“I knew it was a lie,” replied the mother, and she sank back upon her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. “Jane Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I’ve been deeply grateful to you. But because you’re a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don’t know much about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the same.”
VIII
Surprise Valley
Back in that strange canyon, which Venters had found indeed a valley of surprises, the wounded girl’s whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not to take her back to the rustlers crowned the events of the last few days with a confounding climax. That she should not want to return to them staggered Venters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal confirmed his first impression—that she was more unfortunate than bad—and he experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before that Oldring’s Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have been formed and he would have considered her abandoned. But his first knowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony; he had heard God’s name whispered by bloodstained lips; through her solemn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpse of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty to him, “Don’t—take—me—back—there!”
Once for all Venters’s quick mind formed a permanent conception of this poor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a few pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil.
“What’s your name?” he inquired.
“Bess,” she answered.
“Bess what?”
“That’s enough—just Bess.”
The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever. Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler’s girl, but she was still capable of shame, she might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of honor.
“Very well, Bess. It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But this matters—what shall I do with you?”
“Are—you—a rider?” she whispered.
“Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost my place—lost all I owned—and now I’m—I’m a sort of outcast. My name’s Bern Venters.”
“You won’t—take me—to Cottonwoods—or Glaze? I’d be—hanged.”
“No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it’s not safe for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he’ll be found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where I can’t be trailed.”
“Leave me—here.”
“Alone—to die!”
“Yes.”
“I will not.” Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his voice.
“What—do you want—to do—with me?” Her whispering grew difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear her.
“Why, let’s see,” he replied, slowly. “I’d like to take you some place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you’re all right.”
“And—then?”
“Well, it’ll be time to think of that when you’re cured of your wound. It’s a bad one. And—Bess, if you don’t want to live—if you don’t fight for life—you’ll never—”
“Oh! I want—to live! I’m afraid—to die. But I’d rather—die—than go back—to—to—”
“To Oldring?” asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.
Her lips moved in an affirmative.
“I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to Glaze.”
The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterable gratitude and wonder. And as suddenly Venters found her eyes beautiful as he had never seen or felt beauty. They were as dark blue as the sky at night. Then the flashing changed to a long, thoughtful look, in which there was a wistful, unconscious searching of his face, a look that trembled on the verge of hope and trust.
“I’ll try—to live,” she said. The broken whisper just reached his ears. “Do what—you want—with me.”
“Rest then—don’t worry—sleep,” he replied.
Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and with a sharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp. Venters was conscious of an indefinite conflict of change within him. It seemed to be a vague passing of old moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition. He was both cast down and uplifted. He wanted to think and think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative need at present was to find a safe retreat, and this called for action.
So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This trip he turned to the left and wended his skulking way southward a mile or more to the opening of the valley, where lay the strange scrawled rocks. He did not, however, venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall and went along that till its perpendicular line broke into the long incline of bare stone.
Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange character of this slope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen far against such background. Before him ascended a gradual swell of smooth stone. It was hard, polished, and full of pockets worn by centuries of eddying rainwater. A hundred yards up began a line of grotesque cedar-trees, and they extended along the slope clear to its most southerly end. Beyond that end Venters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars, few as they were, would afford some cover.
Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than he had estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance
