Chapter XIX. Fay

by Zane Grey

　　At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbingLassiter's knee.

　　"Does oo love me?" she asked.

　　Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle andloving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he washer devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to bedebating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme test toprove this cavalier.

　　"Does oo love my new mower?" she asked, with bewilderingsuddenness.

　　Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a dayshe felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.

　　It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three weresitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced thesage-slope Little Fay's brief spell of unhappy longing for hermother--the childish, mystic gloom--had passed, and now where Faywas there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emergedIron sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. She hadgrowl supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Withersteenthe child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possessioninfinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter,Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion.

　　"Does oo love my new mower?" repeated Fay.

　　Lassiter's answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.

　　"Why don't oo marry my new mower an' be my favver?"

　　Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter thewas the first he had been unable to answer.

　　"Fay--Fay, don't ask questions like that," said Jane.

　　"Why?"

　　"Because," replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassingto meet the child's gaze. It seemed to her that Fay's violet eyeslooked through her with piercing wisdom.

　　"Oo love him, don't oo?"

　　"Dear child--run and play," said Jane, "but don't go too far.Don't go from this little hill."

　　Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not beengranted her for weeks.

　　"Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?"asked Lassiter.

　　"Are they?"

　　"I reckon so. Little Fay there--she sees things as they appear onthe face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An' an Indian an' adog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child isalways right."

　　"Well, what does Fay see?" asked Jane.

　　"I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay's mind when shesees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an' wantin'to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! Youare false in a way, though you're the best woman I ever knew.What I want to say is this. Fay has taken you're pretendin'to--to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. An' herlittle formin' mind asks questions. An' the answers she gets aredifferent from the looks of things. So she'll grow up graduallytakin' on that falseness, an' be like the rest of the women, an'men, too. An' the truth of this falseness to life is proved byyour appearin' to love me when you don't. Things aren't what theyseem."

　　"Lassiter, you're right. A child should be told the absolutetruth. But--is that possible? I haven't been able to do it, andall my life I've loved the truth, and I've prided myself uponbeing truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. I'm learning much,my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from myeyes. And--and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal.How much, how little, I couldn't say. My heart is almost broken.Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. I canstill play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when Iattempt serious thought I'm dazed. I don't think. I don't careany more. I don't pray!...Think of that, my friend! But in spiteof my numb feeling I believe I'll rise out of all this dark agonya better woman, with greater love of man and God. I'm on the racknow; I'm senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that.Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. I'm waiting thehour."

　　"It'll soon come, Jane," replied Lassiter, soberly. "Then I'mafraid for you. Years are terrible things, an' for years you'vebeen bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow,though, I believe as you--that you'll come out of it all a finerwoman. I'm waitin', too. An' I'm wonderin'--I reckon, Jane, thatmarriage between us is out of all human reason?"

　　"Lassiter!...My dear friend!...It's impossible for us to marry!"

　　"Why--as Fay says?" inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence.

　　"Why! I never thought why. But it's not possible. I am Jane,daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of his grave.I'm of Mormon birth. I'm being broken. But I'm still a Mormonwoman. And you--you are Lassiter!"

　　"Mebbe I'm not so much Lassiter as I used to be."

　　"What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself!You can't change the one habit--the purpose of your life. For youstill pack those black guns! You still nurse your passion forblood."

　　A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face.

　　"No."

　　"Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you--don't you lie to me.I've great respect for you. I believe you're softened towardmost, perhaps all, my people except--But when I speak of yourpurpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. I don'tbelieve you've changed."

　　For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid itwith the heavy, swing gun-sheaths in her lap.

　　"Lassiter!" Jane whispered, as she gazed from him to the black,cold guns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength,defenseless, a smaller man. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, consciousof only one motive--refusal to see this man called craven by hisenemies--she rose, and with blundering fingers buckled the beltround his waist where it belonged.

　　"Lassiter, I am a coward."

　　"Come with me out of Utah--where I can put away my guns an' be aman," he said. "I reckon I'll prove it to you then! Come! You'vegot Black Star back, an' Night an' Bells. Let's take the racersan' little Fay, en' race out of Utah. The hosses an' the childare all you have left. Come!"

　　"No, no, Lassiter. I'll never leave Utah. What would I do in theworld with my broken fortunes and my broken heart? Ill neverleave these purple slopes I love so well."

　　"I reckon I ought to 've knowed that. Presently you'll be livin'down here in a hovel, en' presently Jane Withersteen will be amemory. I only wanted to have a chance to show you how a man--anyman--can be better 'n he was. If we left Utah I could prove--Ireckon I could prove this thing you call love. It's strange, an'hell an' heaven at once, Jane Withersteen. 'Pears to me thatyou've thrown away your big heart on love--love of religion an'duty an' churchmen, an' riders an' poor families an' poorchildren! Yet you can't see what love is--how it changes aperson!...Listen, an' in tellin' you Milly Erne's story I'll showyou how love changed her.

　　"Milly an' me was children when our family moved from Missouri toTexas, an' we growed up in Texas ways same as if we'd been bornthere. We had been poor, an' there we prospered. In time thelittle village where we went became a town, an' strangers an' newfamilies kept movin' in. Milly was the belle them days. I can seeher now, a little girl no bigger 'n a bird, an' as pretty. Shehad the finest eyes, dark blue-black when she was excited, an'beautiful all the time. You remember Milly's eyes! An' she hadlight-brown hair with streaks of gold, an' a mouth that everyfeller wanted to kiss.

　　"An' about the time Milly was the prettiest an' the sweetest,along came a young minister who began to ride some of a race withthe other fellers for Milly. An' he won. Milly had always beenstrong on religion, an' when she met Frank Erne she went in heartan' soul for the salvation of souls. Fact was, Milly, throughstudy of the Bible an' attendin' church an' revivals, went alittle out of her head. It didn't worry the old folks none, an'the only worry to me was Milly's everlastin' prayin' an' workin'to save my soul. She never converted me, but we was the best ofcomrades, an' I reckon no brother an' sister ever loved eachother better. Well, Frank Erne an me hit up a great friendship.He was a strappin' feller, good to look at, an' had the mostpleasin' ways. His religion never bothered me, for he could huntan' fish an' ride an' be a good feller. After buffalo once, hecome pretty near to savin' my life. We got to be thick asbrothers, an' he was the only man I ever seen who I thought wasgood enough for Milly. An' the day they were married I got drunkfor the only time in my life.

　　"Soon after that I left home--it seems Milly was the only one whocould keep me home--an' I went to the bad, as to prosperin' I sawsome pretty hard life in the Pan Handle, an' then I went North.In them days Kansas an' Nebraska was as bad, come to think of it,as these days right here on the border of Utah. I got to bepretty handy with guns. An' there wasn't many riders as couldbeat me ridin'. An' I can say all modest-like that I never seenthe white man who could track a hoss or a steer or a man with me.Afore I knowed it two years slipped by, an' all at once I gothomesick, en' purled a bridle south.

　　"Things at home had changed. I never got over that homecomin'.Mother was dead an' in her grave. Father was a silent, brokenman, killed already on his feet. Frank Erne was a ghost of hisold self, through with workin', through with preachin', almostthrough with livin', an' Milly was gone!...It was a long timebefore I got the story. Father had no mind left, an' Frank Ernewas afraid to talk. So I had to pick up whet 'd happened fromdifferent people.

　　"It 'pears that soon after I left home another preacher come tothe little town. An' he an' Frank become rivals. This feller wasdifferent from Frank. He preached some other kind of religion,and he was quick an' passionate, where Frank was slow an' mild.He went after people, women specially. In looks he couldn'tcompare to Frank Erne, but he had power over women. He had avoice, an' he talked an' talked an' preached an' preached. Millyfell under his influence.. She became mightily interested in hisreligion. Frank had patience with her, as was his way, an' lether be as interested as she liked. All religions were devoted toone God, he said, an' it wouldn't hurt Milly none to study adifferent point of view. So the new preacher often called onMilly, an' sometimes in Frank's absence. Frank was a cattle-manbetween Sundays.

　　"Along about this time an incident come off that I couldn't getmuch light on. A stranger come to town, an' was seen with thepreacher. This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice,an' a beard of gold. He had money, an' he 'peered a man ofmystery, an' the town went to buzzin' when he disappeared aboutthe same time as a young woman known to be mightily interested inthe new preacher's religion. Then, presently, along comes a manfrom somewheres in Illinois, en' he up an' spots this preacher asa famous Mormon proselyter. That riled Frank Erne as nothin' everbefore, an' from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. An' itended in Frank goin' to the meetin'-house where Milly waslistenin', en' before her en' everybody else he called thatpreacher--called him, well, almost as hard as Venters called Tullhere sometime back. An' Frank followed up that call with ahosswhippin', en' he drove the proselyter out of town.

　　"People noticed, so 'twas said, that Milly's sweet dispositionchanged. Some said it was because she would soon become a mother,en' others said she was pinin' after the new religion. An' therewas women who said right out that she was pinin' after theMormon. Anyway, one mornin' Frank rode in from one of his trips,to find Milly gone. He had no real near neighbors--livin' alittle out of town--but those who was nearest said a wagon hadgone by in the night, an' they though it stopped at her door.Well, tracks always tell, an' there was the wagon tracks an' hosstracks an' man tracks. The news spread like wildfire that Millyhad run off from her husband. Everybody but Frank believed it an'wasn't slow in tellin' why she run off. Mother had always hatedthat strange streak of Milly's, takin' up with the new religionas she had, an' she believed Milly ran off with the Mormon. Thathastened mother's death, an' she died unforgivin'. Father wasn'tthe kind to bow down under disgrace or misfortune but he hadsurpassin' love for Milly, an' the loss of her broke him.

　　"From the minute I heard of Milly's disappearance I neverbelieved she went off of her own free will. I knew Milly, an' Iknew she couldn't have done that. I stayed at home awhile, tryin'to make Frank Erne talk. But if he knowed anythin' then hewouldn't tell it. So I set out to find Milly. An' I tried to geton the trail of that proselyter. I knew if I ever struck a townhe'd visited that I'd get a trail. I knew, too, that nothin'short of hell would stop his proselytin'. An' I rode from town totown. I had a blind faith that somethin' was guidin' me. An' asthe weeks an' months went by I growed into a strange sort of aman, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of me. Two years afterthat, way over in a corner of Texas, I struck a town where my manhad been. He'd jest left. People said he came to that townwithout a woman. I back-trailed my man through Arkansas an'Mississippi, an' the old trail got hot again in Texas. I foundthe town where he first went after leavin' home. An' here I gottrack of Milly. I found a cabin where she had given birth to herbaby. There was no way to tell whether she'd been kept a prisoneror not. The feller who owned the place was a mean, silent sort ofa skunk, an' as I was leavin' I jest took a chance an' left mymark on him. Then I went home again.

　　"It was to find I hadn't any home, no more. Father had been deada year. Frank Erne still lived in the house where Milly had lefthim. I stayed with him awhile, an' I grew old watchin' him. Hisfarm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled,his house weathered till it wouldn't keep out rain nor wind. An'Frank set on the porch and whittled sticks, an' day by day wastedaway. There was times when he ranted about like a crazy man, butmostly he was always sittin' an' starin' with eyes that made aman curse. I figured Frank had a secret fear that I needed toknow. An' when I told him I'd trailed Milly for near three yearsan' had got trace of her, an' saw where she'd had her baby, Ithought he would drop dead at my feet. An' when he'd come roundmore natural-like he begged me to give up the trail. But hewouldn't explain. So I let him alone, an' watched him day en'night.

　　"An' I found there was one thing still precious to him, an' itwas a little drawer where he kept his papers. This was in theroom where he slept. An' it 'peered he seldom slept. But afterbein' patient I got the contents of that drawer an' found twoletters from Milly. One was a long letter written a few monthsafter her disappearance. She had been bound an' gagged an'dragged away from her home by three men, an' she namedthem--Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers to her. She wastaken to the little town where I found trace of her two yearsafter. But she didn't send the letter from that town. There shewas penned in. 'Peared that the proselytes, who had, of course,come on the scene, was not runnin' any risks of losin' her. Shewent on to say that for a time she was out of her head, an' whenshe got right again all that kept her alive was the baby. It wasa beautiful baby, she said, an' all she thought an' dreamed ofwas somehow to get baby back to its father, an' then she'dthankfully lay down and die. An' the letter ended abrupt, in themiddle of a sentence, en' it wasn't signed.

　　"The second letter was written more than two years after thefirst. It was from Salt Lake City. It simply said that Milly hadheard her brother was on her trail. She asked Frank to tell herbrother to give up the search because if he didn't she wouldsuffer in a way too horrible to tell. She didn't beg. She juststated a fact an' made the simple request. An' she ended thatletter by sayin' she would soon leave Salt Lake City with the manshe had come to love, en' would never be heard of again.

　　"I recognized Milly's handwritin', an' I recognized her way ofputtin' things. But that second letter told me of some greatchange in her. Ponderin' over it, I felt at last she'd eithercome to love that feller an' his religion, or some terrible fearmade her lie an' say so. I couldn't be sure which. But, ofcourse, I meant to find out. I'll say here, if I'd known Mormonsthen as I do now I'd left Milly to her fate. For mebbe she wasright about what she'd suffer if I kept on her trail. But I wasyoung an' wild them days. First I went to the town where she'dfirst been taken, an' I went to the place where she'd been kept.I got that skunk who owned the place, an' took him out in thewoods, an' made him tell all he knowed. That wasn't much as tolength, but it was pure hell's-fire in substance. This time Ileft him some incapacitated for any more skunk work short ofhell. Then I hit the trail for Utah.

　　"That was fourteen years ago. I saw the incomin' of most of theMormons. It was a wild country an' a wild time. I rode from townto town, village to village, ranch to ranch, camp to camp. Inever stayed long in one place. I never had but one idea. I neverrested. Four years went by, an' I knowed every trail in northernUtah. I kept on an' as time went by, an' I'd begun to grow old inmy search, I had firmer, blinder faith in whatever was guidin'me. Once I read about a feller who sailed the seven seas an'traveled the world, an' he had a story to tell, an' whenever heseen the man to whom he must tell that story he knowed him onsight. I was like that, only I had a question to ask. An' alwaysI knew the man of whom I must ask. So I never really lost thetrail, though for many years it was the dimmest trail everfollowed by any man.

　　"Then come a change in my luck. Along in Central Utah I roundedup Hurd, an' I whispered somethin' in his ear, an' watched hisface, an' then throwed a gun against his bowels. An' he died withhis teeth so tight shut I couldn't have pried them open with aknife. Slack an' Metzger that same year both heard me whisper thesame question, an' neither would they speak a word when they laydyin'. Long before I'd learned no man of this breed or class--orGod knows what--would give up any secrets! I had to see in aman's fear of death the connections with Milly Erne's fate. An'as the years passed at long intervals I would find such a man.

　　"So as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah myname preceded me, an' I had to meet a people prepared for me, an'ready with guns. They made me a gun-man. An' that suited me. Inall this time signs of the proselyter an' the giant with theblue-ice eyes an' the gold beard seemed to fade dimmer out of thetrail. Only twice in ten years did I find a trace of thatmysterious man who had visited the proselyter at my home village.What he had to do with Milly's fate was beyond all hope for me tolearn, unless my guidin' spirit led me to him! As for the otherman, I knew, as sure as I breathed en' the stars shone en' thewind blew, that I'd meet him some day.

　　"Eighteen years I've been on the trail. An' it led me to the lastlonely villages of the Utah border. Eighteen years!...I feelpretty old now. I was only twenty when I hit that trail. Well, asI told you, back here a ways a Gentile said Jane Withersteencould tell me about Milly Erne an' show me her grave!"

　　The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombreroround and round, and appeared to be counting the silver ornamentson the band. Jane, leaning toward him, sat as if petrified,listening intently, waiting to hear more. She could haveshrieked, but power of tongue and lips were denied her. She sawonly this sad, gray, passion-worn man, and she heard only thefaint rustling of the leaves.

　　"Well, I came to Cottonwoods," went on Lassiter, "an' you showedme Milly's grave. An' though your teeth have been shut tighter 'nthem of all the dead men lyin' back along that trail, jest thesame you told me the secret I've lived these eighteen years tohear! Jane, I said you'd tell me without ever me askin'. I didn'tneed to ask my question here. The day, you remember, when thatfat party throwed a gun on me in your court, an'--"

　　"Oh! Hush!" whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands.

　　"I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyterwho ruined Milly Erne."

　　For an instant Jane Withersteen's brain was a whirling chaos andshe recovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like onedrowning. And as if by a lightning stroke she sprang from herdull apathy into exquisite torture.

　　"It's a lie! Lassiter! No, no!" she moaned. "I swear--you'rewrong!"

　　"Stop! You'd perjure yourself! But I'll spare you that. You poorwoman! Still blind! Still faithful!...Listen. I know. Let thatsettle it. An' I give up my purpose!"

　　"What is it--you say?"

　　"I give up my purpose. I've come to see an' feel differently. Ican't help poor Milly. An' I've outgrowed revenge. I've come tosee I can be no judge for men. I can't kill a man jest for hate.Hate ain't the same with me since I loved you and little Fay."

　　"Lassiter! You mean you won't kill him?" Jane whispered.

　　"No."

　　"For my sake?"

　　"I reckon. I can't understand, but I'll respect yourfeelin's."

　　"Because you--oh, because you love me?...Eighteen years! You werethat terrible Lassiter! And now--because you love me?"

　　"That's it, Jane."

　　"Oh, you'll make me love you! How can I help but love you? Myheart must be stone. But--oh, Lassiter, wait, wait! Give me time.I'm not what I was. Once it was so easy to love. Now it's easy tohate. Wait! My faith in God--some God--still lives. By it I seehappier times for you, poor passion-swayed wanderer! For me--amiserable, broken woman. I loved your sister Milly. I will loveyou. I can't have fallen so low--I can't be so abandoned byGod--that I've no love left to give you. Wait! Let us forgetMilly's sad life. Ah, I knew it as no one else on earth! There'sone thing I shall tell you--if you are at my death-bed, but Ican't speak now."

　　"I reckon I don't want to hear no more," said Lassiter.

　　Jane leaned against him, as if some pent-up force had rent itsway out, she fell into a paroxysm of weeping. Lassiter held herin silent sympathy. By degrees she regained composure, and shewas rising, sensible of being relieved of a weighty burden, whena sudden start on Lassiter's part alarmed her.

　　"I heard hosses--hosses with muffled hoofs!" he said; and he gotup guardedly.

　　"Where's Fay?" asked Jane, hurriedly glancing round the shadyknoll. The bright-haired child, who had appeared to be close allthe time, was not in sight.

　　"Fay!" called Jane.

　　No answering shout of glee. No patter of flying feet. Jane sawLassiter stiffen.

　　"Fay--oh--Fay!" Jane almost screamed.

　　The leaves quivered and rustled; a lonesome cricket chirped inthe grass, a bee hummed by. The silence of the waning afternoonbreathed hateful portent. It terrified Jane. When had silencebeen so infernal?

　　"She's--only--strayed--out--of earshot," faltered Jane, lookingat Lassiter.

　　Pale, rigid as a statue, the rider stood, not in listening,searching posture, but in one of doomed certainty. Suddenly hegrasped Jane with an iron hand, and, turning his face from hergaze, he strode with her from the knoll.

　　"See--Fay played here last--a house of stones an' sticks....An'here's a corral of pebbles with leaves for hosses," saidLassiter, stridently, and pointed to the ground. "Back an' forthshe trailed here....See, she's buried somethin'--a deadgrasshopper--there's a tombstone... here she went, chasin' alizard--see the tiny streaked trail...she pulled bark off thiscottonwood...look in the dust of the path--the letters you taughther--she's drawn pictures of birds en' hosses an' people....Look,a cross! Oh, Jane, your cross!"

　　Lassiter dragged Jane on, and as if from a book read the meaningof little Fay's trail. All the way down the knoll, through theshrubbery, round and round a cottonwood, Fay's vagrant fancy leftrecords of her sweet musings and innocent play. Long had shelingered round a bird-nest to leave therein the gaudy wing of abutterfly. Long had she played beside the running stream sendingadrift vessels freighted with pebbly cargo. Then she had wanderedthrough the deep grass, her tiny feet scarcely turning a fragileblade, and she had dreamed beside some old faded flowers. Thusher steps led her into the broad lane. The little dimpledimprints of her bare feet showed clean-cut in the dust they wenta little way down the lane; and then, at a point where theystopped, the great tracks of a man led out from the shrubbery andreturned.