3 books to know Western. Zane Grey

me ride for you—show everybody what I mean?”

      “Blake, it makes me happy to hear you. How my riders hurt me when they quit!” Jane felt the hot tears well to her eyes and splash down upon her hands. “I thought so much of them—tried so hard to be good to them. And not one was true. You've made it easy to forgive. Perhaps many of them really feel as you do, but dare not return to me. Still, Blake, I hesitate to take you back. Yet I want you so much.”

      “Do it, then. If you're going to make your life a lesson to Mormon women, let me make mine a lesson to the men. Right is right. I believe in you, and here's my life to prove it.”

      “You hint it may mean your life!” said Jane, breathless and low.

      “We won't speak of that. I want to come back. I want to do what every rider aches in his secret heart to do for you.... Miss Withersteen, I hoped it'd not be necessary to tell you that my mother on her deathbed told me to have courage. She knew how the thing galled me—she told me to come back.... Will you take me?”

      “God bless you, Blake! Yes, I'll take you back. And will you—will you accept gold from me?”

      “Miss Withersteen!”

      “I just gave Judkins a bag of gold. I'll give you one. If you will not take it you must not come back. You might ride for me a few months—weeks—days till the storm breaks. Then you'd have nothing, and be in disgrace with your people. We'll forearm you against poverty, and me against endless regret. I'll give you gold which you can hide—till some future time.”

      “Well, if it pleases you,” replied Blake. “But you know I never thought of pay. Now, Miss Withersteen, one thing more. I want to see this man Lassiter. Is he here?”

      “Yes, but, Blake—what—Need you see him? Why?” asked Jane, instantly worried. “I can speak to him—tell him about you.”

      “That won't do. I want to—I've got to tell him myself. Where is he?”

      “Lassiter is with Mrs. Larkin. She is ill. I'll call him,” answered Jane, and going to the door she softly called for the rider. A faint, musical jingle preceded his step—then his tall form crossed the threshold.

      “Lassiter, here's Blake, an old rider of mine. He has come back to me and he wishes to speak to you.”

      Blake's brown face turned exceedingly pale.

      “Yes, I had to speak to you,” he said, swiftly. “My name's Blake. I'm a Mormon and a rider. Lately I quit Miss Withersteen. I've come to beg her to take me back. Now I don't know you; but I know—what you are. So I've this to say to your face. It would never occur to this woman to imagine—let alone suspect me to be a spy. She couldn't think it might just be a low plot to come here and shoot you in the back. Jane Withersteen hasn't that kind of a mind.... Well, I've not come for that. I want to help her—to pull a bridle along with Judkins and—and you. The thing is—do you believe me?”

      “I reckon I do,” replied Lassiter. How this slow, cool speech contrasted with Blake's hot, impulsive words! “You might have saved some of your breath. See here, Blake, cinch this in your mind. Lassiter has met some square Mormons! An' mebbe—”

      “Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at once and fetch me a report of my horses.”

      “Miss Withersteen!... You mean the big drove—down in the sage-cleared fields?”

      “Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, except the blooded stock I keep here.”

      “Haven't you heard—then?”

      “Heard? No! What's happened to them?”

      “They're gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself.”

      “Lassiter—did you know?” asked Jane, whirling to him.

      “I reckon so.... But what was the use to tell you?”

      It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such a blow.

      “My horses! My horses! What's become of them?”

      “Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring.... And I trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass.”

      “My red herd's gone! My horses gone! The white herd will go next. I can stand that. But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like parting with my own flesh and blood. Lassiter—Blake—am I in danger of losing my racers?”

      “A rustler—or—or anybody stealin' hosses of yours would most of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter. His evasive reply was affirmative enough. The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence.

      “Oh! Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

      “Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake. “One more rider won't be any great help to Judkins. But I might hold Black Star and Night, if you put such store on their value.”

      “Value! Blake, I love my racers. Besides, there's another reason why I mustn't lose them. You go to the stables. Go with Jerd every day when he runs the horses, and don't let them out of your sight. If you would please me—win my gratitude, guard my black racers.”

      When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.

      “'Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses. Now I ain't gainsayin' that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I ever seen. But Bells can beat Night, an' run neck en' neck with Black Star.”

      “Lassiter, don't tease me now. I'm miserable—sick. Bells is fast, but he can't stay with the blacks, and you know it. Only Wrangle can do that.”

      “I'll bet that big raw-boned brute can more'n show his heels to your black racers. Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wrangle could kill your favorites.”

      “No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently. “Lassiter, why do you say that so often? I know you've teased me at times, and I believe it's only kindness. You're always trying to keep my mind off worry. But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?”

      “I reckon so.” Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting the silver pieces on the band. “Well, Jane, I've sort of read a little that's passin' in your mind.”

      “You think I might fly from my home—from Cottonwoods—from the Utah border?”

      “I reckon. An' if you ever do an' get away with the blacks I wouldn't like to see Wrangle left here on the sage. Wrangle could catch you. I know Venters had him. But you can never tell. Mebbe he hasn't got him now.... Besides—things are happenin', an' somethin' of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”

      “God knows you're right!... Poor Bern, how long he's gone! In my trouble I've been forgetting him. But, Lassiter, I've little fear for him. I've heard my riders say he's as keen as a wolf.... As to your reading my thoughts—well, your suggestion makes an actual thought of what was only one of my dreams. I believe I dreamed of flying from this wild borderland, Lassiter. I've strange dreams. I'm not always practical and thinking of my many duties, as you said once. For instance—if I dared—if I dared I'd ask you to saddle the blacks and ride away with me—and hide me.”

      “Jane!”

      The rider's sunburnt face turned white. A few times Jane had seen Lassiter's cool calm broken—when he had met little Fay, when he had learned how and why he had come to love both child and mistress, when he had stood beside Milly Erne's grave. But one and all they could not be considered in the light of his present agitation.