Chapter VII. The Daughter of Withersteen

by Zane Grey

　　"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him.

　　"I reckon so," he had replied.

　　Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much theyimplied. She wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horseand ranges, and save them if that were possible. Yet, though shecould not have spoken aloud all she meant, she was perfectlyhonest with herself. Whatever the price to be paid, she must keepLassiter close to her; she must shield from him the man who hadled Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she so controlled hermind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to her own soul,she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing she regardedas a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of a helper,of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she could rulethis gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keephim from shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and hispresence against the game of oppression her churchmen were wagingagainst her? Never would she forget the effect on Tull and hismen when Venters shouted Lassiter's name. If she could not whollycontrol Lassiter, then what she could do might put off the fatalday.

　　One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bellsbecause of the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. WhenJerd led out this slender, beautifully built horse Lassitersuddenly became all eyes. A rider's love of a thoroughbred shonein them. Round and round Bells he walked, plainly weakening allthe time in his determination not to take one of Jane's favoriteracers.

　　"Lassiter, you're half horse, and Bells sees it already," saidJane, laughing. "Look at his eyes. He likes you. He'll love you,too. How can you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run!It's nip and tuck between him and Wrangle, and only Black Starcan beat him. He's too spirited a horse for a woman. Take him.He's yours."

　　"I jest am weak where a hoss's concerned," said Lassiter. "I'lltake him, an' I'll take your orders, ma'am."

　　"Well, I'm glad, but never mind the ma'am. Let it still be Jane."

　　From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle,riding early and late, and coincident with his part in Jane'saffairs the days assumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligencetold her this was only the lull before the storm, but her faithwould not have it so.

　　She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these sheencountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any troublecame between them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick toforget, met him halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regrettedthe loss of her cattle; he assured her that the vigilantes whichhad been organized would soon rout the rustlers; when that hadbeen accomplished her riders would likely return to her.

　　"You've done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter," Tullwent on, severely. "He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent."

　　"I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my rider may turnout best in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods."

　　"You mean to stay his hand?"

　　"I do--if I can."

　　"A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well,and would atone in some measure for the errors you have made."

　　He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflictingthoughts. She resented Elder Tull's cold, impassive manner thatlooked down upon her as one who had incurred his justdispleasure. Otherwise he would have been the same calm,dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years. Infact, except when he had revealed his passion in the matter ofthe seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could be otherthan the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a strange,secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he hadpicked up the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. WasTull what he appeared to be? The question flung itself in-voluntarily over Jane Withersteen's inhibitive habit of faithwithout question. And she refused to answer it. Tull could notfight in the open Venters had said, Lassiter had said, that herElder shirked fight and worked in the dark. Just now in thismeeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued, exhorted,demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of Venters. Hismanner was that of the minister who had been outraged, but whooverlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemedunutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought tobear upon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secretpower over riders, with night journeys, with rustlers andstampedes of cattle. And that convinced her again of unjustsuspicions. But it was convincement through an obstinate faith.She shuddered as she accepted it, and that shudder was thenucleus of a terrible revolt.

　　Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the mainstreet and entered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smellingclover, alfalfa, flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happyconfusion. And like these fresh green things were the dozens ofbabies, tots, toddlers, noisy urchins, laughing girls, a wholemultitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, thefather of all this numerous progeny, was a Mormon with fourwives.

　　The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque thelower part built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, withvines growing up the outside stone chimneys. There were manywooden-shuttered windows, and one pretentious window of glassproudly curtained in white. As this house had four mistresses, itlikewise had four separate sections, not one of whichcommunicated with another, and all had to be entered from theoutside.

　　In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane foundBrandt's wives entertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherlywomen, of comparatively similar ages, and plain-featured, andjust at this moment anything but grave. The Bishop was rathertall, of stout build, with iron-gray hair and beard, and eyes oflight blue. They were merry now; but Jane had seen them when theywere not, and then she feared him as she had feared her father.

　　The women flocked around her in welcome.

　　"Daughter of Withersteen," said the Bishop, gaily, as he took herhand, "you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late.A Sabbath without you at service! I shall reprove Elder Tull."

　　"Bishop, the guilt is mine. I'll come to you and confess," Janereplied, lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words.

　　"Mormon love-making!" exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his hands."Tull keeps you all to himself."

　　"No. He is not courting me."

　　"What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I'll go a-courtingmyself up to Withersteen House."

　　There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and thenmild talk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, andJane was left with her friend, Mary Brandt.

　　"Jane, you're not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of thecattle? But you have so many, you are so rich."

　　Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back herdoubts of fear.

　　"Oh, why don't you marry Tull and be one of us?

　　"But, Mary, I don't love Tull," said Jane, stubbornly.

　　"I don't blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you've got tochoose between the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormonwomen have to do that. It's not easy. The kind of happiness youwant I wanted once. I never got it, nor will you, unless youthrow away your soul. We've all watched your affair with Ventersin fear and trembling. Some dreadful thing will come of it. Youdon't want him hanged or shot--or treated worse, as that Gentileboy was treated in Glaze for fooling round a Mormon woman. MarryTull. It's your duty as a Mormon. You'll feel no rapture as hiswife--but think of Heaven! Mormon women don't marry for what theyexpect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane. Remember your fatherfound Amber Spring, built these old houses, brought Mormons here,and fathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!"

　　Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. Theyreceived her with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavishedupon her the pent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her gowith her ears ringing of Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty to Godand glory in Heaven.

　　"Verily," murmured Jane, "I don't know myself when, through allthis, I remain unchanged--nay, more fixed of purpose."

　　She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful stepstoward the center of the village. A string of wagons drawn byoxen was lumbering along. These "sage-freighters," as they werecalled, hauled grain and flour and merchandise from Sterling, andJane laughed suddenly in the midst of her humility at the thoughtthat they were her property, as was one of the three stores forwhich they freighted goods. The water that flowed along the pathat her feet, and turned into each cottage-yard to nourish gardenand orchard, also was hers, no less her private property becauseshe chose to give it free. Yet in this village of Cottonwoods,which her father had founded and which she maintained she was nother own mistress; she was not able to abide by her own choice ofa husband. She was the daughter of Withersteen. Suppose sheproved it, imperiously! But she quelled that proud temptation atits birth.

　　Nothing could have replaced the affection which the villagepeople had for her; no power could have made her happy as thepleasure her presence gave. As she went on down the street pastthe stores with their rude platform entrances, and the saloonswhere tired horses stood with bridles dragging, she was againassured of what was the bread and wine of life to her--that shewas loved. Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters,riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on dusty horses littlegirls running errands, and women hurrying to the stores alllooked up at her coming with glad eyes.

　　Jane's various calls and wandering steps at length led her to theGentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southernend, and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts andshacks and log-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. Thefortunes of these inhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read intheir abodes. Water they had in abundance, and therefore grassand fruit-trees and patches of alfalfa and vegetable gardens.Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle, others obtainedsuch intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantly tenderedthem. But none of the families was prosperous, many were verypoor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen's beneficence.

　　As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddenedher to come in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was notbecause she was unwelcome; here she was gratefully received bythe women, passionately by the children. But poverty andidleness, with their attendant wretchedness and sorrow, alwayshurt her. That she could alleviate this distress more now thanever before proved the adage that it was an ill wind that blewnobody good. While her Mormon riders were in her employ she hadfound few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was ableto find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock wasit to have man after man tell her that he dare not accept herkind offer.

　　"It won't do," said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seenbetter days. "We've had our warning. Plain and to the point! Nowthere's Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so canthe daredevil boys he's hired. But they've little responsibility.Can we risk having our homes burned in our absence?"

　　Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face asthe blood left it.

　　"Carson, you and the others rent these houses?" she asked.

　　"You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours."

　　"I know?...Carson, I never in my life took a day's labor for rentor a yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold."

　　"Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that."

　　"Look here, Carson," went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheekswere burning. "You and Black and Willet pack your goods and moveyour families up to my cabins in the grove. They're far morecomfortable than these. Then go to work for me. And if aughthappens to you there I'll give you money--gold enough to leaveUtah!"

　　The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into hiseyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speechcould ever have equaled that curse in eloquent expression of whathe felt for Jane Withersteen. How strangely his look and tonereminded her of Lassiter!

　　"No, it won't do," he said, when he had somewhat recoveredhimself. "Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don't know,and there's not a soul among us who can tell you."

　　"I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will youlet me aid you--say till better times?"

　　"Yes, I will," he replied, with his face lighting up. "I see whatit means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! Andif better times ever come, I'll be only too happy to work foryou."

　　"Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Goodday, Carson."

　　The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, andthe last habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was themeanest. Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. Thebroad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunkenroof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor.Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as thehand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. Thislittle dwelling-place was just outside the village limits, andthe widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearestirrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered the unfenced yard achild saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward herwith curls flying. This child was a little girl of four calledFay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, acreature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemedunearthly.

　　"Muvver sended for oo," cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, "an' oonever tome."

　　"I didn't know, Fay; but I've come now."

　　Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field,and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide herbeauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she wore halfcovered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her cheeks andlips; her eyes were violet blue, and the crown of her childishloveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children ofCottonwoods were Jane Withersteen's friends, she loved them all.But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among theGentile children there were none near her age, and the Mormonchildren were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild,lonely child.

　　"Muvver's sick," said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of thehut.

　　Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, butit was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.

　　"Mrs. Larkin, how are you?" asked Jane, anxiously.

　　"I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now."

　　"You haven't been here all alone--with no one to wait on you?"

　　"Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in."

　　"Did you send for me?"

　　"Yes, several times."

　　"But I had no word--no messages ever got to me."

　　"I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I wasill and would you please come."

　　A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, asshe fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed,leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passedas her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse ofdark underhand domination, running its secret lines this timeinto her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of nightan unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn andtwist them about her life, to plait and weave a web. JaneWithersteen knew it now, and in the realization further coolnessand sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of herancestors.

　　"Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad," said Jane. "Butmay I not do something for you--a turn at nursing, or send youthings, or take care of Fay?"

　　"You're so good. Since my husband's been gone what would havebecome of Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wantedto speak to you. This time I thought surely I'd die, and I wasworried about Fay. Well, I'll be around all right shortly, but mystrength's gone and I won't live long. So I may as well speaknow. You remember you've been asking me to let you take Fay andbring her up as your daughter?"

　　"Indeed yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hopethe day--"

　　"Never mind that. The day'll come--sooner or later. I refusedyour offer, and now I'll tell you why."

　　"I know why," interposed Jane. "It's because you don't want herbrought up as a Mormon."

　　"No, it wasn't altogether that." Mrs. Larkin raised her thin handand laid it appealingly on Jane's. "I don't like to tell you.But--it's this: I told all my friends what you wanted. They knowyou, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you.Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of Mormons--gossipof your love for Fay and your wanting her. And it came straightback to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn't take Fay asmuch for love of her as because of your religious duty to bringup another girl for some Mormon to marry."

　　"That's a damnable lie!" cried Jane Withersteen.

　　"It was what made me hesitate," went on Mrs. Larkin, "but I neverbelieved it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you--"

　　"Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life,but never a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me.I love little Fay. If I had her near me I'd grow to worship her.When I asked for her I thought only of that love....Let me provethis. You and Fay come to live with me. I've such a big house,and I'm so lonely. I'll help nurse you, take care of you. Whenyou're better you can work for me. I'll keep little Fay and bringher up--without Mormon teaching. When she's grown, if she shouldwant to leave me, I'll send her, and not empty-handed, back toIllinois where you came from. I promise you."

　　"I knew it was a lie," replied the mother, and she sank back uponher pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. "JaneWithersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful toyou. But because you're a Mormon I never felt close to you tillnow. I don't know much about religion as religion, but your Godand my God are the same."