Chapter IX. Silver Spruce and Aspens

by Zane Grey

　　The rest of that night seemed to Venters only a few moments ofstarlight, a dark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of graygloom, and then the lighting of dawn.

　　When he had bestirred himself, feeding the hungry dogs andbreaking his long fast, and had repacked his saddle-bags, it wasclear daylight, though the sun had not tipped the yellow wall inthe east. He concluded to make the climb and descent intoSurprise Valley in one trip. To that end he tied his blanket uponRing and gave Whitie the extra lasso and the rabbit to carry.Then, with the rifle and saddle-bags slung upon his back, he tookup the girl. She did not awaken from heavy slumber.

　　That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the brokencliffs, in the face of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed to beweary of its age-long wavering, was a tax on strength and nervethat Venters felt equally with something sweet and strangelyexulting in its accomplishment. He did not pause until he gainedthe narrow divide and there he rested. Balancing Rock loomedhuge, cold in the gray light of dawn, a thing without life, yetit spoke silently to Venters: "I am waiting to plunge down, toshatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail, and closeforever the outlet to Deception Pass!"

　　On the descent of the other side Venters had easy going, but wassomewhat concerned because Whitie appeared to have succumbed totemptation, and while carrying the rabbit was also chewing on it.And Ring evidently regarded this as an injury to himself,especially as he had carried the heavier load. Presently hesnapped at one end of the rabbit and refused to let go. But hisaction prevented Whitie from further misdoing, and then the twodogs pattered down, carrying the rabbit between them.

　　Venters turned out of the gorge, and suddenly paused stock-still,astounded at the scene before him. The curve of the great stonebridge had caught the sunrise, and through the magnificent archburst a glorious stream of gold that shone with a long slant downinto the center of Surprise Valley. Only through the arch did anysunlight pass, so that all the rest of the valley lay stillasleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level intowalls as misty and soft as morning clouds.

　　Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking up atits tremendous height and sweep. It spanned the opening toSurprise Valley, stretching in almost perfect curve from rim torim. Even in his hurry and concern Venters could not but feel itsmajesty, and the thought came to him that the cliff-dwellers musthave regarded it as an object of worship.

　　Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling the weightof his burden as he descended, and still the valley lay belowhim. As all other canyons and coves and valleys had deceived him,so had this deep, nestling oval. At length he passed beyond theslope of weathered stone that spread fan-shape from the arch, andencountered a grassy terrace running to the right and about on alevel with the tips of the oaks and cottonwoods below. Scatteredhere and there upon this shelf were clumps of aspens, and hewalked through them into a glade that surpassed in beauty andadaptability for a wild home, any place he had ever seen. Silverspruces bordered the base of a precipitous wall that roseloftily. Caves indented its surface, and there were no detachedledges or weathered sections that might dislodge a stone. Thelevel ground, beyond the spruces, dropped down into a littleravine. This was one dense line of slender aspens from which camethe low splashing of water. And the terrace, lying open to thewest, afforded unobstructed view of the valley of green treetops.

　　For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between thesilver spruces and the cliff. Here, in the stone wall, had beenwonderfully carved by wind or washed by water several deep cavesabove the level of the terrace. They were clean, dry, roomy.

　　He cut spruce boughs and made a bed in the largest cave and laidthe girl there. The first intimation that he had of her beingaroused from sleep or lethargy was a low call for water.

　　He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was ashallow, grass-green place with aspens growing up everywhere. Tohis delight he found a tiny brook of swift-running water. Itsfaint tinge of amber reminded him of the spring at Cottonwoods,and the thought gave him a little shock. The water was so cold itmade his fingers tingle as he dipped the canteen. Having returnedto the cave, he was glad to see the girl drink thirstily. Thistime he noted that she could raise her head slightly without hishelp.

　　"You were thirsty," he said. "It's good water. I've found a fineplace. Tell me--how do you feel?"

　　"There's pain--here," she replied, and moved her hand to her leftside.

　　"Why, that's strange! Your wounds are on your right side. Ibelieve you're hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache--agnawing?"

　　"It's like--that."

　　"Then it's hunger." Venters laughed, and suddenly caught himselfwith a quick breath and felt again the little shock. When had helaughed? "It's hunger," he went on. "I've had that gnaw many atime. I've got it now. But you mustn't eat. You can have all thewater you want, but no food just yet."

　　"Won't I--starve?"

　　"No, people don't starve easily. I've discovered that. You mustlie perfectly still and rest and sleep--for days."

　　"My hands--are dirty; my face feels--so hot and sticky; my bootshurt." It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed off in awhisper.

　　"Well, I'm a fine nurse!"

　　It annoyed him that he had never thought of these things. Butthen, awaiting her death and thinking of her comfort were vastlydifferent matters. He unwrapped the blanket which covered her.What a slender girl she was! No wonder he had been able to carryher miles and pack her up that slippery ladder of stone. Herboots were of soft, fine leather, reaching clear to her knees. Herecognized the make as one of a boot- maker in Sterling. Herspurs, that he had stupidly neglected to remove, consisted ofsilver frames and gold chains, and the rowels, large as silverdollars, were fancifully engraved. The boots slipped off ratherhard. She wore heavy woollen rider's stockings, half length, andthese were pulled up over the ends of her short trousers. Venterstook off the stockings to note her little feet were red andswollen. He bathed them. Then he removed his scarf and bathed herface and hands.

　　"I must see your wounds now," he said, gently.

　　She made no reply, but watched him steadily as he opened herblouse and untied the bandage. His strong fingers trembled alittle as he removed it. If the wounds had reopened! A chillstruck him as he saw the angry red bullet-mark, and a tiny streamof blood winding from it down her white breast. Very carefully helifted her to see that the wound in her back had closedperfectly. Then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed thewound, and left it unbandaged, open to the air.

　　Her eyes thanked him.

　　"Listen," he said, earnestly. "I've had some wounds, and I'veseen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your back hasclosed. If you lie still three days the one in your breast willclose and you'll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will beover."

　　He had spoken with earnest sincerity, almost eagerness.

　　"Why--do you--want me--to get well?" she asked, wonderingly.

　　The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds ofhumanity. But the circumstances under which he had shot thisstrange girl, the shock and realization, the waiting for death,the hope, had resulted in a condition of mind wherein Venterswanted her to live more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet hecould not tell why. He believed the killing of the rustler andthe subsequent excitement had disturbed him. For how else couldhe explain the throbbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, theundefined sense of full hours, charged, vibrant with pulsatingmystery where once they had dragged in loneliness?

　　"I shot you," he said, slowly, "and I want you to get well so Ishall not have killed a woman. But--for your own sake, too--"

　　A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes, and her lips quivered.

　　"Hush," said Venters. "You've talked too much already."

　　In her unutterable bitterness he saw a darkness of mood thatcould not have been caused by her present weak and feverishstate. She hated the life she had led, that she probably had beencompelled to lead. She had suffered some unforgivable wrong atthe hands of Oldring. With that conviction Venters felt a shamethroughout his body, and it marked the rekindling of fierce angerand ruthlessness. In the past long year he had nursed resentment.He had hated the wilderness--the loneliness of the uplands. Hehad waited for something to come to pass. It had come. Like anIndian stealing horses he had skulked into the recesses of thecanyons. He had found Oldring's retreat; he had killed a rustler;he had shot an unfortunate girl, then had saved her from thisunwitting act, and he meant to save her from the consequentwasting of blood, from fever and weakness. Starvation he had tofight for her and for himself. Where he had been sick at theletting of blood, now he remembered it in grim, cold calm. And ashe lost that softness of nature, so he lost his fear of men. Hewould watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he would kill thisgreat black-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, whohad used her to his infamous ends.

　　Venters surmised this much of the change in him--idleness hadpassed; keen, fierce vigor flooded his mind and body; all thathad happened to him at Cottonwoods seemed remote and hard torecall; the difficulties and perils of the present absorbed him,held him in a kind of spell.

　　First, then, he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl'sroom for his own comfort and use. His next work was to build afireplace of stones and to gather a store of wood. That done, hespilled the contents of his saddle-bags upon the grass and tookstock. His outfit consisted of a small-handled axe, ahunting-knife, a large number of cartridges for rifle orrevolver, a tin plate, a cup, and a fork and spoon, a quantity ofdried beef and dried fruits, and small canvas bags containingtea, sugar, salt, and pepper. For him alone this supply wouldhave been bountiful to begin a sojourn in the wilderness, but hewas no longer alone. Starvation in the uplands was not anunheard-of thing; he did not, however, worry at all on thatscore, and feared only his possible inability to supply the needsof a woman in a weakened and extremely delicate condition.

　　If there was no game in the valley--a contingency he doubted--itwould not be a great task for him to go by night to Oldring'sherd and pack out a calf. The exigency of the moment was toascertain if there were game in Surprise Valley. Whitie stillguarded the dilapidated rabbit, and Ring slept near by under aspruce. Venters called Ring and went to the edge of the terrace,and there halted to survey the valley.

　　He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances hadmade it appear; for more than a casual idea of dimensions and ahasty conception of oval shape and singular beauty he had not hadtime. Again the felicity of the name he had given the valleystruck him forcibly. Around the red perpendicular walls, exceptunder the great arc of stone, ran a terrace fringed at thecliff-base by silver spruces; below that first terrace slopedanother wider one densely overgrown with aspens, and the centerof the valley was a level circle of oaks and alders, with theglittering green line of willows and cottonwood dividing it inhalf. Venters saw a number and variety of birds flitting amongthe trees. To his left, facing the stone bridge, an enormouscavern opened in the wall; and low down, just above thetree-tops, he made out a long shelf of cliff-dwellings, withlittle black, staring windows or doors. Like eyes they were, andseemed to watch him. The few cliff-dwellings he had seen--allruins--had left him with haunting memory of age and solitude andof something past. He had come, in a way, to be a cliff-dwellerhimself, and those silent eyes would look down upon him, as if insurprise that after thousands of years a man had invaded thevalley. Venters felt sure that he was the only white man who hadever walked under the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge, downinto that wonderful valley with its circle of caves and itsterraced rings of silver spruce and aspens.

　　The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Venters randown the declivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked withsunshine. The oak-trees were slender, none more than half a footthick, and they grew close together, intermingling theirbranches. Ring came running back with a rabbit in his mouth.Venters took the rabbit and, holding the dog near him, stolesoftly on. There were fluttering of wings among the branches andquick bird-notes, and rustling of dead leaves and rapidpatterings. Venters crossed well-worn trails marked with freshtracks; and when he had stolen on a little farther he saw manybirds and running quail, and more rabbits than he could count. Hehad not penetrated the forest of oaks for a hundred yards, hadnot approached anywhere near the line of willows and cottonwoodswhich he knew grew along a stream. But he had seen enough to knowthat Surprise Valley was the home of many wild creatures.

　　Venters returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits, and gave thedogs the one they had quarreled over, and the skin of this hedressed and hung up to dry, feeling that he would like to keepit. It was a particularly rich, furry pelt with a beautiful whitetail. Venters remembered that but for the bobbing of that whitetail catching his eye he would not have espied the rabbit, and hewould never have discovered Surprise Valley. Little incidents ofchance like this had turned him here and there in Deception Pass;and now they had assumed to him the significance and direction ofdestiny.

　　His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to hismind the necessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he tookthe axe and cut bundles of aspens and willows, and packed them upunder the bridge to the narrow outlet of the gorge. Here he beganfashioning a fence, by driving aspens into the ground and lacingthem fast with willows. Trip after trip he made down for morebuilding material, and the afternoon had passed when he finishedthe work to his satisfaction. Wildcats might scale the fence, butno coyote could come in to search for prey, and no rabbits orother small game could escape from the valley.

　　Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease,around a fine fire, without hurry or fear of discovery. Afterhard work that had definite purpose, this freedom and comfortgave him peculiar satisfaction. He caught himself often, as hekept busy round the camp-fire, stopping to glance at the quietform in the cave, and at the dogs stretched cozily near him, andthen out across the beautiful valley. The present was not yetreal to him.

　　While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curvedwall. As the morning sun burst wondrously through a grand archinto this valley, in a golden, slanting shaft, so the eveningsun, at the moment of setting, shone through a gap of cliffs,sending down a broad red burst to brighten the oval with a blazeof fire. To Venters both sunrise and sunset were unreal.

　　A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, andwhile the light lasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millionsof facets of red, and sweeping the graceful spruces. Then withthe wind soon came a shade and a darkening, and suddenly thevalley was gray. Night came there quickly after the sinking ofthe sun. Venters went softly to look at the girl. She slept, andher breathing was quiet and slow. He lifted Ring into the cave,with stern whisper for him to stay there on guard. Then he drewthe blanket carefully over her and returned to the camp-fire.

　　Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude,but this night it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; itwas from a desire to realize his position. The details of hiswild environment seemed the only substance of a strange dream. Hesaw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, theundulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and thespear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutter of aspen leaves andthe soft, continuous splash of falling water. The melancholy noteof a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs.Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seenone, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, wereas familiar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased, andthe rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growingsound that Venters fancied was not of earth. Neither had he aname for this, only it was inexpressibly wild and sweet. Thethought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her lastoutcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! Thissound was not human, though it was like despair. He began todoubt his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamedwhat he thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with thestrengthening of the breeze, and he realized it was the singingof the wind in the cliffs.

　　By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod,half asleep, with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself andcalling Whitie, he went to the cave. The girl lay barely visiblein the dimness. Ring crouched beside her, and the patting of histail on the stone assured Venters that the dog was awake andfaithful to his duty. Venters sought his own bed of fragrantboughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort andsafety, the night seemed to steal away from him and he sanksoftly into intangible space and rest and slumber.

　　Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was onlythe haunting echo of dream music. He opened his eyes to anothersurprise of this valley of beautiful surprises. Out of his cavehe saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver sprucescrossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacyleafage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and whitestripes and long tails. They were mocking-birds, and they weresinging as if they wanted to burst their throats. Venterslistened. One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almost to hiscave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of thegraceful birds. Venters saw the swelling and quivering of itsthroat in song. He arose, and when he slid down out of his cavethe birds fluttered and flew farther away.

　　Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and lookedin. The girl was awake, with wide eyes and listening look, andshe had a hand on Ring's neck.

　　"Mocking-birds!" she said.

　　"Yes," replied Venters, "and I believe they like our company."

　　"Where are we?"

　　"Never mind now. After a little I'll tell you."

　　"The birds woke me. When I heard them--and saw the shinytrees--and the blue sky--and then a blaze of gold droppingdown--I wondered--"

　　She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined heunderstood her meaning. She appeared to be wandering in mind.Venters felt her face and hands and found them burning withfever. He went for water, and was glad to find it almost as coldas if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine he had,and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he madeher swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and cooled herwrists.

　　The day began with the heightening of the fever. Venters spentthe time reducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks andtemples. He kept close watch over her, and at the leastindication of restlessness, that he knew led to tossing androlling of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent movecould reopen her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled and laughedand cried and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was shedid not reveal it. Attended by something somber for Venters, theday passed. At night in the cool winds the fever abated and sheslept.

　　The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third heseemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes. That dayhe scarcely went from her side for a moment, except to run forfresh, cool water; and he did not eat. The fever broke on thefourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a girl withlife only in her eyes. They hung upon Venters with a muteobservance, and he found hope in that.

　　To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourishthe little life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters'sproblem. But he had little resource other than the meat of therabbits and quail; and from these he made broths and soups asbest he could, and fed her with a spoon. It came to him that thehuman body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capableof recovering from terrible shocks. For almost immediately sheshowed faint signs of gathering strength. There was one morewaiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long hours by herside as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of her breastrise and fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangledchestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live.

　　Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought hisaccustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce, where oncemore he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces. Shewould live, and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley, and hefelt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call of action,to the many things he needed to do in the way of making campfixtures and utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and thedesire to explore the valley.

　　But he decided to wait a few more days before going far fromcamp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when shecould see him near at hand. And on the first day her languorappeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. She awokestronger from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she movedabout in her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, hereyes followed him. He knew now that her recovery would be rapid.She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about howhungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to put offfurther talk till another time. She obeyed, but she sat up in herbed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him.

　　Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, andwould not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, whichactions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however, andVenters was quick to catch in her the first intimations ofthoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation.He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon hisreturn he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see hisinvalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and herbare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, intending toadvise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she mightovertax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on thelittle head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, ovalface with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-bluecircles. She looked at him and he looked at her. In that exchangeof glances he imagined each saw the other in some differentguise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girl couldbe Oldring's Masked Rider. It flashed over him that he had made amistake which presently she would explain.

　　"Help me down," she said.

　　"But--are you well enough?" he protested. "Wait--a littlelonger."

　　"I'm weak--dizzy. But I want to get down."

　　He lifted her--what a light burden now!--and stood her uprightbeside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with haltingsteps. She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small headscarcely reached his shoulder. But now, as she clung to his arm,the rider's costume she wore did not contradict, as it had doneat first, his feeling of her femininity. She might be the famousMasked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but heroutline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes andtremulous lips, and especially a something that Venters felt as asubtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her sex.

　　She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under thespruce that overspread the camp-fire.

　　"Now tell me--everything," she said.

　　He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discoveryof the rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment.

　　"You shot me--and now you've saved my life?"

　　"Yes. After almost killing you I've pulled you through."

　　"Are you glad?"

　　"I should say so!"

　　Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded himsteadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotionsand they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder andsadness.

　　"Tell me--about yourself?" she asked.

　　He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, hisvarious occupations till he became a rider, and then how theMormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, anoutcast.

　　Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, hequestioned her in turn.

　　"Are you Oldring's Masked Rider?"

　　"Yes," she replied, and dropped her eyes.

　　"I knew it--I recognized your figure--and mask, for I saw youonce. Yet I can't believe it!...But you never were really thatrustler, as we riders knew him? A thief--a marauder--a kidnapperof women--a murderer of sleeping riders!"

　　"No! I never stole--or harmed any one--in all my life. I onlyrode and rode--"

　　"But why--why?" he burst out. "Why the name? I understand Oldringmade you ride. But the black mask--the mystery--the things laidto your hands--the threats in your infamous name--thenight-riding credited to you--the evil deeds deliberately blamedon you and acknowledged by rustlers--even Oldring himself! Why?Tell me why?"

　　"I never knew that," she answered low. Her drooping headstraightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, metVenters's with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. Itverified his own conviction.

　　"Never knew? That's strange! Are you a Mormon?"

　　"No."

　　"Is Oldring a Mormon?"

　　"No."

　　"Do you--care for him?"

　　"Yes. I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hatehim!"

　　Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace himself to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him toconfirm, but which he seemed driven to hear.

　　"What are--what were you to Oldring?"

　　Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, thegirl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheekscrept the red of shame.

　　Venters would have given anything to recall that question. Itseemed so different--his thought when spoken. Yet her shameestablished in his mind something akin to the respect he hadstrangely been hungering to feel for her.

　　"D--n that question!--forget it!" he cried, in a passion of painfor her and anger at himself. "But once and for all--tell me--Iknow it, yet I want to hear you say so--you couldn't helpyourself?"

　　"Oh no."

　　"Well, that makes it all right with me," he went on, honestly."I--I want you to feel that...you see--we've been throwntogether--and--and I want to help you--not hurt you. I thoughtlife had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel meanand little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast.And now!...I don't see very clearly what it all means. Only weare here--together. We've got to stay here, for long, surely tillyou are well. But you'll never go back to Oldring. And I'm surehelping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There'ssomething now for me to do. And if I can win back yourstrength--then get you away, out of this wild country--help yousomehow to a happier life--just think how good that'll be forme!"