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them flare in amaze, in gladness, with love, then suddenly strain in terrible effort of will. He heard Oldring whisper and saw him sway like a log and fall. Then a million bellowing, thundering voicesā€”gunshots of conscience, thunderbolts of remorseā€”dinned horribly in his ears. He had killed Bessā€™s father. Then a rushing wind filled his ears like a moan of wind in the cliffs, a knell indeedā€”Oldringā€™s knell.

He dropped to his knees and hid his face against Bess, and grasped her with the hands of a drowning man.

ā€œMy God!... My God!... Oh, Bess!... Forgive me! Never mind what Iā€™ve doneā€”what Iā€™ve thought. But forgive me. Iā€™ll give you my life. Iā€™ll live for you. Iā€™ll love you. Oh, I do love you as no man ever loved a woman. I want you to knowā€”to remember that I fought a fight for youā€”however blind I was. I thoughtā€”I thoughtā€”never mind what I thoughtā€”but I loved youā€”I asked you to marry me. Let thatā€”let me have that to hug to my heart. Oh, Bess, I was driven! And I might have known! I could not rest nor sleep till I had this mystery solved. God! how things work out!ā€

ā€œBern, youā€™re weakā€”tremblingā€”you talk wildly,ā€ cried Bess. ā€œYouā€™ve overdone your strength. Thereā€™s nothing to forgive. Thereā€™s no mystery except your love for me. You have come back to me!ā€

And she clasped his head tenderly in her arms and pressed it closely to her throbbing breast.

CHAPTER XIX.
FAY

At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiterā€™s knee.

ā€œDoes oo love me?ā€ she asked.

Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme test to prove this cavalier.

ā€œDoes oo love my new muvver?ā€ she asked, with bewildering suddenness.

Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.

It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope. Little Fayā€™s brief spell of unhappy longing for her motherā€”the childish, mystic gloomā€”had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emerged from sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. She had grown supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Withersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possession infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion.

ā€œDoes oo love my new muvver?ā€ repeated Fay.

Lassiterā€™s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.

ā€œWhy donā€™t oo marry my new muvver anā€™ be my favver?ā€

Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter this was the first he had been unable to answer.

ā€œFayā€”Fay, donā€™t ask questions like that,ā€ said Jane.

ā€œWhy?ā€

ā€œBecause,ā€ replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meet the childā€™s gaze. It seemed to her that Fayā€™s violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom.

ā€œOo love him, donā€™t oo?ā€

ā€œDear childā€”run and play,ā€ said Jane, ā€œbut donā€™t go too far. Donā€™t go from this little hill.ā€

Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been granted her for weeks.

ā€œJane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?ā€ asked Lassiter.

ā€œAre they?ā€

ā€œI reckon so. Little Fay thereā€”she sees things as they appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. Anā€™ an Indian anā€™ a dog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right.ā€

ā€œWell, what does Fay see?ā€ asked Jane.

ā€œI reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fayā€™s mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, anā€™ wantinā€™ to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! You are false in a way, though youā€™re the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say is this. Fay has taken youā€™re pretendinā€™ toā€”to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. Anā€™ her little forminā€™ mind asks questions. Anā€™ the answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So sheā€™ll grow up gradually takinā€™ on that falseness, anā€™ be like the rest of the women, anā€™ men, too. Anā€™ the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearinā€™ to love me when you donā€™t. Things arenā€™t what they seem.ā€

ā€œLassiter, youā€™re right. A child should be told the absolute truth. Butā€”is that possible? I havenā€™t been able to do it, and all my life Iā€™ve loved the truth, and Iā€™ve prided myself upon being truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. Iā€™m learning much, my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. Andā€”and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal. How much, how little, I couldnā€™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 Iā€™m dazed. I donā€™t think. I donā€™t care any more. I donā€™t pray!... Think of that, my friend! But in spite of my numb feeling I believe Iā€™ll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God. Iā€™m on the rack now; Iā€™m senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that. Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. Iā€™m waiting the hour.ā€

ā€œItā€™ll soon come, Jane,ā€ replied Lassiter, soberly. ā€œThen Iā€™m afraid for you. Years are terrible things, anā€™ for years youā€™ve been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe as youā€”that youā€™ll come out of it all a finer woman. Iā€™m waitinā€™, too. Anā€™ Iā€™m wonderinā€™ā€”I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?ā€

ā€œLassiter!... My dear friend!... Itā€™s impossible for us to marry!ā€

ā€œWhyā€”as Fay says?ā€ inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence.

ā€œWhy! I never thought why. But itā€™s not possible. I am Jane, daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of his grave. Iā€™m of Mormon birth. Iā€™m being broken. But Iā€™m still a Mormon woman. And youā€”you are Lassiter!ā€

ā€œMebbe Iā€™m not so much Lassiter as I used to be.ā€

ā€œWhat was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself! You canā€™t change the one habitā€”the purpose of your life. For you still pack those black guns! You still nurse your passion for blood.ā€

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

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œLassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of youā€”donā€™t you lie to me. Iā€™ve great respect for you. I believe youā€™re softened toward most, perhaps all, my people exceptā€”But when I speak of your purpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. I donā€™t believe youā€™ve changed.ā€

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

ā€œLassiter!ā€ 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 motiveā€”refusal to see this man called craven by his enemiesā€”she rose, and with blundering fingers buckled the belt round his waist where it belonged.

ā€œLassiter, I am the coward.ā€

ā€œCome with me out of Utahā€”where I can put away my guns anā€™ be a man,ā€ he said. ā€œI reckon Iā€™ll prove it to you then! Come! Youā€™ve got Black Star back, anā€™ Night anā€™ Bells. Letā€™s take the racers anā€™ little Fay, enā€™ race out of Utah. The hosses anā€™ the child are all you have left. Come!ā€

ā€œNo, no, Lassiter. Iā€™ll never leave Utah. What would I do in the world with my broken fortunes and my broken heart? Iā€™ll never leave these purple slopes I love so well.ā€

ā€œI reckon I ought to ā€™ve knowed that. Presently youā€™ll be livinā€™ down here in a hovel, enā€™ presently Jane Withersteen will be a memory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you how a manā€”any manā€”can be better ā€™n he was. If we left Utah I could proveā€”I reckon I could prove this thing you call love. Itā€™s strange, anā€™ hell anā€™ heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. ā€™Pears to me that youā€™ve thrown away your big heart on loveā€”love of religion anā€™ duty anā€™ churchmen, anā€™ riders anā€™ poor families anā€™ poor children! Yet you canā€™t see what love isā€”how it changes a person!... Listen, anā€™ in tellinā€™ you Milly Erneā€™s story Iā€™ll show you how love changed her.

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

ā€œAnā€™ about the time Milly was the prettiest anā€™ the sweetest, along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race with the other fellers for Milly. Anā€™ he won. Milly had always been strong on religion, anā€™ when she met Frank Erne she went in heart anā€™ soul for the salvation of souls. Fact was, Milly, through study of the Bible anā€™ attendinā€™ church anā€™ revivals, went a little out of her head. It didnā€™t worry the old folks none, anā€™ the only worry to me was Millyā€™s everlastinā€™ prayinā€™ anā€™ workinā€™ to save my soul. She never converted me, but we was the best of comrades, anā€™ I reckon no brother anā€™ sister ever loved each other better. Well, Frank Erne an me hit up a great friendship. He was a strappinā€™ feller, good to look at, anā€™ had the most pleasinā€™ ways. His religion never bothered me, for he could hunt anā€™ fish anā€™ ride anā€™ be a good feller. After buffalo once, he come pretty near to savinā€™ my life. We got to be thick as brothers, anā€™ he was the only man I ever seen who I thought was good enough for Milly. Anā€™ the day they were married I got drunk for the only time in my life.

ā€œSoon after that I left homeā€”it seems Milly was the only one who could keep me homeā€”anā€™ I went to the bad, as to prosperinā€™ I saw some pretty hard life in the Pan Handle, anā€™ then I went North. In them days Kansas anā€™ Nebraska was as bad, come to think of it, as these days right here on the border of Utah. I got to be pretty handy with guns. Anā€™ there wasnā€™t many riders as could beat me ridinā€™. Anā€™ I can say all modest-like that I never seen the white man who could track a hoss or a steer or a man with me. Afore I knowed it two years slipped by, anā€™ all at once I got homesick, anā€™ pulled a bridle south.

ā€œThings at home had changed. I never got over that homecominā€™. Mother was dead anā€™ in her grave. Father was a silent, broken man, killed already on his feet. Frank Erne was a ghost of his old self, through with workinā€™, through with preachinā€™, almost through with livinā€™, anā€™ Milly was gone!... It was a long time before I got the story. Father had no mind left, anā€™ Frank Erne was afraid to talk. So I had to pick up whatā€™d happened from different people.

ā€œIt ā€™pears that soon after I left home another preacher come to the little town. Anā€™ he anā€™ Frank become rivals. This feller was different from Frank. He preached some other kind of religion, and he was quick anā€™ passionate, where Frank was slow anā€™ mild. He went after people, women specially. In looks he couldnā€™t compare to Frank Erne, but he had power over women. He had a voice, anā€™ he talked anā€™ talked anā€™ preached anā€™ preached. Milly fell under his influence. She became mightily interested in his religion. Frank had patience with her, as was his way, anā€™ let her be as interested as she liked. All religions were devoted to one God, he said, anā€™ it wouldnā€™t hurt Milly none to study a different point of view. So the new preacher often called on Milly, anā€™ sometimes in Frankā€™s absence. Frank was a cattle-man between Sundays.

ā€œAlong about this time an incident come off that I couldnā€™t get much light

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