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back nor at the running riders, and bent forward over Black Starā€™s neck and studied the ground ahead.

It struck Venters, presently, after he had glanced up from time to time, that Bess was drawing away from him as he had expected. He had, however, only thought of the light weight Black Star was carrying and of his superior speed; he saw now that the black was being ridden as never before, except when Jerry Card lost the race to Wrangle. How easily, gracefully, naturally, Bess sat her saddle! She could ride! Suddenly Venters remembered she had said she could ride. But he had not dreamed she was capable of such superb horsemanship. Then all at once, flashing over him, thrilling him, came the recollection that Bess was Oldringā€™s Masked Rider.

He forgot Tullā€”the running ridersā€”the race. He let Night have a free rein and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing he would keep to Black Starā€™s course, knowing that he had been chosen by the best rider now on the upland sage. For Jerry Card was dead. And fame had rivaled him with only one rider, and that was the slender girl who now swung so easily with Black Starā€™s stride. Venters had abhorred her notoriety, but now he took passionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power over a horse. And he delved into his memory, recalling famous rides which he had heard related in the villages and round the camp-fires. Oldringā€™s Masked Rider! Many times this strange rider, at once well known and unknown, had escaped pursuers by matchless riding. He had to run the gantlet of vigilantes down the main street of Stone Bridge, leaving dead horses and dead rustlers behind. He had jumped his horse over the Gerber Wash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields of Glaze from the wild sage. He had been surrounded north of Sterling; and he had broken through the line. How often had been told the story of day stampedes, of night raids, of pursuit, and then how the Masked Rider, swift as the wind, was gone in the sage! A fleet, dark horseā€”a slender, dark formā€”a black maskā€”a driving run down the slopeā€”a dot on the purple sageā€”a shadowy, muffled steed disappearing in the night!

And this Masked Rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth Erne!

The sweet sage wind rushed in Ventersā€™s face and sang a song in his ears. He heard the dull, rapid beat of Nightā€™s hoofs; he saw Black Star drawing away, farther and farther. He realized both horses were swinging to the west. Then gunshots in the rear reminded him of Tull. Venters looked back. Far to the side, dropping behind, trooped the riders. They were shooting. Venters saw no puffs or dust, heard no whistling bullets. He was out of range. When he looked back again Tullā€™s riders had given up pursuit. The best they could do, no doubt, had been to get near enough to recognize who really rode the blacks. Venters saw Tull drooping in his saddle.

Then Venters pulled Night out of his running stride. Those few miles had scarcely warmed the black, but Venters wished to save him. Bess turned, and, though she was far away, Venters caught the white glint of her waving hand. He held Night to a trot and rode on, seeing Bess and Black Star, and the sloping upward stretch of sage, and from time to time the receding black riders behind. Soon they disappeared behind a ridge, and he turned no more. They would go back to Lassiterā€™s trail and follow it, and follow in vain. So Venters rode on, with the wind growing sweeter to taste and smell, and the purple sage richer and the sky bluer in his sight; and the song in his ears ringing. By and by Bess halted to wait for him, and he knew she had come to the trail. When he reached her it was to smile at sight of her standing with arms round Black Starā€™s neck.

ā€œOh, Bern! I love him!ā€ she cried. ā€œHeā€™s beautiful; he knows; and how he can run! Iā€™ve had fast horses. But Black Star!... Wrangle never beat him!ā€

ā€œIā€™m wondering if I didnā€™t dream that. Bess, the blacks are grand. What it must have cost Janeā€”ah!ā€”well, when we get out of this wild country with Star and Night, back to my old home in Illinois, weā€™ll buy a beautiful farm with meadows and springs and cool shade. There weā€™ll turn the horses freeā€”free to roam and browse and drinkā€”never to feel a spur againā€”never to be ridden!ā€

ā€œI would like that,ā€ 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 riderā€™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 caƱons to accentuate its wildness.

ā€œBess, weā€™re safeā€”weā€™re free!ā€ said Venters. ā€œWeā€™re alone on the sage. Weā€™re half way to Sterling.ā€

ā€œAh! I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Withersteen.ā€

ā€œNever fear, Bess. Heā€™ll outwit Tull. Heā€™ll get away and hide her safely. He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I donā€™t think heā€™ll go so far.ā€

ā€œBern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?ā€

ā€œNo. But, dear, listen. Well go back some day, after yearsā€”ten years. Then weā€™ll be forgotten. And our valley will be just as we left it.ā€

ā€œWhat if Balancing Rock falls and closes the outlet to the Pass?ā€

ā€œIā€™ve thought of that. Iā€™ll pack in ropes and ropes. And if the outletā€™s closed weā€™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 Iā€™ll never forget.ā€

ā€œOh yes, let us go back!ā€

ā€œItā€™s something sweet to look forward to. Bess, itā€™s like all the future looks to me.ā€

ā€œCall meā€”Elizabeth,ā€ she said, shyly.

ā€œElizabeth Erne! Itā€™s a beautiful name. But Iā€™ll never forget Bess. Do you knowā€”have you thought that very soonā€”by this time to-morrowā€”you will be Elizabeth Venters?ā€

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 Ventersā€™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.

When he and Bess rode up out of the hollow the sun was low.

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

ā€œWeā€™ll ride on till late,ā€ he said. ā€œThen you can sleep a little, while I watch and graze the horses. And weā€™ll ride into Sterling early to-morrow. Weā€™ll be married!... Weā€™ll be in time to catch the stage. Weā€™ll tie Black Star and Night behindā€”and thenā€”for a country not wild and terrible like this!ā€

ā€œOh, Bern!... But look! The sun is setting on the sageā€”the last time for us till we dare come again to the Utah border. Ten years! Oh, Bern, look, so you will never forget!ā€

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 roarā€”so low that it was like the roar in a sea-shell.

ā€œBess, did you hear anything?ā€ he whispered.

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œListen!... Maybe I only imaginedā€”Ah!ā€

Out of the east or north from remote distance, breathed an infinitely low, continuously long soundā€”deep, weird, detonating, thundering, deadeningā€”dying.

CHAPTER 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.

ā€œTheyā€™re gone!ā€ said Lassiter. ā€œAnā€™ theyā€™re safe now. Anā€™ thereā€™ll never be a day of their cominā€™ happy lives but what theyā€™ll remember Jane Withersteen anā€™ā€”anā€™ Uncle Jim!... I reckon, Jane, weā€™d better be on our way.ā€

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 sufferingā€”the flood of her wrathā€”the last of her sacrificeā€”the supremity of her loveā€”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 sense of being enclosed between dark stone walls, deep hidden from the glare of sun, from the glistening sage. Lassiter lengthened the stirrup straps on one of the burros and bade her mount and ride close to him. She was to keep the burro from cracking his little hard hoofs on stones. Then she was riding on between dark, gleaming walls. There were quiet and rest and coolness in this caƱon. She noted indifferently that they passed close under shady, bulging shelves of cliff, through patches of grass and sage and thicket and groves of slender trees, and over white, pebbly washes, and around masses of broken rock. The burros trotted tirelessly; the dogs, once more free, pattered tirelessly; and Lassiter led on with never a stop, and at every open place he looked back. The shade under the walls gave place to sunlight. And presently they came to a dense thicket of slender trees, through which they passed to rich, green grass and water. Here Lassiter rested the burros for a little while, but he was restless, uneasy, silent, always listening, peering under the trees. She dully reflected that enemies were behind themā€”before them; still the thought awakened no dread or concern or interest.

At his bidding she mounted and rode on close to the heels of his burro. The caƱon narrowed; the walls lifted their rugged rims higher; and the sun shone down hot from the center of the blue stream of sky above. Lassiter traveled slower, with more exceeding care as to the ground he chose, and he kept speaking low to the dogs. They were now hunting-dogsā€”keen, alert, suspicious, sniffing the warm breeze. The monotony of the yellow walls broke in change of color and smooth surface, and the rugged outline of rims grew craggy. Splits appeared in deep breaks, and gorges running at right angles, and then the Pass opened wide at a junction of intersecting caƱons.

Lassiter dismounted, led his burro, called the dogs close, and proceeded at snail pace through dark masses of rock and dense thickets under the left wall. Long he watched and listened before venturing to cross the mouths of side caƱons. At length he halted, fled his burro, lifted a warning hand to Jane, and then slipped away among the boulders, and, followed by the stealthy dogs, disappeared from sight. The time he remained absent was neither short nor long to Jane Withersteen.

When he reached her side again he was pale, and his lips were set in a hard line, and his gray eyes glittered coldly. Bidding her dismount, he led the burros into a covert of stones and cedars, and tied them.

ā€œJane, Iā€™ve run into the fellers Iā€™ve been lookinā€™ for, anā€™ Iā€™m goinā€™

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