Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey (best thriller books to read .TXT) 📕

“Oh⁠—Blake!” exclaimed Jane, and she could say no more.

“She died free from pain in the end, and she’s buried⁠—resting at last, thank God!⁠ ⁠… I’ve come to ride for you again, if you’ll have me. Don’t think I mentioned mother to get your sympathy. When she was living and your riders quit, I had to also. I was afraid of what might be done⁠—said to her⁠ ⁠… Miss Withersteen, we can’t talk of⁠—of what’s going on now⁠—”

“Blake, do you know?”

“I know a great deal. You understand, my lips are shut. But without explanation or excuse I offer my services. I’m a Mormon⁠—I hope a good one. But⁠—there are some things!⁠ ⁠… It’s no use, Miss Withersteen, I can’t say any more⁠—what I’d like to. But will you take me back?”

“Blake!⁠ ⁠… You know what it means?”

“I don’t care. I’m sick of⁠—of⁠—I’ll show you a Mormon who’ll be true to you!”

“But, Blake⁠—how terribly you might suffer for that!”

“Maybe. Aren’t you suffering now?”

“God knows indeed I am!”

“Miss Withersteen, it’s a liberty on my part to speak so, but I know you pretty well⁠—know you’ll never give in. I wouldn’t if I were you. And I⁠—I must⁠—Something makes me tell you the worst is yet to come. That’s all. I absolutely can’t say more. Will you take me back⁠—let me ride for you⁠—show everybody what I mean?”

“Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when they quit!” Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash down upon her hands. “I thought so much of them⁠—tried so hard to be good to them. And not one was true. You’ve made it easy to forgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet I want you so much.”

“Do it, then. If you’re going to make your life a lesson to Mormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is right. I believe in you, and here’s my life to prove it.”

“You hint it may mean your life!” said Jane, breathless and low.

“We won’t speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do what every rider aches in his secret heart to do for you⁠ ⁠… Miss Withersteen, I hoped it’d not be necessary to tell you that my mother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how the thing galled me⁠—she told me to come back⁠ ⁠… Will you take me?”

“God bless you, Blake! Yes, I’ll take you back. And will you⁠—will you accept gold from me?”

“Miss Withersteen!”

“I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I’ll give you one. If you will not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a few months⁠—weeks⁠—days till the storm breaks. Then you’d have nothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We’ll forearm you against poverty, and me against endless regret. I’ll give you gold which you can hide⁠—till some future time.”

“Well, if it pleases you,” replied Blake. “But you know I never thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see this man Lassiter. Is he here?”

“Yes, but, Blake⁠—what⁠—Need you see him? Why?” asked Jane, instantly worried. “I can speak to him⁠—tell him about you.”

“That won’t do. I want to⁠—I’ve got to tell him myself. Where is he?”

“Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I’ll call him,” answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for the rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step⁠—then his tall form crossed the threshold.

“Lassiter, here’s Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back to me and he wishes to speak to you.”

Blake’s brown face turned exceedingly pale.

“Yes, I had to speak to you,” he said, swiftly. “My name’s Blake. I’m a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I’ve come to beg her to take me back. Now I don’t know you; but I know⁠—what you are. So I’ve this to say to your face. It would never occur to this woman to imagine⁠—let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn’t think it might just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn’t that kind of a mind⁠ ⁠… Well, I’ve not come for that. I want to help her⁠—to pull a bridle along with Judkins and⁠—and you. The thing is⁠—do you believe me?”

“I reckon I do,” replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speech contrasted with Blake’s hot, impulsive words! “You might have saved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! An’ mebbe⁠—”

“Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at once and fetch me a report of my horses.”

“Miss Withersteen!⁠ ⁠… You mean the big drove⁠—down in the sage-cleared fields?”

“Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, except the blooded stock I keep here.”

“Haven’t you heard⁠—then?”

“Heard? No! What’s happened to them?”

“They’re gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself.”

“Lassiter⁠—did you know?” asked Jane, whirling to him.

“I reckon so⁠ ⁠… But what was the use to tell you?”

It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such a blow.

“My horses! My horses! What’s become of them?”

“Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring⁠ ⁠… And I trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass.”

“My red herd’s gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next. I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter⁠—Blake⁠—am I in danger of losing my racers?”

“A rustler⁠—or⁠—or anybody stealin’ hosses of yours would most of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter. His evasive reply was affirmative enough.