Silver Spruce And Aspens
From: Riders Of The Purple Sage
The rest of that night seemed to Venters only a few moments of
starlight, a dark overcasting of sky, an hour or so of gray
gloom, and then the lighting of dawn.
When he had bestirred himself, feeding the hungry dogs and
breaking his long fast, and had repacked his saddle-bags, it was
clear daylight, though the sun had not tipped the yellow wall in
the east. He concluded to make the climb and descent into
Surprise Valley in one trip. To that end he tied his blanket upon
Ring and gave Whitie the extra lasso and the rabbit to carry.
Then, with the rifle and saddle-bags slung upon his back, he took
up the girl. She did not awaken from heavy slumber.
That climb up under the rugged, menacing brows of the broken
cliffs, in the face of a grim, leaning boulder that seemed to be
weary of its age-long wavering, was a tax on strength and nerve
that Venters felt equally with something sweet and strangely
exulting in its accomplishment. He did not pause until he gained
the narrow divide and there he rested. Balancing Rock loomed
huge, cold in the gray light of dawn, a thing without life, yet
it spoke silently to Venters: "I am waiting to plunge down, to
shatter and crash, roar and boom, to bury your trail, and close
forever the outlet to Deception Pass!"
On the descent of the other side Venters had easy going, but was
somewhat concerned because Whitie appeared to have succumbed to
temptation, and while carrying the rabbit was also chewing on it.
And Ring evidently regarded this as an injury to himself,
especially as he had carried the heavier load. Presently he
snapped at one end of the rabbit and refused to let go. But his
action prevented Whitie from further misdoing, and then the two
dogs pattered down, carrying the rabbit between them.
Venters turned out of the gorge, and suddenly paused stock-still,
astounded at the scene before him. The curve of the great stone
bridge had caught the sunrise, and through the magnificent arch
burst a glorious stream of gold that shone with a long slant down
into the center of Surprise Valley. Only through the arch did any
sunlight pass, so that all the rest of the valley lay still
asleep, dark green, mysterious, shadowy, merging its level into
walls as misty and soft as morning clouds.
Venters then descended, passing through the arch, looking up at
its tremendous height and sweep. It spanned the opening to
Surprise Valley, stretching in almost perfect curve from rim to
rim. Even in his hurry and concern Venters could not but feel its
majesty, and the thought came to him that the cliff-dwellers must
have regarded it as an object of worship.
Down, down, down Venters strode, more and more feeling the weight
of his burden as he descended, and still the valley lay below
him. As all other canyons and coves and valleys had deceived him,
so had this deep, nestling oval. At length he passed beyond the
slope of weathered stone that spread fan-shape from the arch, and
encountered a grassy terrace running to the right and about on a
level with the tips of the oaks and cottonwoods below. Scattered
here and there upon this shelf were clumps of aspens, and he
walked through them into a glade that surpassed in beauty and
adaptability for a wild home, any place he had ever seen. Silver
spruces bordered the base of a precipitous wall that rose
loftily. Caves indented its surface, and there were no detached
ledges or weathered sections that might dislodge a stone. The
level ground, beyond the spruces, dropped down into a little
ravine. This was one dense line of slender aspens from which came
the low splashing of water. And the terrace, lying open to the
west, afforded unobstructed view of the valley of green treetops.
For his camp Venters chose a shady, grassy plot between the
silver spruces and the cliff. Here, in the stone wall, had been
wonderfully carved by wind or washed by water several deep caves
above the level of the terrace. They were clean, dry, roomy.
He cut spruce boughs and made a bed in the largest cave and laid
the girl there. The first intimation that he had of her being
aroused from sleep or lethargy was a low call for water.
He hurried down into the ravine with his canteen. It was a
shallow, grass-green place with aspens growing up everywhere. To
his delight he found a tiny brook of swift-running water. Its
faint tinge of amber reminded him of the spring at Cottonwoods,
and the thought gave him a little shock. The water was so cold it
made his fingers tingle as he dipped the canteen. Having returned
to the cave, he was glad to see the girl drink thirstily. This
time he noted that she could raise her head slightly without his
"You were thirsty," he said. "It's good water. I've found a fine
place. Tell me--how do you feel?"
"There's pain--here," she replied, and moved her hand to her left
"Why, that's strange! Your wounds are on your right side. I
believe you're hungry. Is the pain a kind of dull ache--a
"Then it's hunger." Venters laughed, and suddenly caught himself
with a quick breath and felt again the little shock. When had he
laughed? "It's hunger," he went on. "I've had that gnaw many a
time. I've got it now. But you mustn't eat. You can have all the
water you want, but no food just yet."
"No, people don't starve easily. I've discovered that. You must
lie perfectly still and rest and sleep--for days."
"My hands--are dirty; my face feels--so hot and sticky; my boots
hurt." It was her longest speech as yet, and it trailed off in a
"Well, I'm a fine nurse!"
It annoyed him that he had never thought of these things. But
then, awaiting her death and thinking of her comfort were vastly
different matters. He unwrapped the blanket which covered her.
What a slender girl she was! No wonder he had been able to carry
her miles and pack her up that slippery ladder of stone. Her
boots were of soft, fine leather, reaching clear to her knees. He
recognized the make as one of a boot- maker in Sterling. Her
spurs, that he had stupidly neglected to remove, consisted of
silver frames and gold chains, and the rowels, large as silver
dollars, were fancifully engraved. The boots slipped off rather
hard. She wore heavy woollen rider's stockings, half length, and
these were pulled up over the ends of her short trousers. Venters
took off the stockings to note her little feet were red and
swollen. He bathed them. Then he removed his scarf and bathed her
face and hands.
"I must see your wounds now," he said, gently.
She made no reply, but watched him steadily as he opened her
blouse and untied the bandage. His strong fingers trembled a
little as he removed it. If the wounds had reopened! A chill
struck him as he saw the angry red bullet-mark, and a tiny stream
of blood winding from it down her white breast. Very carefully he
lifted her to see that the wound in her back had closed
perfectly. Then he washed the blood from her breast, bathed the
wound, and left it unbandaged, open to the air.
Her eyes thanked him.
"Listen," he said, earnestly. "I've had some wounds, and I've
seen many. I know a little about them. The hole in your back has
closed. If you lie still three days the one in your breast will
close and you'll be safe. The danger from hemorrhage will be
He had spoken with earnest sincerity, almost eagerness.
"Why--do you--want me--to get well?" she asked, wonderingly.
The simple question seemed unanswerable except on grounds of
humanity. But the circumstances under which he had shot this
strange girl, the shock and realization, the waiting for death,
the hope, had resulted in a condition of mind wherein Venters
wanted her to live more than he had ever wanted anything. Yet he
could not tell why. He believed the killing of the rustler and
the subsequent excitement had disturbed him. For how else could
he explain the throbbing of his brain, the heat of his blood, the
undefined sense of full hours, charged, vibrant with pulsating
mystery where once they had dragged in loneliness?
"I shot you," he said, slowly, "and I want you to get well so I
shall not have killed a woman. But--for your own sake, too--"
A terrible bitterness darkened her eyes, and her lips quivered.
"Hush," said Venters. "You've talked too much already."
In her unutterable bitterness he saw a darkness of mood that
could not have been caused by her present weak and feverish
state. She hated the life she had led, that she probably had been
compelled to lead. She had suffered some unforgivable wrong at
the hands of Oldring. With that conviction Venters felt a shame
throughout his body, and it marked the rekindling of fierce anger
and ruthlessness. In the past long year he had nursed resentment.
He had hated the wilderness--the loneliness of the uplands. He
had waited for something to come to pass. It had come. Like an
Indian stealing horses he had skulked into the recesses of the
canyons. He had found Oldring's retreat; he had killed a rustler;
he had shot an unfortunate girl, then had saved her from this
unwitting act, and he meant to save her from the consequent
wasting of blood, from fever and weakness. Starvation he had to
fight for her and for himself. Where he had been sick at the
letting of blood, now he remembered it in grim, cold calm. And as
he lost that softness of nature, so he lost his fear of men. He
would watch for Oldring, biding his time, and he would kill this
great black-bearded rustler who had held a girl in bondage, who
had used her to his infamous ends.
Venters surmised this much of the change in him--idleness had
passed; keen, fierce vigor flooded his mind and body; all that
had happened to him at Cottonwoods seemed remote and hard to
recall; the difficulties and perils of the present absorbed him,
held him in a kind of spell.
First, then, he fitted up the little cave adjoining the girl's
room for his own comfort and use. His next work was to build a
fireplace of stones and to gather a store of wood. That done, he
spilled the contents of his saddle-bags upon the grass and took
stock. His outfit consisted of a small-handled axe, a
hunting-knife, a large number of cartridges for rifle or
revolver, a tin plate, a cup, and a fork and spoon, a quantity of
dried beef and dried fruits, and small canvas bags containing
tea, sugar, salt, and pepper. For him alone this supply would
have been bountiful to begin a sojourn in the wilderness, but he
was no longer alone. Starvation in the uplands was not an
unheard-of thing; he did not, however, worry at all on that
score, and feared only his possible inability to supply the needs
of a woman in a weakened and extremely delicate condition.
If there was no game in the valley--a contingency he doubted--it
would not be a great task for him to go by night to Oldring's
herd and pack out a calf. The exigency of the moment was to
ascertain if there were game in Surprise Valley. Whitie still
guarded the dilapidated rabbit, and Ring slept near by under a
spruce. Venters called Ring and went to the edge of the terrace,
and there halted to survey the valley.
He was prepared to find it larger than his unstudied glances had
made it appear; for more than a casual idea of dimensions and a
hasty conception of oval shape and singular beauty he had not had
time. Again the felicity of the name he had given the valley
struck him forcibly. Around the red perpendicular walls, except
under the great arc of stone, ran a terrace fringed at the
cliff-base by silver spruces; below that first terrace sloped
another wider one densely overgrown with aspens, and the center
of the valley was a level circle of oaks and alders, with the
glittering green line of willows and cottonwood dividing it in
half. Venters saw a number and variety of birds flitting among
the trees. To his left, facing the stone bridge, an enormous
cavern opened in the wall; and low down, just above the
tree-tops, he made out a long shelf of cliff-dwellings, with
little black, staring windows or doors. Like eyes they were, and
seemed to watch him. The few cliff-dwellings he had seen--all
ruins--had left him with haunting memory of age and solitude and
of something past. He had come, in a way, to be a cliff-dweller
himself, and those silent eyes would look down upon him, as if in
surprise that after thousands of years a man had invaded the
valley. Venters felt sure that he was the only white man who had
ever walked under the shadow of the wonderful stone bridge, down
into that wonderful valley with its circle of caves and its
terraced rings of silver spruce and aspens.
The dog growled below and rushed into the forest. Venters ran
down the declivity to enter a zone of light shade streaked with
sunshine. The oak-trees were slender, none more than half a foot
thick, and they grew close together, intermingling their
branches. Ring came running back with a rabbit in his mouth.
Venters took the rabbit and, holding the dog near him, stole
softly on. There were fluttering of wings among the branches and
quick bird-notes, and rustling of dead leaves and rapid
patterings. Venters crossed well-worn trails marked with fresh
tracks; and when he had stolen on a little farther he saw many
birds and running quail, and more rabbits than he could count. He
had not penetrated the forest of oaks for a hundred yards, had
not approached anywhere near the line of willows and cottonwoods
which he knew grew along a stream. But he had seen enough to know
that Surprise Valley was the home of many wild creatures.
Venters returned to camp. He skinned the rabbits, and gave the
dogs the one they had quarreled over, and the skin of this he
dressed and hung up to dry, feeling that he would like to keep
it. It was a particularly rich, furry pelt with a beautiful white
tail. Venters remembered that but for the bobbing of that white
tail catching his eye he would not have espied the rabbit, and he
would never have discovered Surprise Valley. Little incidents of
chance like this had turned him here and there in Deception Pass;
and now they had assumed to him the significance and direction of
His good fortune in the matter of game at hand brought to his
mind the necessity of keeping it in the valley. Therefore he took
the axe and cut bundles of aspens and willows, and packed them up
under the bridge to the narrow outlet of the gorge. Here he began
fashioning a fence, by driving aspens into the ground and lacing
them fast with willows. Trip after trip he made down for more
building material, and the afternoon had passed when he finished
the work to his satisfaction. Wildcats might scale the fence, but
no coyote could come in to search for prey, and no rabbits or
other small game could escape from the valley.
Upon returning to camp he set about getting his supper at ease,
around a fine fire, without hurry or fear of discovery. After
hard work that had definite purpose, this freedom and comfort
gave him peculiar satisfaction. He caught himself often, as he
kept busy round the camp-fire, stopping to glance at the quiet
form in the cave, and at the dogs stretched cozily near him, and
then out across the beautiful valley. The present was not yet
real to him.
While he ate, the sun set beyond a dip in the rim of the curved
wall. As the morning sun burst wondrously through a grand arch
into this valley, in a golden, slanting shaft, so the evening
sun, at the moment of setting, shone through a gap of cliffs,
sending down a broad red burst to brighten the oval with a blaze
of fire. To Venters both sunrise and sunset were unreal.
A cool wind blew across the oval, waving the tips of oaks, and
while the light lasted, fluttering the aspen leaves into millions
of facets of red, and sweeping the graceful spruces. Then with
the wind soon came a shade and a darkening, and suddenly the
valley was gray. Night came there quickly after the sinking of
the sun. Venters went softly to look at the girl. She slept, and
her breathing was quiet and slow. He lifted Ring into the cave,
with stern whisper for him to stay there on guard. Then he drew
the blanket carefully over her and returned to the camp-fire.
Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude,
but this night it was not from listening, watchful vigilance; it
was from a desire to realize his position. The details of his
wild environment seemed the only substance of a strange dream. He
saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, the
undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and the
spear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and
the soft, continuous splash of falling water. The melancholy note
of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs.
Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seen
one, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were
as familiar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased, and
the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing
sound that Venters fancied was not of earth. Neither had he a
name for this, only it was inexpressibly wild and sweet. The
thought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her last
outcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! This
sound was not human, though it was like despair. He began to
doubt his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamed
what he thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with the
strengthening of the breeze, and he realized it was the singing
of the wind in the cliffs.
By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod,
half asleep, with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself and
calling Whitie, he went to the cave. The girl lay barely visible
in the dimness. Ring crouched beside her, and the patting of his
tail on the stone assured Venters that the dog was awake and
faithful to his duty. Venters sought his own bed of fragrant
boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and
safety, the night seemed to steal away from him and he sank
softly into intangible space and rest and slumber.
Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only
the haunting echo of dream music. He opened his eyes to another
surprise of this valley of beautiful surprises. Out of his cave
he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces
crossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacy
leafage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white
stripes and long tails. They were mocking-birds, and they were
singing as if they wanted to burst their throats. Venters
listened. One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almost to his
cave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of the
graceful birds. Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its
throat in song. He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave
the birds fluttered and flew farther away.
Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked
in. The girl was awake, with wide eyes and listening look, and
she had a hand on Ring's neck.
"Mocking-birds!" she said.
"Yes," replied Venters, "and I believe they like our company."
"Where are we?"
"Never mind now. After a little I'll tell you."
"The birds woke me. When I heard them--and saw the shiny
trees--and the blue sky--and then a blaze of gold dropping
She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he
understood her meaning. She appeared to be wandering in mind.
Venters felt her face and hands and found them burning with
fever. He went for water, and was glad to find it almost as cold
as if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine he had,
and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he made
her swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and cooled her
The day began with the heightening of the fever. Venters spent
the time reducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks and
temples. He kept close watch over her, and at the least
indication of restlessness, that he knew led to tossing and
rolling of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent move
could reopen her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled and laughed
and cried and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was she
did not reveal it. Attended by something somber for Venters, the
day passed. At night in the cool winds the fever abated and she
The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third he
seemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes. That day
he scarcely went from her side for a moment, except to run for
fresh, cool water; and he did not eat. The fever broke on the
fourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a girl with
life only in her eyes. They hung upon Venters with a mute
observance, and he found hope in that.
To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish
the little life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters's
problem. But he had little resource other than the meat of the
rabbits and quail; and from these he made broths and soups as
best he could, and fed her with a spoon. It came to him that the
human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capable
of recovering from terrible shocks. For almost immediately she
showed faint signs of gathering strength. There was one more
waiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long hours by her
side as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of her breast
rise and fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangled
chestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live.
Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his
accustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce, where once
more he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces. She
would live, and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley, and he
felt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call of action,
to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp
fixtures and utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and the
desire to explore the valley.
But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from
camp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she
could see him near at hand. And on the first day her languor
appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. She awoke
stronger from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she moved
about in her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, her
eyes followed him. He knew now that her recovery would be rapid.
She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about how
hungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to put off
further talk till another time. She obeyed, but she sat up in her
bed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him.
Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and
would not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, which
actions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however, and
Venters was quick to catch in her the first intimations of
thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation.
He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon his
return he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see his
invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and her
bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, intending to
advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she might
overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on the
little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval
face with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue
circles. She looked at him and he looked at her. In that exchange
of glances he imagined each saw the other in some different
guise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girl could
be Oldring's Masked Rider. It flashed over him that he had made a
mistake which presently she would explain.
"Help me down," she said.
"But--are you well enough?" he protested. "Wait--a little
"I'm weak--dizzy. But I want to get down."
He lifted her--what a light burden now!--and stood her upright
beside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting
steps. She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small head
scarcely reached his shoulder. But now, as she clung to his arm,
the rider's costume she wore did not contradict, as it had done
at first, his feeling of her femininity. She might be the famous
Masked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but her
outline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and
tremulous lips, and especially a something that Venters felt as a
subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her sex.
She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the
spruce that overspread the camp-fire.
"Now tell me--everything," she said.
He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery
of the rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment.
"You shot me--and now you've saved my life?"
"Yes. After almost killing you I've pulled you through."
"Are you glad?"
"I should say so!"
Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him
steadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions
and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and
"Tell me--about yourself?" she asked.
He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his
various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the
Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an
Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he
questioned her in turn.
"Are you Oldring's Masked Rider?"
"Yes," she replied, and dropped her eyes.
"I knew it--I recognized your figure--and mask, for I saw you
once. Yet I can't believe it!...But you never were really that
rustler, as we riders knew him? A thief--a marauder--a kidnapper
of women--a murderer of sleeping riders!"
"No! I never stole--or harmed any one--in all my life. I only
rode and rode--"
"But why--why?" he burst out. "Why the name? I understand Oldring
made you ride. But the black mask--the mystery--the things laid
to your hands--the threats in your infamous name--the
night-riding credited to you--the evil deeds deliberately blamed
on you and acknowledged by rustlers--even Oldring himself! Why?
Tell me why?"
"I never knew that," she answered low. Her drooping head
straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met
Venters's with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It
verified his own conviction.
"Never knew? That's strange! Are you a Mormon?"
"Is Oldring a Mormon?"
"Do you--care for him?"
"Yes. I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hate
Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him
self to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to
confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear.
"What are--what were you to Oldring?"
Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the
girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks
crept the red of shame.
Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It
seemed so different--his thought when spoken. Yet her shame
established in his mind something akin to the respect he had
strangely been hungering to feel for her.
"D--n that question!--forget it!" he cried, in a passion of pain
for her and anger at himself. "But once and for all--tell me--I
know it, yet I want to hear you say so--you couldn't help
"Well, that makes it all right with me," he went on, honestly.
"I--I want you to feel that...you see--we've been thrown
together--and--and I want to help you--not hurt you. I thought
life had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel mean
and little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast.
And now!...I don't see very clearly what it all means. Only we
are here--together. We've got to stay here, for long, surely till
you are well. But you'll never go back to Oldring. And I'm sure
helping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There's
something now for me to do. And if I can win back your
strength--then get you away, out of this wild country--help you
somehow to a happier life--just think how good that'll be for
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