Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey (icecream ebook reader .TXT) đź“•
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- Author: Zane Grey
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“Oh!... Lassiter!”
“Say! It was queer for you to faint. I thought you were such a strong woman, not faintish like that. You’re all right now—only some pale. I thought you’d never come to. But I’m awkward round women folks. I couldn’t think of anythin’.”
“Lassiter!... the gun there!... the blood!”
“So that’s troublin’ you. I reckon it needn’t. You see it was this way. I come round the house an’ seen that fat party an’ heard him talkin’ loud. Then he seen me, an’ very impolite goes straight for his gun. He oughtn’t have tried to throw a gun on me—whatever his reason was. For that’s meetin’ me on my own grounds. I’ve seen runnin’ molasses that was quicker’n him. Now I didn’t know who he was, visitor or friend or relation of yours, though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an’ I couldn’t get serious about shootin’. So I winged him—put a bullet through his arm as he was pullin’ at his gun. An’ he dropped the gun there, an’ a little blood. I told him he’d introduced himself sufficient, an’ to please move out of my vicinity. An’ he went.”
Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there was a hint of levity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her brow, was gentle and steady. His impassive face, and the kind gray eyes, further stilled her agitation.
“He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple him—you wouldn’t kill him—you—Lassiter?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Jane kissed his hand.
All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished.
“Don’t do that! I won’t stand it! An’ I don’t care a damn who that fat party was.”
He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair. Then with the wet scarf he had used to bathe her face he wiped the blood from the stone flags and, picking up the gun, he threw it upon a couch. With that he began to pace the court, and his silver spurs jangled musically, and the great gun-sheaths softly brushed against his leather chaps.
“So—it’s true—what I heard him say?” Lassiter asked, presently halting before her. “You made love to me—to bind my hands?”
“Yes,” confessed Jane. It took all her woman’s courage to meet the gray storm of his glance.
“All these days that you’ve been so friendly an’ like a pardner—all these evenin’s that have been so bewilderin’ to me—your beauty—an’—an’ the way you looked an’ came close to me—they were woman’s tricks to bind my hands?”
“Yes.”
“An’ your sweetness that seemed so natural, an’ your throwin’ little Fay an’ me so much together—to make me love the child—all that was for the same reason?”
“Yes.”
Lassiter flung his arms—a strange gesture for him.
“Mebbe it wasn’t much in your Mormon thinkin’, for you to play that game. But to ring the child in—that was hellish!”
Jane’s passionate, unheeding zeal began to loom darkly.
“Lassiter, whatever my intention in the beginning, Fay loves you dearly—and I—I’ve grown to—to like you.”
“That’s powerful kind of you, now,” he said. Sarcasm and scorn made his voice that of a stranger. “An’ you sit there an’ look me straight in the eyes! You’re a wonderful strange woman, Jane Withersteen.”
“I’m not ashamed, Lassiter. I told you I’d try to change you.”
“Would you mind tellin’ me just what you tried?”
“I tried to make you see beauty in me and be softened by it. I wanted you to care for me so that I could influence you. It wasn’t easy. At first you were stone-blind. Then I hoped you’d love little Fay, and through that come to feel the horror of making children fatherless.”
“Jane Withersteen, either you’re a fool or noble beyond my understandin’. Mebbe you’re both. I know you’re blind. What you meant is one thing—what you did was to make me love you.”
“Lassiter!”
“I reckon I’m a human bein’, though I never loved any one but my sister, Milly Erne. That was long—”
“Oh, are you Milly’s brother?”
“Yes, I was, an’ I loved her. There never was any one but her in my life till now. Didn’t I tell you that long ago I back-trailed myself from women? I was a Texas ranger till—till Milly left home, an’ then I became somethin’ else—Lassiter! For years I’ve been a lonely man set on one thing. I came here an’ met you. An’ now I’m not the man I was. The change was gradual, an’ I took no notice of it. I understand now that never-satisfied longin’ to see you, listen to you, watch you, feel you near me. It’s plain now why you were never out of my thoughts. I’ve had no thoughts but of you. I’ve lived an’ breathed for you. An’ now when I know what it means—what you’ve done—I’m burnin’ up with hell’s fire!”
“Oh, Lassiter—no—no—you don’t love me that way!” Jane cased.
“If that’s what love is, then I do.”
“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to make you love me like that. Oh, what a tangle of our lives! You—Milly Erne’s brother! And I—heedless, mad to melt your heart toward Mormons. Lassiter, I may be wicked but not wicked enough to hate. If I couldn’t hate Tull, could I hate you?”
“After all, Jane, mebbe you’re only blind—Mormon blind. That only can explain what’s close to selfishness—”
“I’m not selfish. I despise the very word. If I were free—”
“But you’re not free. Not free of Mormonism. An’ in playin’ this game with me you’ve been unfaithful.”
“Un-faithful!” faltered Jane.
“Yes, I said unfaithful. You’re faithful to your Bishop an’ unfaithful to yourself. You’re false to your womanhood an’ true to your religion. But for a savin’ innocence you’d have made yourself low an’ vile—betrayin’ yourself, betrayin’ me—all to bind my hands an’ keep me from snuffin’ out Mormon life. It’s your damned Mormon blindness.”
“Is it vile—is it blind—is it only Mormonism to save human life? No, Lassiter, that’s God’s law, divine, universal for all Christians.”
“The blindness I mean is blindness that keeps you from seein’ the truth. I’ve known many good Mormons. But some are blacker than hell. You won’t see that even when you know it. Else, why all this blind passion to save the life of that—that....”
Jane shut out the light, and the hands she held over her eyes trembled and quivered against her face.
“Blind—yes, en’ let me make it clear en’ simple to you,” Lassiter went on, his voice losing its tone of anger. “Take, for instance, that idea of yours last night when you wanted my guns. It was good an’ beautiful, an’ showed your heart—but—why, Jane, it was crazy. Mind I’m assumin’ that life to me is as sweet as to any other man. An’ to preserve that life is each man’s first an’ closest thought. Where would any man be on this border without guns? Where, especially, would Lassiter be? Well, I’d be under the sage with thousands of other men now livin’ an’ sure better men than me. Gun-packin’ in the West since the Civil War has growed into a kind of moral law. An’ out here on this border it’s the difference between a man an’ somethin’ not a man. Look what your takin’ Venters’s guns from him all but made him! Why, your churchmen carry guns. Tull has killed a man an’ drawed on others. Your Bishop has shot a half dozen men, an’ it wasn’t through prayers of his that they recovered. An’ to-day he’d have shot me if he’d been quick enough on the draw. Could I walk or ride down into Cottonwoods without my guns? This is a wild time, Jane Withersteen, this year of our Lord eighteen seventy-one.”
“No time—for a woman!” exclaimed Jane, brokenly. “Oh, Lassiter, I feel helpless—lost—and don’t know where to turn. If I am blind—then—I need some one—a friend—you, Lassiter—more than ever!”
“Well, I didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ back on you, did I?”
THE INVISIBLE HAND
Jane received a letter from Bishop Dyer, not in his own handwriting, which stated that the abrupt termination of their interview had left him in some doubt as to her future conduct. A slight injury had incapacitated him from seeking another meeting at present, the letter went on to say, and ended with a request which was virtually a command, that she call upon him at once.
The reading of the letter acquainted Jane Withersteen with the fact that something within her had all but changed. She sent no reply to Bishop Dyer nor did she go to see him. On Sunday she remained absent from the service—for the second time in years—and though she did not actually suffer there was a dead-lock of feelings deep within her, and the waiting for a balance to fall on either side was almost as bad as suffering. She had a gloomy expectancy of untoward circumstances, and with it a keen-edged curiosity to watch developments. She had a half-formed conviction that her future conduct—as related to her churchmen—was beyond her control and would be governed by their attitude toward her. Something was changing in her, forming, waiting for decision to make it a real and fixed thing. She had told Lassiter that she felt helpless and lost in the fateful tangle of their lives; and now she feared that she was approaching the same chaotic condition of mind in regard to her religion. It appalled her to find that she questioned phases of that religion. Absolute faith had been her serenity. Though leaving her faith unshaken, her serenity had been disturbed, and now it was broken by open war between her and her ministers. That something within her—a whisper—which she had tried in vain to hush had become a ringing voice, and it called to her to wait. She had transgressed no laws of God. Her churchmen, however invested with the power and the glory of a wonderful creed, however they sat in inexorable judgment of her, must now practice toward her the simple, common, Christian virtue they professed to preach, “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you!”
Jane Withersteen, waiting in darkness of mind, remained faithful still. But it was darkness that must soon be pierced by light. If her faith were justified, if her churchmen were trying only to intimidate her, the fact would soon be manifest, as would their failure, and then she would redouble her zeal toward them and toward what had been the best work of her life—work for the welfare and happiness of those among whom she lived, Mormon and Gentile alike. If that secret, intangible power closed its coils round her again, if that great invisible hand moved here and there and everywhere, slowly paralyzing her with its mystery and its inconceivable sway over her affairs, then she would know beyond doubt that it was not chance, nor jealousy, nor intimidation, nor ministerial wrath at her revolt, but a cold and calculating policy thought out long before she was born, a dark, immutable will of whose empire she and all that was hers was but an atom.
Then might come her ruin. Then might come her fall into black storm. Yet she would rise again, and to the light. God would be merciful to a driven woman who had lost her way.
A week passed. Little Fay played and prattled and pulled at Lassiter’s big black guns. The rider came to Withersteen House oftener than ever. Jane saw a change in him, though it did not relate to his kindness and gentleness. He was quieter and more thoughtful. While playing with Fay or conversing with Jane he seemed to be possessed of another self that watched with cool, roving eyes, that listened, listened always as if the murmuring amber stream brought messages, and the moving leaves whispered something. Lassiter never rode Bells into the court any more, nor did he come by the lane or the paths. When he appeared it was suddenly and noiselessly out of the dark shadow of the grove.
“I left Bells out in the sage,” he said, one day at the end of that week. “I must carry water to him.”
“Why not let him drink at the trough or here?” asked Jane, quickly.
“I reckon it’ll be safer for me to slip through the grove. I’ve been watched when I rode in from the sage.”
“Watched? By whom?”
“By a man who thought he was well hid. But my eyes are pretty sharp. An’, Jane,” he went on, almost in a whisper, “I reckon it’d be a good idea for us to talk low. You’re spied on here by your women.”
“Lassiter!” she whispered in turn. “That’s hard to believe. My women love me.”
“What of that?” he asked. “Of course they love you. But they’re Mormon women.”
Jane’s old, rebellious loyalty clashed with her doubt.
“I won’t believe it,” she replied, stubbornly.
“Well then, just act natural an’ talk natural, an’ pretty soon—give them time to hear us—pretend to go over there to the table,
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