Chapter X. Love

by Zane Grey

　　During all these waiting days Venters, with the exception of theafternoon when he had built the gate in the gorge, had scarcelygone out of sight of camp and never out of hearing. His desire toexplore Surprise Valley was keen, and on the morning after hislong talk with the girl he took his rifle and, calling Ring, madea move to start. The girl lay back in a rude chair of boughs hehad put together for her. She had been watching him, and when hepicked up the gun and called the dog Venters thought she gave anervous start.

　　"I'm only going to look over the valley," he said.

　　"Will you be gone long?"

　　"No," he replied, and started off. The incident set him thinkingof his former impression that, after her recovery from fever, shedid not seem at ease unless he was close at hand. It was fear ofbeing alone, due, he concluded, most likely to her weakenedcondition. He must not leave her much alone.

　　As he strode down the sloping terrace, rabbits scampered beforehim, and the beautiful valley quail, as purple in color as thesage on the uplands, ran fleetly along the ground into theforest. It was pleasant under the trees, in the gold-fleckedshade, with the whistle of quail and twittering of birdseverywhere. Soon he had passed the limit of his former excursionsand entered new territory. Here the woods began to show openglades and brooks running down from the slope, and presently heemerged from shade into the sunshine of a meadow. The shaking ofthe high grass told him of the running of animals, what specieshe could not tell, but from Ring's manifest desire to have achase they were evidently some kind wilder than rabbits. Ventersapproached the willow and cottonwood belt that he had observedfrom the height of slope. He penetrated it to find a considerablestream of water and great half-submerged mounds of brush andsticks, and all about him were old and new gnawed circles at thebase of the cottonwoods.

　　"Beaver!" he exclaimed. "By all that's lucky! The meadow's fullof beaver! How did they ever get here?"

　　Beaver had not found a way into the valley by the trail of thecliff-dwellers, of that he was certain; and he began to have morethan curiosity as to the outlet or inlet of the stream. When hepassed some dead water, which he noted was held by a beaver dam,there was a current in the stream, and it flowed west. Followingits course, he soon entered the oak forest again, and passedthrough to find himself before massed and jumbled ruins of cliffwall. There were tangled thickets of wild plum-trees and otherthorny growths that made passage extremely laborsome. He foundinnumerable tracks of wildcats and foxes. Rustlings in the thickundergrowth told him of stealthy movements of these animals. Atlength his further advance appeared futile, for the reason thatthe stream disappeared in a split at the base of immense rocksover which he could not climb. To his relief he concluded thatthough beaver might work their way up the narrow chasm where thewater rushed, it would be impossible for men to enter the valleythere.

　　This western curve was the only part of the valley where thewalls had been split asunder, and it was a wildly rough andinaccessible corner. Going back a little way, he leaped thestream and headed toward the southern wall. Once out of the oakshe found again the low terrace of aspens, and above that thewide, open terrace fringed by silver spruces. This side of thevalley contained the wind or water worn caves. As he pressed on,keeping to the upper terrace, cave after cave opened out of thecliff; now a large one, now a small one. Then yawned, quitesuddenly and wonderfully above him, the great cavern of thecliff-dwellers.

　　It was still a goodly distance, and he tried to imagine, if itappeared so huge from where he stood, what it would be when hegot there. He climbed the terrace and then faced a long, gradualascent of weathered rock and dust, which made climbing toodifficult for attention to anything else. At length he entered azone of shade, and looked up. He stood just within the hollow ofa cavern so immense that he had no conception of its realdimensions. The curved roof, stained by ages of leakage, withbuff and black and rust-colored streaks, swept up and loomedhigher and seemed to soar to the rim of the cliff. Here again wasa magnificent arch, such as formed the grand gateway to thevalley, only in this instance it formed the dome of a caveinstead of the span of a bridge.

　　Venters passed onward and upward. The stones he dislodged rolleddown with strange, hollow crack and roar. He had climbed ahundred rods inward, and yet he had not reached the base of theshelf where the cliff-dwellings rested, a long half-circle ofconnected stone house, with little dark holes that he had fanciedwere eyes. At length he gained the base of the shelf, and herefound steps cut in the rock. These facilitated climbing, and ashe went up he thought how easily this vanished race of men mightonce have held that stronghold against an army. There was onlyone possible place to ascend, and this was narrow and steep.

　　Venters had visited cliff-dwellings before, and they had been inruins, and of no great character or size but this place was ofproportions that stunned him, and it had not been desecrated bythe hand of man, nor had it been crumbled by the hand of time. Itwas a stupendous tomb. It had been a city. It was just as it hadbeen left by its builders. The little houses were there, thesmoke-blackened stains of fires, the pieces of pottery scatteredabout cold hearths, the stone hatchets; and stone pestles andmealing-stones lay beside round holes polished by years ofgrinding maize--lay there as if they had been carelessly droppedyesterday. But the cliff-dwellers were gone!

　　Dust! They were dust on the floor or at the foot of the shelf,and their habitations and utensils endured. Venters felt thesublimity of that marvelous vaulted arch, and it seemed to gleamwith a glory of something that was gone. How many years hadpassed since the cliff-dwellers gazed out across the beautifulvalley as he was gazing now? How long had it been since womenground grain in those polished holes? What time had rolled bysince men of an unknown race lived, loved, fought, and diedthere? Had an enemy destroyed them? Had disease destroyed them,or only that greatest destroyer--time? Venters saw a long line ofblood-red hands painted low down upon the yellow roof of stone.Here was strange portent, if not an answer to his queries. Theplace oppressed him. It was light, but full of a transparentgloom. It smelled of dust and musty stone, of age and disuse. Itwas sad. It was solemn. It had the look of a place where silencehad become master and was now irrevocable and terrible and couldnot be broken. Yet, at the moment, from high up in the carvedcrevices of the arch, floated down the low, strange wail ofwind--a knell indeed for all that had gone.

　　Venters, sighing, gathered up an armful of pottery, such piecesas he thought strong enough and suitable for his own use, andbent his steps toward camp. He mounted the terrace at an oppositepoint to which he had left. He saw the girl looking in thedirection he had gone. His footsteps made no sound in the deepgrass, and he approached close without her being aware of hispresence. Whitie lay on the ground near where she sat, and hemanifested the usual actions of welcome, but the girl did notnotice them. She seemed to be oblivious to everything near athand. She made a pathetic figure drooping there, with her sunnyhair contrasting so markedly with her white, wasted cheeks andher hands listlessly clasped and her little bare feet propped inthe framework of the rude seat. Venters could have sworn andlaughed in one breath at the idea of the connection between thisgirl and Oldring's Masked Rider. She was the victim of more thanaccident of fate--a victim to some deep plot the mystery of whichburned him. As he stepped forward with a half-formed thought thatshe was absorbed in watching for his return, she turned her headand saw him. A swift start, a change rather than rush of bloodunder her white cheeks, a flashing of big eyes that fixed theirglance upon him, transformed her face in that single instant ofturning, and he knew she had been watching for him, that hisreturn was the one thing in her mind. She did not smile; she didnot flush; she did not look glad. All these would have meantlittle compared to her indefinite expression. Venters grasped thepeculiar, vivid, vital something that leaped from her face. Itwas as if she had been in a dead, hopeless clamp of inaction andfeeling, and had been suddenly shot through and through withquivering animation. Almost it was as if she had returned tolife.

　　And Venters thought with lightning swiftness, "I've savedher--I've unlinked her from that old life--she was watching as ifI were all she had left on earth--she belongs to me!" The thoughtwas startlingly new. Like a blow it was in an unprepared moment.The cheery salutation he had ready for her died unborn and hetumbled the pieces of pottery awkwardly on the grass while someunfamiliar, deep-seated emotion, mixed with pity and gladassurance of his power to succor her, held him dumb.

　　"What a load you had!" she said. "Why, they're pots and crocks!Where did you get them?"

　　Venters laid down his rifle, and, filling one of the pots fromhis canteen, he placed it on the smoldering campfire.

　　"Hope it'll hold water," he said, presently. "Why, there's anenormous cliff-dwelling just across here. I got the potterythere. Don't you think we needed something? That tin cup of minehas served to make tea, broth, soup--everything."

　　"I noticed we hadn't a great deal to cook in."

　　She laughed. It was the first time. He liked that laugh, andthough he was tempted to look at her, he did not want to show hissurprise or his pleasure.

　　"Will you take me over there, and all around in thevalley--pretty soon, when I'm well?" she added.

　　"Indeed I shall. It's a wonderful place. Rabbits so thick youcan't step without kicking one out. And quail, beaver, foxes,wildcats. We're in a regular den. But--haven't you ever seen acliff-dwelling?"

　　"No. I've heard about them, though. The--the men say the Pass isfull of old houses and ruins."

　　"Why, I should think you'd have run across one in all your ridingaround," said Venters. He spoke slowly, choosing his wordscarefully, and he essayed a perfectly casual manner, andpretended to be busy assorting pieces of pottery. She must haveno cause again to suffer shame for curiosity of his. Yet never inall his days had he been so eager to hear the details of anyone'slife

　　"When I rode--I rode like the wind," she replied, "and never hadtime to stop for anything."

　　"I remember that day I--I met you in the Pass--how dusty youwere, how tired your horse looked. Were you always riding?"

　　"Oh, no. Sometimes not for months, when I was shut up in thecabin."

　　Venters tried to subdue a hot tingling.

　　"You were shut up, then?" he asked, carelessly.

　　"When Oldring went away on his long trips--he was gone for monthssometimes--he shut me up in the cabin."

　　"What for?"

　　"Perhaps to keep me from running away. I always threatened that.Mostly, though, because the men got drunk at the villages. Butthey were always good to me. I wasn't afraid."

　　"A prisoner! That must have been hard on you?"

　　"I liked that. As long as I can remember I've been locked upthere at times, and those times were the only happy ones I everhad. It's a big cabin, high up on a cliff, and I could look out.Then I had dogs and pets I had tamed, and books. There was aspring inside, and food stored, and the men brought me freshmeat. Once I was there one whole winter."

　　It now required deliberation on Venters's part to persist in hisunconcern and to keep at work. He wanted to look at her, tovolley questions at her.

　　"As long as you can remember--you've lived in Deception Pass?" hewent on.

　　"I've a dim memory of some other place, and women and children;but I can't make anything of it. Sometimes I think till I'mweary."

　　"Then you can read--you have books?"

　　"Oh yes, I can read, and write, too, pretty well. Oldring iseducated. He taught me, and years ago an old rustler lived withus, and he had been something different once. He was alwaysteaching me."

　　"So Oldring takes long trips," mused Venters. "Do you know wherehe goes?"

　　"No. Every year he drives cattle north of Sterling--then does notreturn for months. I heard him accused once of living twolives--and he killed the man. That was at Stone Bridge."

　　Venters dropped his apparent task and looked up with an eagernesshe no longer strove to hide.

　　"Bess," he said, using her name for the first time, "I suspectedOldring was something besides a rustler. Tell me, what's hispurpose here in the Pass? I believe much that he has done was tohide his real work here."

　　"You're right. He's more than a rustler. In fact, as the men say,his rustling cattle is now only a bluff. There's gold in thecanyons!"

　　"Ah!"

　　"Yes, there's gold, not in great quantities, but gold enough forhim and his men. They wash for gold week in and week out. Thenthey drive a few cattle and go into the villages to drink andshoot and kill--to bluff the riders."

　　"Drive a few cattle! But, Bess, the Withersteen herd, the redherd-- twenty-five hundred head! That's not a few. And I trackedthem into a valley near here."

　　"Oldring never stole the red herd. He made a deal with Mormons.The riders were to be called in, and Oldring was to drive theherd and keep it till a certain time--I won't know when--thendrive it back to the range. What his share was I didn't hear."

　　"Did you hear why that deal was made?" queried Venters.

　　"No. But it was a trick of Mormons. They're full of tricks. I'veheard Oldring's men tell about Mormons. Maybe the Withersteenwoman wasn't minding her halter! I saw the man who made the deal.He was a little, queer-shaped man, all humped up. He sat hishorse well. I heard one of our men say afterward there was nobetter rider on the sage than this fellow. What was the name? Iforget."

　　"Jerry Card?" suggested Venters.

　　"That's it. I remember--it's a name easy to remember--and JerryCard appeared to be on fair terms with Oldring's men."

　　"I shouldn't wonder," replied Venters, thoughtfully. Verificationof his suspicions in regard to Tull's underhand work--for thedeal with Oldring made by Jerry Card assuredly had its inceptionin the Mormon Elder's brain, and had been accomplished throughhis orders--revived in Venters a memory of hatred that had beensmothered by press of other emotions. Only a few days had elapsedsince the hour of his encounter with Tull, yet they had beenforgotten and now seemed far off, and the interval one that nowappeared large and profound with incalculable change in hisfeelings. Hatred of Tull still existed in his heart, but it hadlost its white heat. His affection for Jane Withersteen had notchanged in the least; nevertheless, he seemed to view it fromanother angle and see it as another thing--what, he could notexactly define. The recalling of these two feelings was toVenters like getting glimpses into a self that was gone; and thewonder of them--perhaps the change which was too illusive forhim--was the fact that a strange irritation accompanied thememory and a desire to dismiss it from mind. And straightway hedid dismiss it, to return to thoughts of his significant present.

　　"Bess, tell me one more thing," he said. "Haven't you known anywomen-- any young people?"

　　"Sometimes there were women with the men; but Oldring never letme know them. And all the young people I ever saw in my life waswhen I rode fast through the villages."

　　Perhaps that was the most puzzling and thought-provoking thingshe had yet said to Venters. He pondered, more curious the morehe learned, but he curbed his inquisitive desires, for he saw hershrinking on the verge of that shame, the causing of which hadoccasioned him such self-reproach. He would ask no more. Still hehad to think, and he found it difficult to think clearly. Thissad-eyed girl was so utterly different from what it would havebeen reason to believe such a remarkable life would have madeher. On this day he had found her simple and frank, as natural asany girl he had ever known. About her there was something sweet.Her voice was low and well modulated. He could not look into herface, meet her steady, unabashed, yet wistful eyes, and think ofher as the woman she had confessed herself. Oldring's MaskedRider sat before him, a girl dressed as a man. She had been madeto ride at the head of infamous forays and drives. She had beenimprisoned for many months of her life in an obscure cabin. Attimes the most vicious of men had been her companions; and thevilest of women, if they had not been permitted to approach her,had, at least, cast their shadows over her. But--but in spite ofall this--there thundered at Venters some truth that lifted itsvoice higher than the clamoring facts of dishonor, some truththat was the very life of her beautiful eyes; and it wasinnocence.

　　In the days that followed, Venters balanced perpetually in mindthis haunting conception of innocence over against the cold andsickening fact of an unintentional yet actual gift. How could itbe possible for the two things to be true? He believed the latterto be true, and he would not relinquish his conviction of theformer; and these conflicting thoughts augmented the mystery thatappeared to be a part of Bess. In those ensuing days, however, itbecame clear as clearest light that Bess was rapidly regainingstrength; that, unless reminded of her long association withOldring, she seemed to have forgotten it; that, like an Indianwho lives solely from moment to moment, she was utterly absorbedin the present.

　　Day by day Venters watched the white of her face slowly change tobrown, and the wasted cheeks fill out by imperceptible degrees.There came a time when he could just trace the line ofdemarcation between the part of her face once hidden by a maskand that left exposed to wind and sun. When that line disappearedin clear bronze tan it was as if she had been washed clean of thestigma of Oldring's Masked Rider. The suggestion of the maskalways made Venters remember; now that it was gone he seldomthought of her past. Occasionally he tried to piece together theseveral stages of strange experience and to make a whole. He hadshot a masked outlaw the very sight of whom had been ill omen toriders; he had carried off a wounded woman whose bloody lipsquivered in prayer; he had nursed what seemed a frail, shrunkenboy; and now he watched a girl whose face had become strangelysweet, whose dark-blue eyes were ever upon him without boldness,without shyness, but with a steady, grave, and growing light.Many times Venters found the clear gaze embarrassing to him, yet,like wine, it had an exhilarating effect. What did she think whenshe looked at him so? Almost he believed she had no thought atall. All about her and the present there in Surprise Valley, andthe dim yet subtly impending future, fascinated Venters and madehim thoughtful as all his lonely vigils in the sage hadnot.

　　Chiefly it was the present that he wished to dwell upon; but itwas the call of the future which stirred him to action. No ideahad he of what that future had in store for Bess and him. Hebegan to think of improving Surprise Valley as a place to livein, for there was no telling how long they would be compelled tostay there. Venters stubbornly resisted the entering into hismind of an insistent thought that, clearly realized, might havemade it plain to him that he did not want to leave SurpriseValley at all. But it was imperative that he consider practicalmatters; and whether or not he was destined to stay long there,he felt the immediate need of a change of diet. It would benecessary for him to go farther afield for a variety of meat, andalso that he soon visit Cottonwoods for a supply of food.

　　It occurred again to Venters that he could go to the canyon whereOldring kept his cattle, and at little risk he could pack outsome beef. He wished to do this, however, without letting Bessknow of it till after he had made the trip. Presently he hit uponthe plan of going while she was asleep.

　　That very night he stole out of camp, climbed up under the stonebridge, and entered the outlet to the Pass. The gorge was full ofluminous gloom. Balancing Rock loomed dark and leaned over thepale descent. Transformed in the shadowy light, it took shape anddimensions of a spectral god waiting--waiting for the moment tohurl himself down upon the tottering walls and close forever theoutlet to Deception Pass. At night more than by day Venters feltsomething fearful and fateful in that rock, and that it hadleaned and waited through a thousand years to have somehow todeal with his destiny.

　　"Old man, if you must roll, wait till I get back to the girl, andthen roll!" he said, aloud, as if the stones were indeed a god.

　　And those spoken words, in their grim note to his ear, as well ascontents to his mind, told Venters that he was all but driftingon a current which he had not power nor wish to stem.

　　Venters exercised his usual care in the matter of hiding tracksfrom the outlet, yet it took him scarcely an hour to reachOldring's cattle. Here sight of many calves changed his originalintention, and instead of packing out meat he decided to take acalf out alive. He roped one, securely tied its feet, and swungit over his shoulder. Here was an exceedingly heavy burden, butVenters was powerful--he could take up a sack of grain and withease pitch it over a pack-saddle--and he made long distancewithout resting. The hardest work came in the climb up to theoutlet and on through to the valley. When he had accomplished it,he became fired with another idea that again changed hisintention. He would not kill the calf, but keep it alive. Hewould go back to Oldring's herd and pack out more calves.Thereupon he secured the calf in the best available spot for themoment and turned to make a second trip.

　　When Venters got back to the valley with another calf, it wasclose upon daybreak. He crawled into his cave and slept late.Bess had no inkling that he had been absent from camp nearly allnight, and only remarked solicitously that he appeared to be moretired than usual, and more in the need of sleep. In the afternoonVenters built a gate across a small ravine near camp, and herecorralled the calves; and he succeeded in completing his taskwithout Bess being any the wiser.

　　That night he made two more trips to Oldring's range, and againon the following night, and yet another on the next. With eightcalves in his corral, he concluded that he had enough; but itdawned upon him then that he did not want to kill one. "I'verustled Oldring's cattle," he said, and laughed. He noted thenthat all the calves were red. "Red!" he exclaimed. "From the redherd. I've stolen Jane Withersteen's cattle!...That's about thestrangest thing yet."

　　One more trip he undertook to Oldring's valley, and this time heroped a yearling steer and killed it and cut out a small quarterof beef. The howling of coyotes told him he need have noapprehension that the work of his knife would be discovered. Hepacked the beef back to camp and hung it upon a spruce-tree. Thenhe sought his bed.

　　On the morrow he was up bright and early, glad that he had asurprise for Bess. He could hardly wait for her to come out.Presently she appeared and walked under the spruce. Then sheapproached the camp-fire. There was a tinge of healthy red in thebronze of her cheeks, and her slender form had begun to round outin graceful lines.

　　"Bess, didn't you say you were tired of rabbit?" inquiredVenters. "And quail and beaver?"

　　"Indeed I did."

　　"What would you like?"

　　"I'm tired of meat, but if we have to live on it I'd like somebeef."

　　"Well, how does that strike you?" Venters pointed to the quarterhanging from the spruce-tree. "We'll have fresh beef for a fewdays, then we'll cut the rest into strips and dry it."

　　"Where did you get that?" asked Bess, slowly.

　　"I stole that from Oldring."

　　"You went back to the canyon--you risked--" While she hesitatedthe tinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks.

　　"It wasn't any risk, but it was hard work."

　　"I'm sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How--When did youget that beef?"

　　"Last night."

　　"While I was asleep?"

　　"Yes."

　　"I woke last night sometime--but I didn't know."

　　Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever theydid so the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to thewistful light. In the former she saw as the primitive womanwithout thought; in the latter she looked inward, and her gazewas the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had notseen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thoughtwas beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think.

　　"I've done more than pack in that beef," he said. "For fivenights I've been working while you slept. I've got eight calvescorralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!"

　　"You went five nights!"

　　All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slowpallor, and her exclamation, was fear--fear for herself or forhim.

　　"Yes. I didn't tell you, because I knew you were afraid to beleft alone."

　　"Alone?" She echoed his word, but the meaning of it was nothingto her. She had not even thought of being left alone. It was not,then, fear for herself, but for him. This girl, always slow ofspeech and action, now seemed almost stupid. She put forth a handthat might have indicated the groping of her mind. Suddenly shestepped swiftly to him, with a look and touch that drove from himany doubt of her quick intelligence or feeling.

　　"Oldring has men watch the herds--they would kill you. You mustnever go again!"

　　When she had spoken, the strength and the blaze of her died, andshe swayed toward Venters.

　　"Bess, I'll not go again," he said, catching her.

　　She leaned against him, and her body was limp and vibrated to along, wavering tremble. Her face was upturned to his. Woman'sface, woman's eyes, woman's lips--all acutely and blindly andsweetly and terribly truthful in their betrayal! But as her fearwas instinctive, so was her clinging to this one and onlyfriend.

　　Venters gently put her from him and steadied her upon her feet;and all the while his blood raced wild, and a thrilling tingleunsteadied his nerve, and something--that he had seen and felt inher--that he could not understand--seemed very close to him, warmand rich as a fragrant breath, sweet as nothing had ever beforebeen sweet to him.

　　With all his will Venters strove for calmness and thought andjudgment unbiased by pity, and reality unswayed by sentiment.Bess's eyes were still fixed upon him with all her soul bright inthat wistful light. Swiftly, resolutely he put out of mind all ofher life except what had been spent with him. He scorned himselffor the intelligence that made him still doubt. He meant to judgeher as she had judged him. He was face to face with theinevitableness of life itself. He saw destiny in the dark,straight path of her wonderful eyes. Here was the simplicity, thesweetness of a girl contending with new and strange andenthralling emotions here the living truth of innocence; here theblind terror of a woman confronted with the thought of death toher savior and protector. All this Venters saw, but, besides,there was in Bess's eyes a slow-dawning consciousness that seemedabout to break out in glorious radiance.

　　"Bess, are you thinking?" he asked.

　　"Yes--oh yes!"

　　"Do you realize we are here alone--man and woman?"

　　"Yes."

　　"Have you thought that we may make our way out to civilization,or we may have to stay here--alone--hidden from the world all ourlives?"

　　"I never thought--till now."

　　"Well, what's your choice--to go--or to stay here--alone withme?"

　　"Stay!" New-born thought of self, ringing vibrantly in her voice,gave her answer singular power.

　　Venters trembled, and then swiftly turned his gaze from herface--from her eyes. He knew what she had only half divined--thatshe loved him.