Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey (best novels in english txt) š
- Author: Zane Grey
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āWhy?ā she asked.
āI reckon I wonāt take time to tell you.ā
āCouldnāt we slip by without being seen?ā
āLikely enough. But that aināt my game. Anā Iād like to know, in case I donāt come back, what youāll do.ā
āWhat can I do?ā
āI reckon you can go back to Tull. Or stay in the Pass anā be taken off by rustlers. Whichāll you do?ā
āI donāt know. I canāt think very well. But I believe Iād rather be taken off by rustlers.ā
Lassiter sat down, put his head in his hands, and remained for a few moments in what appeared to be deep and painful thought. When he lifted his face it was haggard, lined, cold as sculptured marble.
āIāll go. I only mentioned that chance of my not cominā back. Iām pretty sure to come.ā
āNeed you risk so much? Must you fight more? Havenāt you shed enough blood?ā
āIād like to tell you why Iām goinā,ā he continued, in coldness he had seldom used to her. She remarked it, but it was the same to her as if he had spoken with his old gentle warmth. āBut I reckon I wonāt. Only, Iāll say that mercy anā goodness, such as is in you, though theyāre the grand things in human nature, canāt be lived up to on this Utah border. Lifeās hell out here. You thinkāor you used to thinkāthat your religion made this life heaven. Mebbe them scales on your eyes has dropped now. Jane, I wouldnāt have you no different, anā thatās why Iām going to try to hide you somewhere in this Pass. Iād like to hide many more women, for Iāve come to see there are more like you among your people. Anā Iād like you to see jest how hard anā cruel this border life is. Itās bloody. Youād think churches anā churchmen would make it better. They make it worse. You give names to thingsābishops, elders, ministers, Mormonism, duty, faith, glory. You dreamāor youāre driven mad. Iām a man, anā I know. I name fanatics, followers, blind women, oppressors, thieves, ranchers, rustlers, riders. Anā we haveāwhat youāve lived through these last months. It canāt be helped. But it canāt last always. Anā remember thisāsome day the borderāll be better, cleaner, for the ways of men like Lassiter!ā
She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely and steadfastly, and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocks and trees. Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, remained with Jane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of her body. And she sat down in the shade and tried to think. She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once the meanest flower, a color, the flight of the bee, or any living thing had given her deepest joy. Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust, probably to his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her sorrow.
Suddenly from the mouth of the caƱon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped, in grim imitation. Dull revolver shotsāhoarse yellsāpound of hoofsāshrill neighs of horsesācommingling of echoesāand again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mindāGreek and Roman wars, dark, mediƦval times, the crimes in the name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhereāshooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedomāfor these, men killed one another.
She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelike foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care.
More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding of weathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again the clear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry of death. Then rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Janeās hiding-place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air. After that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased under long, thundering fire from heavier guns.
Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horsesā hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened until Lassiterās soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When he appeared he was covered with blood.
āAll right, Jane,ā he said. āI come back. Anā donāt worry.ā
With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.
āJane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, enā tie up these places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worseān this at over my ear. Thereāyouāre doinā fine! Not a bit nervousāno tremblinā. I reckon I aināt done your courage justice. Iām glad youāre brave jest nowāyouāll need to be. Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shootinā me deep, but they was slinginā lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells, anā en I went after them. Mebbe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had to use up every shell in my own gun, anā they did, too, as I seen. Rustlers anā Mormons, Jane! Anā now Iām packinā five bullet holes in my carcass, anā guns without shells. Hurry, now.ā
He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the saddles and let them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stones and cedars to an open where two horses stood.
āJane, are you strong?ā he asked.
āI think so. Iām not tired,ā Jane replied.
āI donāt mean that way. Can you bear up?ā
āI think I can bear anything.ā
āI reckon you look a little cold anā thick. So Iām preparinā you.ā
āFor what?ā
āI didnāt tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. I couldnāt tell you. I believe youād have died. But I can tell you nowāif youāll bear up under a shock?ā
āGo on, my friend.ā
āIāve got little Fay! Aliveābad hurtābut sheāll live!ā
Jane Withersteenās dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiterās deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life.
āHere,ā he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass.
Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By that long, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fayās loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she was not deadāher heart beatāand Jane Withersteen gathered strength and lived again.
āYou see I jest had to go after Fay,ā Lassiter was saying, as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. āBut I reckon I donāt want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in that bunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, thatās why they were holding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, enā was hard put to it to figure out a way to get her. Anā I wanted hosses, too. I had to take chances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with little Fay, anā when I shot him, of course she dropped. Sheās stunned anā bruisedāshe fell right on her head. Jane, sheās cominā to! She aināt bad hurt!ā
Fayās long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligenceābewildermentāmemoryāand sudden wonderful joy.
āMuvverāJane!ā she whispered.
āOh, little Fay, little Fay!ā cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her.
āNow, weāve got to rustle!ā said Lassiter, in grim coolness. āJane, look down the Pass!ā
Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.
āTull!ā she almost screamed.
āI reckon. But, Jane, weāve still got the game in our hands. Theyāre ridinā tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. He wouldnāt forget that. Anā weāve fresh hosses.ā
Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.
āLift little Fay up,ā he said.
With shaking arms Jane complied.
āGet back your nerve, woman! Thisās life or death now. Mind that. Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hossās goinā enā ride!ā
Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride. A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed her soul. Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow caƱon where the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls. The wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and sage and grass moved under her. Lassiterās bandaged, blood-stained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; he looked back down the Pass; he spurred his horse. Jane clung on, spurring likewise. And the horses settled from hard, furious gallop into a long-striding, driving run. She had never ridden at anything like that pace; desperately she tried to get the swing of the horse, to be of some help to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guide him into it. But she failed of everything except to keep her seat the saddle, and to spur and spur. At times she closed her eyes unable to bear sight of Fayās golden curls streaming in the wind. She could not pray; she could not rail; she no longer cared for herself. All of life, of good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiterās ride with little Fay to safety. She would have tried to turn the iron-jawed brute she rode, she would have given herself to that relentless, dark-browed Tull. But she knew Lassiter would turn with her, so she rode on and on.
Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could not tell. Lassiterās horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams. Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time to save them, and went on dripping, heaving, staggering.
āOh, Lassiter, we must runāwe must run!ā
He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown from his head, and blood trickled down his face. He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of the ride, of his burden. Yet how cool and gay he lookedāhow intrepid!
The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Hours sped or dragged. Time was an instantāan eternity. Jane Withersteen felt hell pursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall from her horse.
āOh, Lassiter! Is he coming?ā
The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fayās golden hair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; the walls gleamed; the sage glistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the walls shaded, the sage paled. The horses walkedātrottedāgallopedāranāto fall again to walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The caƱon turned, brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again the sun, lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, scrawled stone appeared to block the Pass.
āBear up, Jane, bear up!ā called Lassiter. āItās our game, if you donāt weaken.ā
āLassiter! Go onāalone! Save little Fay!ā
āOnly with you!ā
āOh!āIām a cowardāa miserable coward! I canāt fight or think or hope or pray! Iām lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is he coming? Iāll notāhold outāā
āKeep your breath, woman, anā ride not for yourself or for me, but for Fay!ā
A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiterās horse to a walk.
āHeās done,ā said the rider.
āOh, noāno!ā moaned Jane.
āLook back, Jane, look back. Threeāfour miles weāve come across this valley, enā no Tull yet in sight. Only a few more miles!ā
Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gap in the wall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horse in the lead. Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold, horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiterās limping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last at Fayās golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, Lassiterās horse stumbled and fell.
He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle.
āJane, take the child,ā he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane clasped her
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