No doubt these earnest men were discussing Lassiter’s coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull’s intention toward himself that day had not been and would not be revealed.
So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracing his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer’s home next to it was also dark, and likewise Tull’s cottage. Upon almost any night at this hour there would be lights here, and Venters marked the unusual omission.
As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently he descried two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull’s stalwart figure, and beside him the short, froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, and they rode on to disappear.
Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been his friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or people or purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only the divine right of all women – freedom; to love and to live as her heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.
‘For years I’ve seen a storm clouding over her and the village of Cottonwoods,’ muttered Venters, as he strode on. ‘Soon it’ll burst. I don’t like the prospects.’ That night the villagers whispered in the street – and night-riding rustlers muffled horses – and Tull was at work in secret – and out there in the sage hid a man who meant something terrible – Lassiter!
Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage, climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly. Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him. He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully, and then went down. Here it was darker, and sheltered from the wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and this one was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal awoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle for a pillow, rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the stars. The white dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and pattered a few yards to the rise of ground and there crouched on guard. And in that wild covert Venters shut his eyes under the great white stars and intense vaulted blue, bitterly comparing their loneliness to his own, and fell asleep.
When he awoke, day had dawned and all about him was bright steel-grey. The air had a cold tang. Arising, he greeted the fawning dogs and stretched his cramped body, and then, gathering together bunches of dead sage sticks, he lighted a fire. Strips of dried beef held to the blaze for a moment served him and the dogs. He drank from a canteen. There was nothing else in his outfit; he had grown used to a scant fire. Then he sat over the fire, palms outspread, and waited. Waiting had been his chief occupation for months, and he scarcely knew what he waited for unless it was the passing of the hours. But now he sensed action in the immediate present; the day promised another meeting with Lassiter and Jane, perhaps news of the rustlers; on the morrow he meant to take the trail to Deception Pass.
And while he waited he talked to his dogs. He called them Ring and Whitie; they were sheep-dogs, half collie, half deerhound, superb in build, perfectly trained. It seemed that in his fallen fortunes these dogs understood the nature of their value to him, and governed their affection and faithfulness accordingly. Whitie watched him with sombre eyes of love, and Ring, crouched on the little rise of ground above, kept tireless guard. When the sun rose, the white dog took the place of the other, and Ring went to sleep at his master’s feet.
By and by Venters rolled up his blankets and tied them and his meagre pack together, then climbed out to look for his horse. He saw him, presently, a little way off in the sage, and went to fetch him. In that country, where every rider boasted of a fine mount and was eager for a race, where thoroughbreds dotted the wonderful grazing ranges, Venters rode a horse that was sad proof of his misfortunes.
Then, with his back against a stone, Venters faced the east, and, stick in hand and idle blade, he waited. The glorious sunlight filled the valley with purple fire. Before him, to left, to right, waving, rolling, sinking, rising, like low swells of a purple sea, stretched the sage. Out of the grove of cottonwoods, a green patch on the purple, gleamed the dull red of Jane Withersteen’s old stone house. And from there extended the wide green of the village gardens and orchards marked by the graceful poplars; and further down shone the deep, dark richness of the alfalfa fields. Numberless red and black and white dots speckled the sage, and these were cattle and horses.
So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away. At length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be Lassiter’s black. Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would show against the skyline, he stood and waved his hat. The almost instant turning of Lassiter’s horse attested to the quickness of that rider’s eye. Then Venters climbed down, saddled his horse, tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was about to ride out to meet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for him there, on higher ground, where the outlook was commanding.
It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting from a man. Lassiter’s warmed in him something that had grown cold from neglect. And when he had returned it, with a strong grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the grey eyes, he knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends.
‘Venters, let’s talk awhile before we go down there,’ said Lassiter, slipping his bridle. ‘I ain’t in no hurry. Them’s sure fine dogs you’ve got.’ With a rider’s eye he took in the points of Venter’s horse, but did not speak his thought. ‘Well, did anythin’ come off after I left you last night?’
Venters told him about the rustlers.
‘I was snug hid in the sage,’ replied Lassiter, ‘an’ didn’t see or hear no one. Oldrin’s got a high hand here, I reckon. It’s no news up in Utah how he holes in canyons an’ leaves no track.’ Lassiter was silent a moment. ‘Me an’ Oldrin’ wasn’t exactly strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil’s Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got harassed there an’ now he drives some place else.’
‘Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?’
‘I can’t say. I’ve knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles.’
‘No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler,’ declared Venters.
‘Mebbe so.’
‘It’s a hard country for anyone, but hardest for Gentiles. Did you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon community?’
‘I never did.’
‘Well, I want to get out of Utah. I’ve a mother living in Illinois. I want to go home. It’s eight years now.’
The older man’s sympathy moved Venters to tell his story. He had left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields, had never gotten any further than Salt Lake City, wandered here and there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau through the passes to the last border settlements. Here he became a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane Withersteen.
‘Lassiter, I needn’t tell you the rest.’
‘Well, it’d be no news to me. I know Mormons. I’ve seen their women’s strange love en’ patience en’ sacrifice an’ silence en’ whet I call madness for their idea of God. An’ over against that I’ve seen the tricks of men. They work hand in hand, all together, an’ in the dark. No man can hold out against them, unless he takes to packin’ guns. For Mormons are slow to kill. That’s the only good I ever seen in their religion. Venters, take this from me, these Mormons ain’t just right in their minds. Else could a Mormon marry one woman when he already has a wife, an’ call it duty?’
‘Lassiter, you think as I think,’ returned Venters.
‘How’d it come then that you never throwed a gun on Tull or some of them?’ enquired the rider, curiously.
‘Jane pleaded with me, begged me to be patient, to overlook. She even took my guns from me. I lost all before I knew it,’ replied Venters, with the red colour in his face. ‘But, Lassiter, listen. Out of the wreck I saved a Winchester, two Colts, and plenty of shells. I packed these down into Deception Pass. There, almost every day for six months, I have practised with my rifle till the barrel burnt my hands. Practised the draw – the firing of a Colt, hour after hour!’
‘Now that’s interestin’ to me,’ said Lassiter, with a quick uplift of his head and a concentration of his grey gaze on Venters. ‘Could you throw a gun before you began that practisin’?’
‘Yes. And now…’ Venters made a lightning-swift movement.
Lassiter smiled, and then his bronzed eyelids narrowed till his eyes seemed mere grey slits. ‘You’ll kill Tull!’ He did not question; he affirmed.
‘I promised Jane Withersteen I’d try to avoid Tull. I’ll keep my word. But sooner or later Tull and I will meet. As I feel now, if he even looks at me I’ll draw!’
‘I reckon so. There’ll be hell down there, presently.’ He paused a moment and flicked a sage-brush with his quirt. ‘Venters, seein’ as you’re considerable worked up, tell me Milly Erne’s story.’
Venters’ agitation stilled to the trace of suppressed eagerness in Lassiter’s query.
‘Milly Erne’s story? Well, Lassiter, I’ll tell you what I know. Milly Erne had been in Cottonwoods years when I first arrived there, and most of what I tell you happened before my arrival. I got to know her pretty well. She was a slip of a woman, and crazy on religion. I conceived an idea that I never mentioned – I thought she was at heart more Gentile than Mormon. But she passed as a Mormon, and certainly she had the Mormon woman’s locked lips. You know, in every Mormon village there are women who seem mysterious to us, but about Milly there was more than the ordinary mystery. When she came to Cottonwoods she had a beautiful little girl whom she loved passionately. Milly was not known openly in Cottonwoods as a Mormon wife. That she really was a Mormon wife I have no doubt. Perhaps the Mormon’s other wife or wives would not acknowledge Milly. Such things happen in these villages. Mormon wives wear yokes, but they get jealous. Well, whatever had brought Milly to this country – love or madness of religion – she repented of it. She gave up teaching the village school. She quit the church. And she began to fight Mormon upbringing for her baby girl. Then the Mormons put on the screws – slowly, as is their way. At last the child disappeared. “Lost” was the report. The child was stolen, I know that. So do you. That wrecked Milly Erne. But she lived on in hope. She became a slave. She worked her heart and soul and life out to get back her child. She never heard of it again. Then she sank… I can see her now, a frail thing, so transparent you could almost look through her – white like ashes – and her eyes!… Her eyes have always haunted me. She had one real friend – Jane Withersteen. But Jane couldn’t mend a broken heart, and Milly died.’
For moments Lassiter did not speak, or turn his head.
‘The man!’ he exclaimed, presently, in husky accents.
‘I haven’t the slightest idea who the Mormon was,’ replied Venters; ‘nor has any Gentile in Cottonwoods.’
‘Does Jane Withersteen know?’
‘Yes. But a red-hot running-iron couldn’t burn that name out of her!’
Without further speech Lassiter started off, walking his horse, and Venters followed with his dogs. Half a mile down the slope they entered a luxuriant growth of willows, and soon came into an open space carpeted with grass like deep green velvet. The rushing of water and singing of birds filled their ears. Venters led his comrade to a shady bower and showed him Amber Spring. It was a magnificent outburst of clear, amber water pouring from a dark, stone-lined hole. Lassiter knelt and drank, lingered there to drink again. He made no comment, but Venters did not need words. Next to his horse a rider of the sage loved a spring. And this spring was the most beautiful and remarkable known to the upland riders of southern Utah. It was the spring that made old Withersteen a feudal lord and now enabled his daughter to return the toll which her father had exacted from the toilers of the sage.
The spring gushed forth in a swirling torrent, and leaped down joyously to make its swift way along a willow-skirted channel. Moss and ferns and lilies overhung its green banks. Except for the rough-hewn stones that held and directed the water, this willow thicket and glade had been left as nature had made it.
Below were artificial lakes, three in number, one above the other in banks of raised earth, and round about them rose the lofty green-foliaged shafts of poplar trees. Ducks dotted the glassy surface of the lakes; a blue heron stood motionless on a water-gate; kingfishers darted with shrieking flight along the shady banks; a white hawk sailed above; and from the trees and shrubs came the song of robins and cat-birds. It was all in strange contrast to the endless slopes of lonely sage and the wild rock environs beyond. Venters thought of the woman who loved the birds and the green of the leaves and the murmur of the water.
