Chapter V. The Masked Rider

by Zane Grey

　　Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyonwhere the others had disappeared. He calculated on the timeneeded for running horses to return to the open, if their ridersheard shots. He waited breathlessly. But the estimated timedragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently tobelieve that the rifle reports had not penetrated into therecesses of the canyon, and felt safe for the immediate present.

　　He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been draggedby his horse. The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyesprotruding--a sight that sickened Venters. The first man at whomhe had ever aimed a weapon he had shot through the heart. Withthe clammy sweat oozing from every pore Venters dragged therustler in among some boulders and covered him with slabs ofrock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trail in grass and sage.The rustler's horse had stopped a quarter of a mile off and wasgrazing.

　　When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even thecold nausea that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. Forhe had shot Oldring's infamous lieutenant, whose face had neverbeen seen. Venters experienced a grim pride in the feat. Whatwould Tull say to this achievement of the outcast who rode toooften to Deception Pass?

　　Venters's curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared himfor the shock he received when he stood over a slight, darkfigure. The rustler wore the black mask that had given him hisname, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at the droopinghorse, there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle.

　　"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears nobelt. He couldn't pack guns in that rig....Strange!"

　　A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of bodytold Venters the rider still lived.

　　"He's alive!...I've got to stand here and watch him die. And Ishot an unarmed man."

　　Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and theblack cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair,inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lowerline of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the brown oftanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun.

　　"Oh, he's only a boy!...What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"

　　The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; hislips moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse.

　　Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet hadentered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. Withhands that shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped openthe blood-wet blouse.

　　First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin,from which welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful,beautiful swell of a woman's breast!

　　"A woman!" he cried. "A girl!...I've killed a girl!"

　　She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They werefathomless blue. Consciousness of death was there, a blendedterror and pain, but no consciousness of sight. She did not seeVenters. She stared into the unknown.

　　Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture ofreviving strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore fromVentner's grasp. Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. Theungloved hand sought the wound, and pressed so hard that herwrist half buried itself in her bosom. Blood trickled between herspread fingers. And she looked at Venters with eyes that saw him.

　　He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been soproud. He had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelopewhich he was about to finish with his knife. But in her it hadinfinitely more--a revelation of mortal spirit. The instinctivebringing to life was there, and the divining helplessness and theterrible accusation of the stricken.

　　"Forgive me! I didn't know!" burst out Venters.

　　"You shot me--you've killed me!" she whispered, in panting gasps.Upon her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By thatVenters knew the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. "Oh, Iknew--it would--come--some day!...Oh, the burn!...Hold me--I'msinking--it's all dark....Ah, God!...Mercy--"

　　Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp,still, white as snow, with closed eyes.

　　Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation ofher breast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed onlya matter of moments, for the bullet had gone clear through her.Nevertheless, he tore sageleaves from a bush, and, pressing themtightly over her wounds, he bound the black scarf round hershoulder, tying it securely under her arm. Then he closed theblouse, hiding from his sight that blood-stained, accusingbreast.

　　"What--now?" he questioned, with flying mind. "I must get out ofhere. She's dying--but I can't leave her."

　　He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no animateobject. Then he picked up the girl's sombrero and the mask. Thistime the mask gave him as great a shock as when he first removedit from her face. For in the woman he had forgotten the rustler,and this black strip of felt-cloth established the identity ofOldring's Masked Rider. Venters had solved the mystery. Heslipped his rifle under her, and, lifting her carefully upon it,he began to retrace his steps. The dog trailed in his shadow. Andthe horse, that had stood drooping by, followed without a call.Venters chose the deepest tufts of grass and clumps of sage onhis return. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder. Hedid not rest. His concern was to avoid jarring the girl and tohide his trail. Gaining the narrow canyon, he turned and heldclose to the wall till he reached his hiding-place. When heentered the dense thicket of oaks he was hard put to it to forcea way through. But he held his burden almost upright, and byslipping side wise and bending the saplings he got in. Throughsage and grass he hurried to the grove of silver spruces.

　　He laid the girl down, almost fearing to look at her. Thoughmarble pale and cold, she was living. Venters then appreciatedthe tax that long carry had been to his strength. He sat down torest. Whitie sniffed at the pale girl and whined and crept toVenters's feet. Ring lapped the water in the runway of thespring.

　　Presently Venters went out to the opening, caught the horse and,leading him through the thicket, unsaddled him and tied him witha long halter. Wrangle left his browsing long enough to whinnyand toss his head. Venters felt that he could not rest easilytill he had secured the other rustler's horse; so, taking hisrifle and calling for Ring, he set out. Swiftly yet watchfully hemade his way through the canyon to the oval and out to the cattletrail. What few tracks might have betrayed him he obliterated, soonly an expert tracker could have trailed him. Then, with many awary backward glance across the sage, he started to round up therustler's horse. This was unexpectedly easy. He led the horse tolower ground, out of sight from the opposite side of the ovalalong the shadowy western wall, and so on into his canyon andsecluded camp.

　　The girl's eyes were open; a feverish spot burned in her cheeksshe moaned something unintelligible to Venters, but he took themovement of her lips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting herhead, he tipped the canteen to her lips. After that she againlapsed into unconsciousness or a weakness which was itscounterpart. Venters noted, however, that the burning flush hadfaded into the former pallor.

　　The sun set behind the high canyon rim, and a cool shade darkenedthe walls. Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on the deadrustlers horse. He allowed Wrangle to browse free. This done,he cut spruce boughs and made a lean-to for the girl. Then, gentlylifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides over her. The otherblanket he wrapped about his shoulders and found a comfortable seatagainst a spruce-tree that upheld the little shack. Ring and Whitielay near at hand, one asleep, the other watchful.

　　Venters dreaded the night's vigil. At night his mind was active,and this time he had to watch and think and feel beside a dyinggirl whom he had all but murdered. A thousand excuses he inventedfor himself, yet not one made any difference in his act or hisself-reproach.

　　It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see herwhite face so much more plainly.

　　"She'll go, presently," he said, "and be out of agony--thankGod!"

　　Every little while certainty of her death came to him with ashock; and then he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast.Her heart still beat.

　　The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. Thehorses were not moving, and no sound disturbed the deathlysilence of the canyon.

　　"I'll bury her here," thought Venters, "and let her grave be asmuch a mystery as her life was."

　　For the girl's few words, the look of her eyes, the prayer, hadstrangely touched Venters.

　　"She was only a girl," he soliloquized. "What was she to Oldring?Rustlers don't have wives nor sisters nor daughters. She wasbad--that's all. But somehow...well, she may not have willinglybecome the companion of rustlers. That prayer of hers to God formercy!...Life is strange and cruel. I wonder if other members ofOldring's gang are women? Likely enough. But what was his game?Oldring's Mask Rider! A name to make villagers hide and locktheir doors. A name credited with a dozen murders, a hundredforays, and a thousand stealings of cattle. What part did thegirl have in this? It may have served Oldring to createmystery."

　　Hours passed. The white stars moved across the narrow strip ofdark-blue sky above. The silence awoke to the low hum of insects.Venters watched the immovable white face, and as he watched, hourby hour waiting for death, the infamy of her passed from hismind. He thought only of the sadness, the truth of the moment.Whoever she was--whatever she had done--she was young and she wasdying.

　　The after-part of the night wore on interminably. The starlightfailed and the gloom blackened to the darkest hour. "She'll dieat the gray of dawn," muttered Venters, remembering some oldwoman's fancy. The blackness paled to gray, and the graylightened and day peeped over the eastern rim. Venters listenedat the breast of the girl. She still lived. Did he only imaginethat her heart beat stronger, ever so slightly, but stronger? Hepressed his ear closer to her breast. And he rose with his ownpulse quickening.

　　"If she doesn't die soon--she's got a chance--the barest chanceto live," he said.

　　He wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased. There was nomore film of blood upon her lips. But no corpse could have beenwhiter. Opening her blouse, he untied the scarf, and carefullypicked away the sage leaves from the wound in her shoulder. Ithad closed. Lifting her lightly, he ascertained that the same wastrue of the hole where the bullet had come out. He reflected onthe fact that clean wounds closed quickly in the healing uplandair. He recalled instances of riders who had been cut and shotapparently to fatal issues; yet the blood had clotted, the woundsclosed, and they had recovered. He had no way to tell if internalhemorrhage still went on, but he believed that it had stopped.Otherwise she would surely not have lived so long. He marked theentrance of the bullet, and concluded that it had just touchedthe upper lobe of her lung. Perhaps the wound in the lung hadalso closed. As he began to wash the blood stains from her breastand carefully rebandage the wound, he was vaguely conscious of astrange, grave happiness in the thought that she might live.

　　Broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff-rim tothe west brought him to consideration of what he had better do.And while busy with his few camp tasks he revolved the thing inhis mind. It would not be wise for him to remain long in hispresent hiding-place. And if he intended to follow the cattletrail and try to find the rustlers he had better make a move atonce. For he knew that rustlers, being riders, would not makemuch of a day's or night's absence from camp for one or two oftheir number; but when the missing ones failed to show up inreasonable time there would be a search. And Venters was afraidof that.

　　"A good tracker could trail me," he muttered. "And I'd becornered here. Let's see. Rustlers are a lazy set when they'renot on the ride. I'll risk it. Then I'll change my hiding-place."

　　He carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns. When he rose to go hebent a long glance down upon the unconscious girl. Then orderingWhitie and Ring to keep guard, he left the camp

　　The safest cover lay close under the wall of the canyon, and herethrough the dense thickets Venters made his slow, listeningadvance toward the oval. Upon gaining the wide opening he decidedto cross it and follow the left wall till he came to the cattletrail. He scanned the oval as keenly as if hunting for antelope.Then, stooping, he stole from one cover to another, taking advantageof rocks and bunches of sage, until he had reached the thicketsunder the opposite wall. Once there, he exercised extreme cautionin his surveys of the ground ahead, but increased his speed whenmoving. Dodging from bush to bush, he passed the mouths of twocanyons, and in the entrance of a third canyon he crossed a washof swift clear water, to come abruptly upon the cattle trail.

　　It followed the low bank of the wash, and, keeping it in sight,Venters hugged the line of sage and thicket. Like the curves of aserpent the canyon wound for a mile or more and then opened intoa valley. Patches of red showed clear against the purple of sage,and farther out on the level dotted strings of red led away tothe wall of rock.

　　"Ha, the red herd!" exclaimed Venters.

　　Then dots of white and black told him there were cattle of othercolors in this inclosed valley. Oldring, the rustler, was also arancher. Venters's calculating eye took count of stock thatoutnumbered the red herd.

　　"What a range!" went on Venters. "Water and grass enough forfifty thousand head, and no riders needed!"

　　After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venterslost no time there, but slunk again into the sage on his backtrail. With the discovery of Oldring's hidden cattle-range hadcome enlightenment on several problems. Here the rustler kept hisstock, here was Jane Withersteen's red herd; here were the fewcattle that had disappeared from the Cottonwoods slopes duringthe last two years. Until Oldring had driven the red herd histhefts of cattle for that time had not been more than enough tosupply meat for his men. Of late no drives had been reported fromSterling or the villages north. And Venters knew that the ridershad wondered at Oldring's inactivity in that particular field. Heand his band had been active enough in their visits to Glaze andCottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late the amount gambledaway and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise tomuch conjecture. Oldring's more frequent visits had resulted innew saloons, and where there had formerly been one raid orshooting fray in the little hamlets there were now many. PerhapsOldring had another range farther on up the pass, and fromthere drove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he was littleknown But Venters came finally to doubt this. And, from what hehad learned in the last few days, a belief began to form inVenters's mind that Oldring's intimidations of the villages andthe mystery of the Masked Rider, with his alleged evil deeds, andthe fierce resistance offered any trailing riders, and therustling of cattle-- these things were only the craft of therustler-chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work inDeception Pass.

　　And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage ofthe oval valley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, andat last entered the canyon out of which headed the cattle trail,and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear.

　　If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve toforce himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. Hecrawled along so hidden that he could not use his eyes except toaid himself in the toilsome progress through the brakes and ruinsof cliff-wall. Yet from time to time, as he rested, he saw themassive red walls growing higher and wilder, more looming andbroken. He made note of the fact that he was turning andclimbing. The sage and thickets of oak and brakes of alder gaveplace to pinyon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low,dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought it wasthunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But itwas incessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and froma murmur changed into a soft roar.

　　"Falling water," he said. "There's volume to that. I wonder ifit's the stream I lost."

　　The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise,however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this and surethat nothing but a bird could see him, he arose from his handsand knees to hurry on. An opening in the pinyons warned him thathe was nearing the height of slope.

　　He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment.Before him stretched a short canyon with rounded stone floor bareof grass or sage or tree, and with curved, shelving walls. Abroad rippling stream flowed toward him, and at the back of thecanyon waterfall burst from a wide rent in the cliff, and,bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet.

　　If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had enteredthe right canyon his astonishment would not have been so great.There had been no breaks in the walls, no side canyons enteringthis one where the rustlers' tracks and the cattle trail hadguided him, and, therefore, he could not be wrong. But here thecanyon ended, and presumably the trails also.

　　"That cattle trail headed out of here," Venters kept saying tohimself. "It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earthdid cattle ever get in here?"

　　If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny hehad given that cattle track, every hoofmark of which headedstraight west. He was now looking east at an immense round boxedcorner of canyon down which tumbled a thin, white veil of water,scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his calculationshad gone wrong. For the first time in years he found himselfdoubting his rider's skill in finding tracks, and his memory ofwhat he had actually seen. In his anxiety to keep under cover hemust have lost himself in this offshoot of Deception Pass, andthereby in some unaccountable manner, missed the canyon with thetrails. There was nothing else for him to think. Rustlers couldnot fly, nor cattle jump down thousand-foot precipices. He wasonly proving what the sage-riders had long said of thislabyrinthine system of deceitful canyons and valleys--trails leddown into Deception Pass, but no rider had ever followed them.

　　On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall anunusual sound that he could not define. He dropped flat behind astone and listened. From the direction he had come swelledsomething that resembled a strange muffled pounding and splashingand ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat began to dampenhis forehead. What might not be possible in this stonewalled mazeof mystery? The unnatural sound passed beyond him as he laygripping his rifle and fighting for coolness. Then from the opencame the sound, now distinct and different. Venters recognized ahobble-bell of a horse, and the cracking of iron on submergedstones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water.

　　Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, andcuriosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock.

　　In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burrosdriven by three superbly mounted men. Had Venters met thesedark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men anywhere in Utah,let alone in this robbers' retreat, he would have recognized themas rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider saw the signs of along, arduous trip. These men were packing in supplies from oneof the northern villages. They were tired, and their horses werealmost played out, and the burros plodded on, after the manner oftheir kind when exhausted, faithful and patient, but as if everyweary, splashing, slipping step would be their last.

　　All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched witha thrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlersdrove the burros, and straight through the middle, where thewater spread into a fleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke.Following closely, the rustlers rode into this white mist,showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then theyvanished.

　　Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and suddenutterance.

　　"Good Heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler!...There's a cavernunder that waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a canyonbeyond. Oldring hides in there. He needs only to guard a trailleading down from the sage-flat above. Little danger of thisoutlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled on it by luck,after I had given up. And now I know the truth of what puzzled memost--why that cattle trail was wet!"

　　He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of thesage-brush. Returning, he had no time to spare, only now andthen, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyesahead. The abundant grass left no trace of his trail. Short workhe made of the distance to the circle of canyons. He doubted thathe would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted to; yet helooked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a riderpicturing landmarks never to be forgotten.

　　Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of thesage-oval and the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred exceptthe gentle wave of the tips of the brush. Then he pressed on pastthe mouths of several canyons and over ground new to him, nowclose under the eastern wall. This latter part proved to be easytraveling, well screened from possible observation from the northand west, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepeningshade of his own canyon. Then the huge, notched bulge of red rimloomed over him, a mark by which he knew again the deep covewhere his camp lay hidden. As he penetrated the thicket, safeagain for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl he hadleft there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he findher? He ran into camp, frightening the dogs.

　　The girl lay with wide-open, dark eyes, and they dilated when heknelt beside her. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. Helifted her and held water to her dry lips, and felt aninexplicable sense of lightness as he saw her swallow in a slow,choking gulp. Gently he laid her back.

　　"Who--are--you?" she whispered, haltingly.

　　"I'm the man who shot you," he replied.

　　"You'll--not--kill me--now?"

　　"No, no."

　　"What--will--you--do--with me?"

　　"When you get better--strong enough--I'll take you back to thecanyon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall."

　　As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the marblewhiteness of her face seemed to change.

　　"Don't--take--me--back--there!"