Riders of the Purple Sage [86]
now, right now. Aren't they fine, firm, white hands? Aren't they bloody now? Lassiter's blood! That's a queer thing to stain your beautiful hands. But if you could only see deeper you'd find a redder color of blood. Heart color, Jane!"
"Oh!...My friend!"
"No, Jane, I'm not one to quit when the game grows hot, no more than you. This game, though, is new to me, an' I don't know the moves yet, else I wouldn't have stepped in front of that bullet."
"Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you--to find him--and-- and kill him?"
"Well, I reckon I haven't any great hankerin' for that."
"Oh, the wonder of it!...I knew--I prayed--I trusted. Lassiter, I almost gave--all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God, and thank you, my friend....But, selfish woman that ] am, this is no great test. What's the life of one of those sneaking cowards to such a man as you? I think of your great hate toward him who--I think of your life's implacable purpose. Can it be--"
"Wait!...Listen!" he whispered. "I hear a hoss."
He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging his gun-sheaths round in front, he stepped into the alcove.
"It s a hoss--comin' fast," he added.
Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharp difference when the horse passed from the sage trail to the hard-packed ground of the grove. It became a ringing run--swift in its bell-like clatterings, yet singular in longer pause than usual between the hoofbeats of a horse.
"It's Wrangle!...It's Wrangle!" cried Jane Withersteen. "I'd know him from a million horses!"
Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Withersteen s calm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. Then he was pounding down the lane--thundering into the court--crashing his great iron-shod hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy and wild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining his flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leaped off, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped round Wrangle's head and neck. Janet's heart sank as she tried to recognize Venters in the rider. Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patched with pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs and feet--this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be Venters.
"Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So--so--so. You re home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water you'll remember."
In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangle to the hitching-rack and turned to the court.
"Oh, Bern!...You wild man!" she exclaimed.
"Jane--Jane, it's good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, it's Venters."
Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt the difference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn--yet how splendid! He had gone away a boy--he had returned a man. He appeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper-chested, more powerfully built. But was that only her fancy--he had always been a young giant--was the change one of spirit? He might have been absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grown like Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes--were they keener, more flashing than before?--met hers with clear, frank, warm regard, in which perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain.
"Look at me long as you like," he said, with a laugh. "I'm not much to look at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter, can brag. You're paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he wears a bloody bandage under his hat. That reminds me. Some one took a flying shot at me down in the sage. It made Wrangle run some....Well, perhaps you've more to tell me than
"Oh!...My friend!"
"No, Jane, I'm not one to quit when the game grows hot, no more than you. This game, though, is new to me, an' I don't know the moves yet, else I wouldn't have stepped in front of that bullet."
"Have you no desire to hunt the man who fired at you--to find him--and-- and kill him?"
"Well, I reckon I haven't any great hankerin' for that."
"Oh, the wonder of it!...I knew--I prayed--I trusted. Lassiter, I almost gave--all myself to soften you to Mormons. Thank God, and thank you, my friend....But, selfish woman that ] am, this is no great test. What's the life of one of those sneaking cowards to such a man as you? I think of your great hate toward him who--I think of your life's implacable purpose. Can it be--"
"Wait!...Listen!" he whispered. "I hear a hoss."
He rose noiselessly, with his ear to the breeze. Suddenly he pulled his sombrero down over his bandaged head and, swinging his gun-sheaths round in front, he stepped into the alcove.
"It s a hoss--comin' fast," he added.
Jane's listening ear soon caught a faint, rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs. It came from the sage. It gave her a thrill that she was at a loss to understand. The sound rose stronger, louder. Then came a clear, sharp difference when the horse passed from the sage trail to the hard-packed ground of the grove. It became a ringing run--swift in its bell-like clatterings, yet singular in longer pause than usual between the hoofbeats of a horse.
"It's Wrangle!...It's Wrangle!" cried Jane Withersteen. "I'd know him from a million horses!"
Excitement and thrilling expectancy flooded out all Jane Withersteen s calm. A tight band closed round her breast as she saw the giant sorrel flit in reddish-brown flashes across the openings in the green. Then he was pounding down the lane--thundering into the court--crashing his great iron-shod hoofs on the stone flags. Wrangle it was surely, but shaggy and wild-eyed, and sage-streaked, with dust-caked lather staining his flanks. He reared and crashed down and plunged. The rider leaped off, threw the bridle, and held hard on a lasso looped round Wrangle's head and neck. Janet's heart sank as she tried to recognize Venters in the rider. Something familiar struck her in the lofty stature in the sweep of powerful shoulders. But this bearded, longhaired, unkempt man, who wore ragged clothes patched with pieces of skin, and boots that showed bare legs and feet--this dusty, dark, and wild rider could not possibly be Venters.
"Whoa, Wrangle, old boy! Come down. Easy now. So--so--so. You re home, old boy, and presently you can have a drink of water you'll remember."
In the voice Jane knew the rider to be Venters. He tied Wrangle to the hitching-rack and turned to the court.
"Oh, Bern!...You wild man!" she exclaimed.
"Jane--Jane, it's good to see you! Hello, Lassiter! Yes, it's Venters."
Like rough iron his hard hand crushed Jane's. In it she felt the difference she saw in him. Wild, rugged, unshorn--yet how splendid! He had gone away a boy--he had returned a man. He appeared taller, wider of shoulder, deeper-chested, more powerfully built. But was that only her fancy--he had always been a young giant--was the change one of spirit? He might have been absent for years, proven by fire and steel, grown like Lassiter, strong and cool and sure. His eyes--were they keener, more flashing than before?--met hers with clear, frank, warm regard, in which perplexity was not, nor discontent, nor pain.
"Look at me long as you like," he said, with a laugh. "I'm not much to look at. And, Jane, neither you nor Lassiter, can brag. You're paler than I ever saw you. Lassiter, here, he wears a bloody bandage under his hat. That reminds me. Some one took a flying shot at me down in the sage. It made Wrangle run some....Well, perhaps you've more to tell me than