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Deception Pass








From: Riders Of The Purple Sage

The rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flecked horse in

the sudden stop. He was a giant form, and with fearless eyes.



"Judkins, you're all bloody!" cried Jane, in affright. "Oh,

you've been shot!"



"Nothin' much Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the shoulder. I'm

some wet an' the hoss's been throwin' lather, so all this ain't

blood."



"What's up?" queried Venters, sharply.



"Rustlers sloped off with the red herd."



"Where are my riders?" demanded Jane.



"Miss Withersteen, I was alone all night with the herd. At

daylight this mornin' the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot

at me on sight. They chased me hard an' far, burnin' powder all

the time, but I got away."



"Jud, they meant to kill you," declared Venters.



"Now I wonder," returned Judkins. "They wanted me bad. An' it

ain't regular for rustlers to waste time chasin' one rider."



"Thank heaven you got away," said Jane. "But my riders--where are

they?"



"I don't know. The night-riders weren't there last night when I

rode down, en' this mornin' I met no day-riders."



"Judkins! Bern, they've been set upon--killed by Oldring's men!"



"I don't think so," replied Venters, decidedly. "Jane, your

riders haven't gone out in the sage."



"Bern, what do you mean?" Jane Withersteen turned deathly pale.



"You remember what I said about the unseen hand?"



"Oh!...Impossible!"



"I hope so. But I fear--" Venters finished, with a shake of his

head.



"Bern, you're bitter; but that's only natural. We'll wait to see

what's happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house with me.

Your wound must be attended to."



"Jane, I'll find out where Oldring drives the herd," vowed

Venters.



"No, no! Bern, don't risk it now--when the rustlers are in such

shooting mood."



"I'm going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?"



"Twenty-five hundred head."



"Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? Why, a

hundred head is a big steal. I've got to find out."



"Don't go," implored Jane.



"Bern, you want a hoss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, if it's

not too bold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don't

let him go."



"Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can't be caught.

Which one--Black Star--Night?"



"Jane, I won't take either," said Venters, emphatically. "I

wouldn't risk losing one of your favorites."



"Wrangle, then?"



"Thet's the hoss," replied Judkins. "Wrangle can outrun Black

Star an' Night. You'd never believe it, Miss Withersteen, but I

know. Wrangle's the biggest en' fastest hoss on the sage."



"Oh no, Wrangle can't beat Black Star. But, Bern, take Wrangle if

you will go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful

careful.... God speed you."



She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane

with the rider.



Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The

boy came running. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried

fruits, to be packed in saddlebags. His own horse he turned loose

into the nearest corral. Then he went for Wrangle. The giant

sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite of

amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard

he broke from Venters, and plunged about with ears laid back.

Venters had to rope him, and then he kicked down a section of

fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down and fought the rope.

Jerd returned to lend a hand.



"Wrangle don't git enough work," said Jerd, as the big saddle

went on. "He's unruly when he's corralled, an' wants to run. Wait

till he smells the sage!"



"Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him

but once. Run? Say, he's swift as wind!"



When Venters's boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, giving

him the rider's flying mount. The swing of this fiery horse

recalled to Venters days that were not really long past, when he

rode into the sage as the leader of Jane Withersteen's riders.

Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rein. He galloped out of the lane,

down the shady border of the grove, and hauled up at the

watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit. Venters

got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank. The dogs,

Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink. Then Venters

remounted and turned Wrangle toward the sage.



A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping

glance told Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor

steer within the limit of his vision, unless they were lying down

in the sage. Ring loped in the lead and Whitie loped in the rear.

Wrangle settled gradually into an easy swinging canter, and

Venters's thoughts, now that the rush and flurry of the start

were past, and the long miles stretched before him, reverted to a

calm reckoning of late singular coincidences.



There was the night ride of Tull's, which, viewed in the light of

subsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; Oldring

and his Masked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses; the

report that Tull had ridden out that morning with his man Jerry

on the trail to Glaze, the strange disappearance of Jane

Withersteen's riders, the unusually determined attempt to kill

the one Gentile still in her employ, an intention frustrated, no

doubt, only by Judkin's magnificent riding of her racer, and

lastly the driving of the red herd. These events, to Venters's

color of mind, had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane's

accusation of bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancor

in judging Tull. But it was bitter knowledge that made him see

the truth. He had felt the shadow of an unseen hand; he had

watched till he saw its dim outline, and then he had traced it to

a man's hate, to the rivalry of a Mormon Elder, to the power of a

Bishop, to the long, far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. That

unseen hand had made its first move against Jane Withersteen. Her

riders had been called in, leaving her without help to drive

seven thousand head of cattle. But to Venters it seemed

extraordinary that the power which had called in these riders had

left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers and harried by

wolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate greed;

they were one and the same.



"What can Oldring do with twenty-five hundred head of cattle?"

muttered Venters. "Is he a Mormon? Did he meet Tull last night?

It looks like a black plot to me. But Tull and his churchmen

wouldn't ruin Jane Withersteen unless the Church was to profit by

that ruin. Where does Oldring come in? I'm going to find out

about these things."



Wrangle did the twenty-five miles in three hours and walked

little of the way. When he had gotten warmed up he had been

allowed to choose his own gait. The afternoon had well advanced

when Venters struck the trail of the red herd and found where it

had grazed the night before. Then Venters rested the horse and

used his eyes. Near at hand were a cow and a calf and several

yearlings, and farther out in the sage some straggling steers. He

caught a glimpse of coyotes skulking near the cattle. The slow

sweeping gaze of the rider failed to find other living things

within the field of sight. The sage about him was breast-high to

his horse, oversweet with its warm, fragrant breath, gray where

it waved to the light, darker where the wind left it still, and

beyond the wonderful haze-purple lent by distance. Far across

that wide waste began the slow lift of uplands through which

Deception Pass cut its tortuous many-canyoned way.



Venters raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad

cattle trail. The crushed sage resembled the path of a monster

snake. In a few miles of travel he passed several cows and calves

that had escaped the drive. Then he stood on the last high bench

of the slope with the floor of the valley beneath. The opening of

the canyon showed in a break of the sage, and the cattle trail

paralleled it as far as he could see. That trail led to an

undiscovered point where Oldring drove cattle into the pass, and

many a rider who had followed it had never returned. Venters

satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated from their

usual course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle

trail and made for the head of the pass.



The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, where

it changed from white to gold and rested like a huge ball about

to roll on its golden shadows down the slope. Venters watched the

lengthening of the rays and bars, and marveled at his own

league-long shadow. The sun sank. There was instant shading of

brightness about him, and he saw a kind of cold purple bloom

creep ahead of him to cross the canyon, to mount the opposite

slope and chase and darken and bury the last golden flare of

sunlight.



Venters rode into a trail that he always took to get down into

the canyon. He dismounted and found no tracks but his own made

days previous. Nevertheless he sent the dog Ring ahead and

waited. In a little while Ring returned. Whereupon Venters led

his horse on to the break in the ground.



The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable natural

phenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of sage,

uplands insulated by gigantic red walls, and deep canyons of

mysterious source and outlet. Here the valley floor was level,

and here opened a narrow chasm, a ragged vent in yellow walls of

stone. The trail down the five hundred feet of sheer depth always

tested Venters's nerve. It was bad going for even a burro. But

Wrangle, as Venters led him, snorted defiance or disgust rather

than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on the jump, lifted his

ponderous iron-shod fore hoofs and crashed down over the first

rough step. Venters warmed to greater admiration of the sorrel;

and, giving him a loose bridle, he stepped down foot by foot.

Oftentimes the stones and shale started by Wrangle buried Venters

to his knees; again he was hard put to it to dodge a rolling

boulder, there were times when he could not see Wrangle for dust,

and once he and the horse rode a sliding shelf of yellow,

weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be no stops,

and, therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not

take long in the descent.



Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a sudden

assurance in the success of his enterprise. For at first it had

been a reckless determination to achieve something at any cost,

and now it resolved itself into an adventure worthy of all his

reason and cunning, and keenness of eye and ear.



Pinyon pines clustered in little clumps along the level floor of

the pass. Twilight had gathered under the walls. Venters rode

into the trail and up the canyon. Gradually the trees and caves

and objects low down turned black, and this blackness moved up

the walls till night enfolded the pass, while day still lingered

above. The sky darkened; and stars began to show, at first pale

and then bright. Sharp notches of the rim-wall, biting like teeth

into the blue, were landmarks by which Venters knew where his

camping site lay. He had to feel his way through a thicket of

slender oaks to a spring where he watered Wrangle and drank

himself. Here he unsaddled and turned Wrangle loose, having no

fear that the horse would leave the thick, cool grass adjacent to

the spring. Next he satisfied his own hunger, fed Ring and Whitie

and, with them curled beside him, composed himself to await

sleep.



There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these

Utah uplands had been satisfying to Venters. But that was before

the oppression of enemies had made the change in his mind. As a

rider guarding the herd he had never thought of the night's

wildness and loneliness; as an outcast, now when the full silence

set in, and the deep darkness, and trains of radiant stars shone

cold and calm, he lay with an ache in his heart. For a year he

had lived as a black fox, driven from his kind. He longed for the

sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. In the daytime there was

riding from place to place, and the gun practice to which

something drove him, and other tasks that at least necessitated

action, at night, before he won sleep, there was strife in his

soul. He yearned to leave the endless sage slopes, the wilderness

of canyons, and it was in the lonely night that this yearning

grew unbearable. It was then that he reached forth to feel Ring

or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love and companionship

of two dogs.



On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old

habit of sad thought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it

evolved a conviction that his useless life had undergone a subtle

change. He had sensed it first when Wrangle swung him up to the

high saddle, he knew it now when he lay in the gateway of

Deception Pass. He had no thrill of adventure, rather a gloomy

perception of great hazard, perhaps death. He meant to find

Oldring's retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but none that

could catch Wrangle. Venters knew no rustler could creep upon him

at night when Ring and Whitie guarded his hiding-place. For the

rest, he had eyes and ears, and a long rifle and an unerring aim,

which he meant to use. Strangely his foreshadowing of change did

not hold a thought of the killing of Tull. It related only to

what was to happen to him in Deception Pass; and he could no more

lift the veil of that mystery than tell where the trails led to

in that unexplored canyon. Moreover, he did not care. And at

length, tired out by stress of thought, he fell asleep.



When his eyes unclosed, day had come again, and he saw the rim of

the opposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments

sufficed for the morning's simple camp duties. Near at hand he

found Wrangle, and to his surprise the horse came to him. Wrangle

was one of the horses that left his viciousness in the home

corral. What he wanted was to be free of mules and burros and

steers, to roll in dust-patches, and then to run down the wide,

open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse and sleep in the

cool wet grass of a springhole. Jerd knew the sorrel when he said

of him, "Wait till he smells the sage!"



Venters saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and, leaping

astride, rode up the canyon, with Ring and Whitie trotting

behind. An old grass-grown trail followed the course of a shallow

wash where flowed a thin stream of water. The canyon was a

hundred rods wide, its yellow walls were perpendicular; it had

abundant sage and a scant growth of oak and pinon. For five miles

it held to a comparatively straight bearing, and then began a

heightening of rugged walls and a deepening of the floor. Beyond

this point of sudden change in the character of the canyon

Venters had never explored, and here was the real door to the

intricacies of Deception Pass.



He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and

then proceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The

canyon assumed proportions that dwarfed those of its first ten

miles. Venters rode on and on, not losing in the interest of his

wide surroundings any of his caution or keen search for tracks or

sight of living thing. If there ever had been a trail here, he

could not find it. He rode through sage and clumps of pinon trees

and grassy plots where long-petaled purple lilies bloomed. He

rode through a dark constriction of the pass no wider than the

lane in the grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into a great

amphitheater into which jutted huge towering corners of a

confluences of intersecting canyons.



Venters sat his horse, and, with a rider's eye, studied this wild

cross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided by the

course of running water. If it had not been for the main stream

of water flowing north he would never have been able to tell

which of those many openings was a continuation of the pass. In

crossing this amphitheater he went by the mouths of five canyons,

fording little streams that flowed into the larger one. Gaining

the outlet which he took to be the pass, he rode on again under

over hanging walls. One side was dark in shade, the other light

in sun. This narrow passageway turned and twisted and opened into

a valley that amazed Venters.



Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the

higher levels. The valley was miles long, several wide, and

inclosed by unscalable walls. But it was the background of this

valley that so forcibly struck him. Across the sage-flat rose a

strange up-flinging of yellow rocks. He could not tell which were

close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of stone, like

mountain waves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and

towers.



In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when

he had proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing

white tails of a herd of running antelope. He rode along the edge

of the stream which wound toward the western end of the slowly

looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated out of sight

behind the nearer protection. To Venters the valley appeared to

have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone that had

hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the

stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Venters quit the

dark slit which baffled further search in that direction, and

rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. It

was not long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle

readily climbed up.



All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed rock.

Not a tuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull

rust-yellow. He saw where, to the right, this uneven flow of

stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward, from the hollow that lay

at his feet, mounted a gradual slow-swelling slope to a great

height topped by leaning, cracked, and ruined crags. Not for some

time did he grasp the wonder of that acclivity. It was no less

than a mountain-side, glistening in the sun like polished

granite, with cedar-trees springing as if by magic out of the

denuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale, and

rains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope its

beautiful lines broke to meet the vertical rim-wall, to lose its

grace in a different order and color of rock, a stained yellow

cliff of cracks and caves and seamed crags. And straight before

Venters was a scene less striking but more significant to his

keen survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hummocky rock began

the valley of sage, and the mouths of canyons, one of which

surely was another gateway into the pass.





He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, he

commenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not

successful and concluded the water dropped into an underground

passage. Then he returned to where he had left Wrangle, and led

him down off the stone to the sage. It was a short ride to the

opening canyons. There was no reason for a choice of which one to

enter. The one he rode into was a clear, sharp shaft in yellow

stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderful wind-worn caves low

down and high above buttressed and turreted ramparts. Farther on

Venters came into a region where deep indentations marked the

line of canyon walls. These were huge, cove-like blind pockets

extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth of

underbrush and trees.



Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had

hoped, he found abundant grass. He had to bend the oak saplings

to get his horse through. Deciding to make this a hiding-place if

he could find water, he worked back to the limit of the shelving

walls. In a little cluster of silver spruces he found a spring.

This inclosed nook seemed an ideal place to leave his horse and

to camp at night, and from which to make stealthy trips on foot.

The thick grass hid his trail; the dense growth of oaks in the

opening would serve as a barrier to keep Wrangle in, if, indeed,

the luxuriant browse would not suffice for that. So Venters,

leaving Whitie with the horse, called Ring to his side, and,

rifle in hand, worked his way out to the open. A careful

photographing in mind of the formation of the bold outlines of

rimrock assured him he would be able to return to his retreat

even in the dark.



Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canyon, and

among these Venters threaded his way with the step of an Indian.

At intervals he put his hand on the dog and stopped to listen.

There was a drowsy hum of insects, but no other sound disturbed

the warm midday stillness. Venters saw ahead a turn, more abrupt

than any yet. Warily he rounded this corner, once again to halt

bewildered.



The canyon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and gray

growths. It was the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, at

regular distances, like spokes, ran the outgoing canyons. Here a

dull red color predominated over the fading yellow. The corners

of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled, to taper into towers

and serrated peaks and pinnacled domes.



Venters pushed on more heedfully than ever. Toward the center of

this circle the sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart He was

about to sheer off to the right, where thickets and jumbles of

fallen rock would afford him cover, when he ran right upon a

broad cattle trail. Like a road it was, more than a trail, and

the cattle tracks were fresh. What surprised him more, they were

wet! He pondered over this feature. It had not rained. The only

solution to this puzzle was that the cattle had been driven

through water, and water deep enough to wet their legs.



Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and looked

over the sage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding across

the oval. He sank down, startled and trembling. "Rustlers!" he

muttered. Hurriedly he glanced about for a place to hide. Near at

hand there was nothing but sage-brush. He dared not risk crossing

the open patches to reach the rocks. Again he peeped over the

sage. The rustlers--four--five--seven--eight in all, were

approaching, but not directly in line with him. That was relief

for a cold deadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his

veins. He crouched down with bated breath and held the bristling

dog.



He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse

laughter of men, and then voices gradually dying away. Long

moments passed. Then he rose. The rustlers were riding into a

canyon. Their horses were tired, and they had several pack

animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters doubted that

they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Olding's band

had split. Venters watched these horsemen disappear under a bold

canyon wall.



The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval.

Venters kept a steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there

were more, to see from what canyon they rode. A quarter of an

hour went by. Reward for his vigilance came when he descried

three more mounted men, far over to the north. But out of what

canyon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the

three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner where

the others had gone.



"Up that canyon!" exclaimed Venters. "Oldring's den! I've found


it!"



A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks

all pointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of the

canyon into which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the

cattle had been driven out of it across the oval. There were no

tracks pointing the other way. It had been in his mind that

Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous, and not

from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and

where did it lead? Venters knew he wasted time in pondering the

question, but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. For

many years Oldring's mysterious entrance and exit to Deception

Pass had been all-absorbing topics to sage-riders.



All at once the dog put an end to Venters's pondering. Ring

sniffed the air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and

then growled. Venters wheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred

yards, coming straight at him. One, lagging behind the other, was

Oldring's Masked Rider.



Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage-brush.

But, guarded as his action was, the first horse detected it. He

stopped short, snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler bent

forward, as if keenly peering ahead. Then, with a swift sweep, he

jerked a gun from its sheath and fired.



The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of wood

struck Venters, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in

one leap. Like a flash the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level

and he shot once--twice.



The foremost rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from his

saddle, to fall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse

snorted wildly and plunged away, dragging the rustler through the

sage.



The Masked Rider huddled over his pommel slowly swaying to one

side, and then, with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the

saddle.





Next: The Masked Rider

Previous: Amber Spring



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