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The Daughter Of Withersteen

From: Riders Of The Purple Sage

"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him.

"I reckon so," he had replied.

Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they

implied. She wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse

and ranges, and save them if that were possible. Yet, though she

could not have spoken aloud all she meant, she was perfectly

honest with herself. Whatever the price to be paid, she must keep

Lassiter close to her; she must shield from him the man who had

led Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she so controlled her

mind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to her own soul,

she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing she regarded

as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of a helper,

of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she could rule

this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep

him from shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and his

presence against the game of oppression her churchmen were waging

against her? Never would she forget the effect on Tull and his

men when Venters shouted Lassiter's name. If she could not wholly

control Lassiter, then what she could do might put off the fatal


One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells

because of the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When

Jerd led out this slender, beautifully built horse Lassiter

suddenly became all eyes. A rider's love of a thoroughbred shone

in them. Round and round Bells he walked, plainly weakening all

the time in his determination not to take one of Jane's favorite


"Lassiter, you're half horse, and Bells sees it already," said

Jane, laughing. "Look at his eyes. He likes you. He'll love you,

too. How can you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run!

It's nip and tuck between him and Wrangle, and only Black Star

can beat him. He's too spirited a horse for a woman. Take him.

He's yours."

"I jest am weak where a hoss's concerned," said Lassiter. "I'll

take him, an' I'll take your orders, ma'am."

"Well, I'm glad, but never mind the ma'am. Let it still be Jane."

From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle,

riding early and late, and coincident with his part in Jane's

affairs the days assumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligence

told her this was only the lull before the storm, but her faith

would not have it so.

She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these she

encountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any trouble

came between them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick to

forget, met him halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regretted

the loss of her cattle; he assured her that the vigilantes which

had been organized would soon rout the rustlers; when that had

been accomplished her riders would likely return to her.

"You've done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter," Tull

went on, severely. "He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent."

"I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my rider may turn

out best in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods."

"You mean to stay his hand?"

"I do--if I can."

"A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well,

and would atone in some measure for the errors you have made."

He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflicting

thoughts. She resented Elder Tull's cold, impassive manner that

looked down upon her as one who had incurred his just

displeasure. Otherwise he would have been the same calm,

dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years. In

fact, except when he had revealed his passion in the matter of

the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could be other

than the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a strange,

secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he had

picked up the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. Was

Tull what he appeared to be? The question flung itself in-

voluntarily over Jane Withersteen's inhibitive habit of faith

without question. And she refused to answer it. Tull could not

fight in the open Venters had said, Lassiter had said, that her

Elder shirked fight and worked in the dark. Just now in this

meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued, exhorted,

demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of Venters. His

manner was that of the minister who had been outraged, but who

overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemed

unutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to

bear upon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret

power over riders, with night journeys, with rustlers and

stampedes of cattle. And that convinced her again of unjust

suspicions. But it was convincement through an obstinate faith.

She shuddered as she accepted it, and that shudder was the

nucleus of a terrible revolt.

Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main

street and entered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling

clover, alfalfa, flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy

confusion. And like these fresh green things were the dozens of

babies, tots, toddlers, noisy urchins, laughing girls, a whole

multitude of children of one family. For Collier Brandt, the

father of all this numerous progeny, was a Mormon with four


The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque the

lower part built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with

vines growing up the outside stone chimneys. There were many

wooden-shuttered windows, and one pretentious window of glass

proudly curtained in white. As this house had four mistresses, it

likewise had four separate sections, not one of which

communicated with another, and all had to be entered from the


In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found

Brandt's wives entertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly

women, of comparatively similar ages, and plain-featured, and

just at this moment anything but grave. The Bishop was rather

tall, of stout build, with iron-gray hair and beard, and eyes of

light blue. They were merry now; but Jane had seen them when they

were not, and then she feared him as she had feared her father.

The women flocked around her in welcome.

"Daughter of Withersteen," said the Bishop, gaily, as he took her

hand, "you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late.

A Sabbath without you at service! I shall reprove Elder Tull."

"Bishop, the guilt is mine. I'll come to you and confess," Jane

replied, lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words.

"Mormon love-making!" exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his hands.

"Tull keeps you all to himself."

"No. He is not courting me."

"What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I'll go a-courting

myself up to Withersteen House."

There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and then

mild talk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, and

Jane was left with her friend, Mary Brandt.

"Jane, you're not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of the

cattle? But you have so many, you are so rich."

Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back her

doubts of fear.

"Oh, why don't you marry Tull and be one of us?

"But, Mary, I don't love Tull," said Jane, stubbornly.

"I don't blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you've got to

choose between the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormon

women have to do that. It's not easy. The kind of happiness you

want I wanted once. I never got it, nor will you, unless you

throw away your soul. We've all watched your affair with Venters

in fear and trembling. Some dreadful thing will come of it. You

don't want him hanged or shot--or treated worse, as that Gentile

boy was treated in Glaze for fooling round a Mormon woman. Marry

Tull. It's your duty as a Mormon. You'll feel no rapture as his

wife--but think of Heaven! Mormon women don't marry for what they

expect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane. Remember your father

found Amber Spring, built these old houses, brought Mormons here,

and fathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!"

Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. They

received her with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished

upon her the pent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her go

with her ears ringing of Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty to God

and glory in Heaven.

"Verily," murmured Jane, "I don't know myself when, through all

this, I remain unchanged--nay, more fixed of purpose."

She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps

toward the center of the village. A string of wagons drawn by

oxen was lumbering along. These "sage-freighters," as they were

called, hauled grain and flour and merchandise from Sterling, and

Jane laughed suddenly in the midst of her humility at the thought

that they were her property, as was one of the three stores for

which they freighted goods. The water that flowed along the path

at her feet, and turned into each cottage-yard to nourish garden

and orchard, also was hers, no less her private property because

she chose to give it free. Yet in this village of Cottonwoods,

which her father had founded and which she maintained she was not

her own mistress; she was not able to abide by her own choice of

a husband. She was the daughter of Withersteen. Suppose she

proved it, imperiously! But she quelled that proud temptation at

its birth.

Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village

people had for her; no power could have made her happy as the

pleasure her presence gave. As she went on down the street past

the stores with their rude platform entrances, and the saloons

where tired horses stood with bridles dragging, she was again

assured of what was the bread and wine of life to her--that she

was loved. Dirty boys playing in the ditch, clerks, teamsters,

riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on dusty horses little

girls running errands, and women hurrying to the stores all

looked up at her coming with glad eyes.

Jane's various calls and wandering steps at length led her to the

Gentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern

end, and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts and

shacks and log-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The

fortunes of these inhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in

their abodes. Water they had in abundance, and therefore grass

and fruit-trees and patches of alfalfa and vegetable gardens.

Some of the men and boys had a few stray cattle, others obtained

such intermittent employment as the Mormons reluctantly tendered

them. But none of the families was prosperous, many were very

poor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen's beneficence.

As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened

her to come in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not

because she was unwelcome; here she was gratefully received by

the women, passionately by the children. But poverty and

idleness, with their attendant wretchedness and sorrow, always

hurt her. That she could alleviate this distress more now than

ever before proved the adage that it was an ill wind that blew

nobody good. While her Mormon riders were in her employ she had

found few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was able

to find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock was

it to have man after man tell her that he dare not accept her

kind offer.

"It won't do," said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seen

better days. "We've had our warning. Plain and to the point! Now

there's Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can

the daredevil boys he's hired. But they've little responsibility.

Can we risk having our homes burned in our absence?"

Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as

the blood left it.

"Carson, you and the others rent these houses?" she asked.

"You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours."

"I know?...Carson, I never in my life took a day's labor for rent

or a yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold."

"Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that."

"Look here, Carson," went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheeks

were burning. "You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move

your families up to my cabins in the grove. They're far more

comfortable than these. Then go to work for me. And if aught

happens to you there I'll give you money--gold enough to leave


The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his

eyes, he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech

could ever have equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what

he felt for Jane Withersteen. How strangely his look and tone

reminded her of Lassiter!

"No, it won't do," he said, when he had somewhat recovered

himself. "Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don't know,

and there's not a soul among us who can tell you."

"I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you

let me aid you--say till better times?"

"Yes, I will," he replied, with his face lighting up. "I see what

it means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And

if better times ever come, I'll be only too happy to work for


"Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good

day, Carson."

The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, and

the last habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the

meanest. Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. The

broad leaves of a wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken

roof of weathered boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor.

Round about it were a few scanty rows of vegetables, such as the

hand of a weak woman had time and strength to cultivate. This

little dwelling-place was just outside the village limits, and

the widow who lived there had to carry her water from the nearest

irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered the unfenced yard a

child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing toward her

with curls flying. This child was a little girl of four called

Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a

creature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed


"Muvver sended for oo," cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, "an' oo

never tome."

"I didn't know, Fay; but I've come now."

Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field,

and she was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her

beauty. The one thin little bedraggled garment she wore half

covered her fine, slim body. Red as cherries were her cheeks and

lips; her eyes were violet blue, and the crown of her childish

loveliness was the curling golden hair. All the children of

Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen's friends, she loved them all.

But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates, for among the

Gentile children there were none near her age, and the Mormon

children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy, wild,

lonely child.

"Muvver's sick," said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the


Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but

it was clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.

"Mrs. Larkin, how are you?" asked Jane, anxiously.

"I've been pretty bad for a week, but I'm better now."

"You haven't been here all alone--with no one to wait on you?"

"Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in."

"Did you send for me?"

"Yes, several times."

"But I had no word--no messages ever got to me."

"I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was

ill and would you please come."

A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as

she fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed,

leaving her conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed

as her spirit rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of

dark underhand domination, running its secret lines this time

into her own household. Like a spider in the blackness of night

an unseen hand had begun to run these dark lines, to turn and

twist them about her life, to plait and weave a web. Jane

Withersteen knew it now, and in the realization further coolness

and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of her


"Mrs. Larkin, you're better, and I'm so glad," said Jane. "But

may I not do something for you--a turn at nursing, or send you

things, or take care of Fay?"

"You're so good. Since my husband's been gone what would have

become of Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted

to speak to you. This time I thought surely I'd die, and I was

worried about Fay. Well, I'll be around all right shortly, but my

strength's gone and I won't live long. So I may as well speak

now. You remember you've been asking me to let you take Fay and

bring her up as your daughter?"

"Indeed yes, I remember. I'll be happy to have her. But I hope

the day--"

"Never mind that. The day'll come--sooner or later. I refused

your offer, and now I'll tell you why."

"I know why," interposed Jane. "It's because you don't want her

brought up as a Mormon."

"No, it wasn't altogether that." Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand

and laid it appealingly on Jane's. "I don't like to tell you.

But--it's this: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know

you, care for you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you.

Women will talk, you know. It got to the ears of Mormons--gossip

of your love for Fay and your wanting her. And it came straight

back to me, in jealousy, perhaps, that you wouldn't take Fay as

much for love of her as because of your religious duty to bring

up another girl for some Mormon to marry."

"That's a damnable lie!" cried Jane Withersteen.

"It was what made me hesitate," went on Mrs. Larkin, "but I never

believed it at heart. And now I guess I'll let you--"

"Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life,

but never a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me.

I love little Fay. If I had her near me I'd grow to worship her.

When I asked for her I thought only of that love....Let me prove

this. You and Fay come to live with me. I've such a big house,

and I'm so lonely. I'll help nurse you, take care of you. When

you're better you can work for me. I'll keep little Fay and bring

her up--without Mormon teaching. When she's grown, if she should

want to leave me, I'll send her, and not empty-handed, back to

Illinois where you came from. I promise you."

"I knew it was a lie," replied the mother, and she sank back upon

her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. "Jane

Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful to

you. But because you're a Mormon I never felt close to you till

now. I don't know much about religion as religion, but your God

and my God are the same."

Next: Surprise Valley

Previous: The Mill-wheel Of Steers

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