Essential Novelists - Zane Grey. Zane Grey

not so much against that. You can give the child Mormon teaching,” said Tull. “But I'm sick of seeing this fellow Venters hang around you. I'm going to put a stop to it. You've so much love to throw away on these beggars of Gentiles that I've an idea you might love Venters.”

      Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not be brooked and with the passion of a man in whom jealousy had kindled a consuming fire.

      “Maybe I do love him,” said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir her heart. “I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow! he certainly needs some one to love him.”

      “This'll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that,” returned Tull, grimly.

      Tull's men appeared under the cottonwoods and led a young man out into the lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood tall and straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the muscles of his bound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent on Tull.

      For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters's real spirit. She wondered if she would love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooled to the sobering sense of the issue at stake.

      “Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?” asked Tull, tensely.

      “Why?” rejoined the rider.

      “Because I order it.”

      Venters laughed in cool disdain.

      The red leaped to Tull's dark cheek.

      “If you don't go it means your ruin,” he said, sharply.

      “Ruin!” exclaimed Venters, passionately. “Haven't you already ruined me? What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses and cattle of my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when I come into the village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. You trail me as if I were a rustler. I've no more to lose—except my life.”

      “Will you leave Utah?”

      “Oh! I know,” went on Venters, tauntingly, “it galls you, the idea of beautiful Jane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You want her all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You have use for her—and Withersteen House and Amber Spring and seven thousand head of cattle!”

      Tull's hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of his neck.

      “Once more. Will you go?”

      “NO!”

      “Then I'll have you whipped within an inch of your life,” replied Tull, harshly. “I'll turn you out in the sage. And if you ever come back you'll get worse.”

      Venters's agitated face grew coldly set and the bronze changed

      Jane impulsively stepped forward. “Oh! Elder Tull!” she cried. “You won't do that!”

      Tull lifted a shaking finger toward her.

      “That'll do from you. Understand, you'll not be allowed to hold this boy to a friendship that's offensive to your Bishop. Jane Withersteen, your father left you wealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven't yet come to see the place of Mormon women. We've reasoned with you, borne with you. We've patiently waited. We've let you have your fling, which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven't come to your senses. Now, once for all, you can't have any further friendship with Venters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leave Utah!”

      “Oh! Don't whip him! It would be dastardly!” implored Jane, with slow certainty of her failing courage.

      Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she had feigned a boldness which she did not possess. He loomed up now in different guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysterious despotism she had known from childhood—the power of her creed.

      “Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go out in the sage?” asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was more than inhuman, yet seemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam of righteousness.

      “I'll take it here—if I must,” said Venters. “But by God!—Tull you'd better kill me outright. That'll be a dear whipping for you and your praying Mormons. You'll make me another Lassiter!”

      The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull's face, might have been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty. But there was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personal and sinister, a deep of himself, an engulfing abyss. As his religious mood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate be merciless.

      “Elder, I—I repent my words,” Jane faltered. The religion in her, the long habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke in her voice. “Spare the boy!” she whispered.

      “You can't save him now,” replied Tull stridently.

      Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth, when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, a hardening of gentle forces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all that had been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something new and unintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes. Jane Withersteen loved that wild and purple wilderness. In times of sorrow it had been her strength, in happiness its beauty was her continual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, “Whence cometh my help!” It was a prayer, as if forth from those lonely purple reaches and walls of red and clefts of blue might ride a fearless man, neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraining hand in the faces of her ruthless people.

      The restless movements of Tull's men suddenly quieted down. Then followed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharp exclamation.

      “Look!” said one, pointing to the west.

      “A rider!”

      Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against the western sky, coming riding out of the sage. He had ridden down from the left, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till close at hand. An answer to her prayer!

      “Do you know him? Does any one know him?” questioned Tull, hurriedly.

      His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads.

      “He's come from far,” said one.

      “Thet's a fine hoss,” said another.

      “A strange rider.”

      “Huh! he wears black leather,” added a fourth.

      With a wave of his hand, enjoining silence, Tull stepped forward in such a way that he concealed Venters.

      The rider reined in his mount, and with a lithe forward-slipping action appeared to reach the ground in one long step. It was a peculiar movement in its quickness and inasmuch that while performing it the rider did not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group before him.

      “Look!” hoarsely whispered one of Tull's companions. “He packs two black-butted guns—low down—they're hard to see—black akin them black chaps.”

      “A gun-man!” whispered another. “Fellers, careful now about movin' your hands.”

      The stranger's slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner of gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking; yet, as well, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances with men.

      “Hello, stranger!” called Tull. No welcome was in this greeting only a gruff curiosity.

      The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tull and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to relax.

      “Evenin', ma'am,” he said to Jane, and removed his sombrero with quaint grace.

      Jane, greeting him,