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

“I am his daughter,” she replied, instantly.

Venters slowly let go of her. There was a violent break in the force of his feeling⁠—then creeping blankness.

“What⁠—was it⁠—you said?” he asked, in a kind of dull wonder.

“I am his daughter.”

“Oldring’s daughter?” queried Venters, with life gathering in his voice.

“Yes.”

With a passionately awakening start he grasped her hands and drew her close.

“All the time⁠—you’ve been Oldring’s daughter?”

“Yes, of course all the time⁠—always.”

“But Bess, you told me⁠—you let me think⁠—I made out you were⁠—a⁠—so⁠—so ashamed.”

“It is my shame,” she said, with voice deep and full, and now the scarlet fired her cheek. “I told you⁠—I’m nothing⁠—nameless⁠—just Bess, Oldring’s girl!”

“I know⁠—I remember. But I never thought⁠—” he went on, hurriedly, huskily. “That time⁠—when you lay dying⁠—you prayed⁠—you⁠—somehow I got the idea you were bad.”

“Bad?” she asked, with a little laugh.

She looked up with a faint smile of bewilderment and the absolute unconsciousness of a child. Venters gasped in the gathering might of the truth. She did not understand his meaning.

“Bess! Bess!” He clasped her in his arms, hiding her eyes against his breast. She must not see his face in that moment. And he held her while he looked out across the valley. In his dim and blinded sight, in the blur of golden light and moving mist, he saw Oldring. She was the rustler’s nameless daughter. Oldring had loved her. He had so guarded her, so kept her from women and men and knowledge of life that her mind was as a child’s. That was part of the secret⁠—part of the mystery. That was the wonderful truth. Not only was she not bad, but good, pure, innocent above all innocence in the world⁠—the innocence of lonely girlhood.

He saw Oldring’s magnificent eyes, inquisitive, searching, softening. He saw 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 voices⁠—gunshots of conscience, thunderbolts of remorse⁠—dinned horribly in his ears. He had killed Bess’s father. Then a rushing wind filled his ears like a moan of wind in the cliffs, a knell indeed⁠—Oldring’s knell.

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

“My God!⁠ ⁠… My God!⁠ ⁠… Oh, Bess!⁠ ⁠… Forgive me! Never mind what I’ve done⁠—what I’ve thought. But forgive me. I’ll give you my life. I’ll live for you. I’ll love you. Oh, I do love you as no man ever loved a woman. I want you to know⁠—to remember that I fought a fight for you⁠—however blind I was. I thought⁠—I thought⁠—never mind what I thought⁠—but I loved you⁠—I asked you to marry me. Let that⁠—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!”

“Bern, you’re weak⁠—trembling⁠—you talk wildly,” cried Bess. “You’ve overdone your strength. There’s nothing to forgive. There’s no mystery except your love for me. You have come back to me!”

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

At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiter’s knee.

“Does oo love me?” 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.

“Does oo love my new muvver?” 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 Fay’s brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother⁠—the childish, mystic gloom⁠—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.

“Does oo love my new muvver?” repeated Fay.

Lassiter’s answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.

“Why don’t oo marry my new muvver an’ be my favver?”

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

“Fay⁠—Fay, don’t ask questions like that,” said Jane.

“Why?”

“Because,” replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meet the child’s gaze. It seemed to her that Fay’s violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom.

“Oo love him, don’t oo?”

“Dear child⁠—run and play,” said Jane, “but don’t go too far. Don’t go from this little hill.”

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

“Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?” asked Lassiter.

“Are they?”

“I reckon so. Little Fay there⁠—she sees things as they appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An’ an Indian an’ a dog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right.”

“Well, what does Fay see?” asked Jane.

“I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay’s mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an’ wantin’ to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! You are false in a way, though you’re the best woman I ever knew. What I want to say is this. Fay has taken you’re pretendin’ to⁠—to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. An’ her little formin’ mind asks questions. An’ the