The Masked Rider

: Riders Of The Purple Sage

Venters looked quickly from the fallen rustlers to the canyon



where the others had disappeared. He calculated on the time



needed for running horses to return to the open, if their riders



heard shots. He waited breathlessly. But the estimated time



dragged by and no riders appeared. Venters began presently to



believe that the rifle reports had not penetrated into t
e



recesses of the canyon, and felt safe for the immediate present.







He hurried to the spot where the first rustler had been dragged



by his horse. The man lay in deep grass, dead, jaw fallen, eyes



protruding--a sight that sickened Venters. The first man at whom



he had ever aimed a weapon he had shot through the heart. With



the clammy sweat oozing from every pore Venters dragged the



rustler in among some boulders and covered him with slabs of



rock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trail in grass and sage.



The rustler's horse had stopped a quarter of a mile off and was



grazing.







When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even the



cold nausea that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For



he had shot Oldring's infamous lieutenant, whose face had never



been seen. Venters experienced a grim pride in the feat. What



would Tull say to this achievement of the outcast who rode too



often to Deception Pass?







Venters's curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him



for the shock he received when he stood over a slight, dark



figure. The rustler wore the black mask that had given him his



name, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at the drooping



horse, there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle.







"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears no



belt. He couldn't pack guns in that rig....Strange!"







A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body



told Venters the rider still lived.







"He's alive!...I've got to stand here and watch him die. And I



shot an unarmed man."







Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and the



black cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair,



inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower



line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the brown of



tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun.







"Oh, he's only a boy!...What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"







The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his



lips moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse.







Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had



entered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With



hands that shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open



the blood-wet blouse.







First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin,



from which welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful,



beautiful swell of a woman's breast!







"A woman!" he cried. "A girl!...I've killed a girl!"







She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They were



fathomless blue. Consciousness of death was there, a blended



terror and pain, but no consciousness of sight. She did not see



Venters. She stared into the unknown.







Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of



reviving strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from



Ventner's grasp. Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. The



ungloved hand sought the wound, and pressed so hard that her



wrist half buried itself in her bosom. Blood trickled between her



spread fingers. And she looked at Venters with eyes that saw him.







He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so



proud. He had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope



which he was about to finish with his knife. But in her it had



infinitely more--a revelation of mortal spirit. The instinctive



bringing to life was there, and the divining helplessness and the



terrible accusation of the stricken.







"Forgive me! I didn't know!" burst out Venters.







"You shot me--you've killed me!" she whispered, in panting gasps.



Upon her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By that



Venters knew the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. "Oh, I



knew--it would--come--some day!...Oh, the burn!...Hold me--I'm



sinking--it's all dark....Ah, God!...Mercy--"







Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp,



still, white as snow, with closed eyes.







Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation of



her breast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed only



a matter of moments, for the bullet had gone clear through her.



Nevertheless, he tore sageleaves from a bush, and, pressing them



tightly over her wounds, he bound the black scarf round her



shoulder, tying it securely under her arm. Then he closed the



blouse, hiding from his sight that blood-stained, accusing



breast.







"What--now?" he questioned, with flying mind. "I must get out of



here. She's dying--but I can't leave her."







He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no animate



object. Then he picked up the girl's sombrero and the mask. This



time the mask gave him as great a shock as when he first removed



it from her face. For in the woman he had forgotten the rustler,



and this black strip of felt-cloth established the identity of



Oldring's Masked Rider. Venters had solved the mystery. He



slipped his rifle under her, and, lifting her carefully upon it,



he began to retrace his steps. The dog trailed in his shadow. And



the horse, that had stood drooping by, followed without a call.



Venters chose the deepest tufts of grass and clumps of sage on



his return. From time to time he glanced over his shoulder. He



did not rest. His concern was to avoid jarring the girl and to



hide his trail. Gaining the narrow canyon, he turned and held



close to the wall till he reached his hiding-place. When he



entered the dense thicket of oaks he was hard put to it to force



a way through. But he held his burden almost upright, and by



slipping side wise and bending the saplings he got in. Through



sage and grass he hurried to the grove of silver spruces.







He laid the girl down, almost fearing to look at her. Though



marble pale and cold, she was living. Venters then appreciated



the tax that long carry had been to his strength. He sat down to



rest. Whitie sniffed at the pale girl and whined and crept to



Venters's feet. Ring lapped the water in the runway of the



spring.







Presently Venters went out to the opening, caught the horse and,



leading him through the thicket, unsaddled him and tied him with



a long halter. Wrangle left his browsing long enough to whinny



and toss his head. Venters felt that he could not rest easily



till he had secured the other rustler's horse; so, taking his



rifle and calling for Ring, he set out. Swiftly yet watchfully he



made his way through the canyon to the oval and out to the cattle



trail. What few tracks might have betrayed him he obliterated, so



only an expert tracker could have trailed him. Then, with many a



wary backward glance across the sage, he started to round up the



rustler's horse. This was unexpectedly easy. He led the horse to



lower ground, out of sight from the opposite side of the oval



along the shadowy western wall, and so on into his canyon and



secluded camp.







The girl's eyes were open; a feverish spot burned in her cheeks



she moaned something unintelligible to Venters, but he took the



movement of her lips to mean that she wanted water. Lifting her



head, he tipped the canteen to her lips. After that she again



lapsed into unconsciousness or a weakness which was its



counterpart. Venters noted, however, that the burning flush had



faded into the former pallor.







The sun set behind the high canyon rim, and a cool shade darkened



the walls. Venters fed the dogs and put a halter on the dead



rustlers horse. He allowed Wrangle to browse free. This done,



he cut spruce boughs and made a lean-to for the girl. Then, gently



lifting her upon a blanket, he folded the sides over her. The other



blanket he wrapped about his shoulders and found a comfortable seat



against a spruce-tree that upheld the little shack. Ring and Whitie



lay near at hand, one asleep, the other watchful.







Venters dreaded the night's vigil. At night his mind was active,



and this time he had to watch and think and feel beside a dying



girl whom he had all but murdered. A thousand excuses he invented



for himself, yet not one made any difference in his act or his



self-reproach.







It seemed to him that when night fell black he could see her



white face so much more plainly.







"She'll go, presently," he said, "and be out of agony--thank



God!"







Every little while certainty of her death came to him with a



shock; and then he would bend over and lay his ear on her breast.



Her heart still beat.







The early night blackness cleared to the cold starlight. The



horses were not moving, and no sound disturbed the deathly



silence of the canyon.







"I'll bury her here," thought Venters, "and let her grave be as



much a mystery as her life was."







For the girl's few words, the look of her eyes, the prayer, had



strangely touched Venters.







"She was only a girl," he soliloquized. "What was she to Oldring?



Rustlers don't have wives nor sisters nor daughters. She was



bad--that's all. But somehow...well, she may not have willingly



become the companion of rustlers. That prayer of hers to God for



mercy!...Life is strange and cruel. I wonder if other members of



Oldring's gang are women? Likely enough. But what was his game?



Oldring's Mask Rider! A name to make villagers hide and lock



their doors. A name credited with a dozen murders, a hundred



forays, and a thousand stealings of cattle. What part did the



girl have in this? It may have served Oldring to create



mystery."







Hours passed. The white stars moved across the narrow strip of



dark-blue sky above. The silence awoke to the low hum of insects.



Venters watched the immovable white face, and as he watched, hour



by hour waiting for death, the infamy of her passed from his



mind. He thought only of the sadness, the truth of the moment.



Whoever she was--whatever she had done--she was young and she was



dying.







The after-part of the night wore on interminably. The starlight



failed and the gloom blackened to the darkest hour. "She'll die



at the gray of dawn," muttered Venters, remembering some old



woman's fancy. The blackness paled to gray, and the gray



lightened and day peeped over the eastern rim. Venters listened



at the breast of the girl. She still lived. Did he only imagine



that her heart beat stronger, ever so slightly, but stronger? He



pressed his ear closer to her breast. And he rose with his own



pulse quickening.







"If she doesn't die soon--she's got a chance--the barest chance



to live," he said.







He wondered if the internal bleeding had ceased. There was no



more film of blood upon her lips. But no corpse could have been



whiter. Opening her blouse, he untied the scarf, and carefully



picked away the sage leaves from the wound in her shoulder. It



had closed. Lifting her lightly, he ascertained that the same was



true of the hole where the bullet had come out. He reflected on



the fact that clean wounds closed quickly in the healing upland



air. He recalled instances of riders who had been cut and shot



apparently to fatal issues; yet the blood had clotted, the wounds



closed, and they had recovered. He had no way to tell if internal



hemorrhage still went on, but he believed that it had stopped.



Otherwise she would surely not have lived so long. He marked the



entrance of the bullet, and concluded that it had just touched



the upper lobe of her lung. Perhaps the wound in the lung had



also closed. As he began to wash the blood stains from her breast



and carefully rebandage the wound, he was vaguely conscious of a



strange, grave happiness in the thought that she might live.







Broad daylight and a hint of sunshine high on the cliff-rim to



the west brought him to consideration of what he had better do.



And while busy with his few camp tasks he revolved the thing in



his mind. It would not be wise for him to remain long in his



present hiding-place. And if he intended to follow the cattle



trail and try to find the rustlers he had better make a move at



once. For he knew that rustlers, being riders, would not make



much of a day's or night's absence from camp for one or two of



their number; but when the missing ones failed to show up in



reasonable time there would be a search. And Venters was afraid



of that.







"A good tracker could trail me," he muttered. "And I'd be



cornered here. Let's see. Rustlers are a lazy set when they're



not on the ride. I'll risk it. Then I'll change my hiding-place."







He carefully cleaned and reloaded his guns. When he rose to go he



bent a long glance down upon the unconscious girl. Then ordering



Whitie and Ring to keep guard, he left the camp







The safest cover lay close under the wall of the canyon, and here



through the dense thickets Venters made his slow, listening



advance toward the oval. Upon gaining the wide opening he decided



to cross it and follow the left wall till he came to the cattle



trail. He scanned the oval as keenly as if hunting for antelope.



Then, stooping, he stole from one cover to another, taking advantage



of rocks and bunches of sage, until he had reached the thickets



under the opposite wall. Once there, he exercised extreme caution



in his surveys of the ground ahead, but increased his speed when



moving. Dodging from bush to bush, he passed the mouths of two



canyons, and in the entrance of a third canyon he crossed a wash



of swift clear water, to come abruptly upon the cattle trail.







It followed the low bank of the wash, and, keeping it in sight,



Venters hugged the line of sage and thicket. Like the curves of a



serpent the canyon wound for a mile or more and then opened into



a valley. Patches of red showed clear against the purple of sage,



and farther out on the level dotted strings of red led away to



the wall of rock.







"Ha, the red herd!" exclaimed Venters.







Then dots of white and black told him there were cattle of other



colors in this inclosed valley. Oldring, the rustler, was also a



rancher. Venters's calculating eye took count of stock that



outnumbered the red herd.







"What a range!" went on Venters. "Water and grass enough for



fifty thousand head, and no riders needed!"







After his first burst of surprise and rapid calculation Venters



lost no time there, but slunk again into the sage on his back



trail. With the discovery of Oldring's hidden cattle-range had



come enlightenment on several problems. Here the rustler kept his



stock, here was Jane Withersteen's red herd; here were the few



cattle that had disappeared from the Cottonwoods slopes during



the last two years. Until Oldring had driven the red herd his



thefts of cattle for that time had not been more than enough to



supply meat for his men. Of late no drives had been reported from



Sterling or the villages north. And Venters knew that the riders



had wondered at Oldring's inactivity in that particular field. He



and his band had been active enough in their visits to Glaze and



Cottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late the amount gambled



away and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to



much conjecture. Oldring's more frequent visits had resulted in



new saloons, and where there had formerly been one raid or



shooting fray in the little hamlets there were now many. Perhaps



Oldring had another range farther on up the pass, and from



there drove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he was little



known But Venters came finally to doubt this. And, from what he



had learned in the last few days, a belief began to form in



Venters's mind that Oldring's intimidations of the villages and



the mystery of the Masked Rider, with his alleged evil deeds, and



the fierce resistance offered any trailing riders, and the



rustling of cattle-- these things were only the craft of the



rustler-chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work in



Deception Pass.







And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage of



the oval valley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, and



at last entered the canyon out of which headed the cattle trail,



and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear.







If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to



force himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He



crawled along so hidden that he could not use his eyes except to



aid himself in the toilsome progress through the brakes and ruins



of cliff-wall. Yet from time to time, as he rested, he saw the



massive red walls growing higher and wilder, more looming and



broken. He made note of the fact that he was turning and



climbing. The sage and thickets of oak and brakes of alder gave



place to pinyon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low,



dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought it was



thunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But it



was incessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from



a murmur changed into a soft roar.







"Falling water," he said. "There's volume to that. I wonder if



it's the stream I lost."







The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise,



however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this and sure



that nothing but a bird could see him, he arose from his hands



and knees to hurry on. An opening in the pinyons warned him that



he was nearing the height of slope.







He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment.



Before him stretched a short canyon with rounded stone floor bare



of grass or sage or tree, and with curved, shelving walls. A



broad rippling stream flowed toward him, and at the back of the



canyon waterfall burst from a wide rent in the cliff, and,



bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet.







If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had entered



the right canyon his astonishment would not have been so great.



There had been no breaks in the walls, no side canyons entering



this one where the rustlers' tracks and the cattle trail had



guided him, and, therefore, he could not be wrong. But here the



canyon ended, and presumably the trails also.







"That cattle trail headed out of here," Venters kept saying to



himself. "It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earth



did cattle ever get in here?"







If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny he



had given that cattle track, every hoofmark of which headed



straight west. He was now looking east at an immense round boxed



corner of canyon down which tumbled a thin, white veil of water,



scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his calculations



had gone wrong. For the first time in years he found himself



doubting his rider's skill in finding tracks, and his memory of



what he had actually seen. In his anxiety to keep under cover he



must have lost himself in this offshoot of Deception Pass, and



thereby in some unaccountable manner, missed the canyon with the



trails. There was nothing else for him to think. Rustlers could



not fly, nor cattle jump down thousand-foot precipices. He was



only proving what the sage-riders had long said of this



labyrinthine system of deceitful canyons and valleys--trails led



down into Deception Pass, but no rider had ever followed them.







On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an



unusual sound that he could not define. He dropped flat behind a



stone and listened. From the direction he had come swelled



something that resembled a strange muffled pounding and splashing



and ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat began to dampen



his forehead. What might not be possible in this stonewalled maze



of mystery? The unnatural sound passed beyond him as he lay



gripping his rifle and fighting for coolness. Then from the open



came the sound, now distinct and different. Venters recognized a



hobble-bell of a horse, and the cracking of iron on submerged



stones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water.







Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, and



curiosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock.







In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burros



driven by three superbly mounted men. Had Venters met these



dark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men anywhere in Utah,



let alone in this robbers' retreat, he would have recognized them



as rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider saw the signs of a



long, arduous trip. These men were packing in supplies from one



of the northern villages. They were tired, and their horses were



almost played out, and the burros plodded on, after the manner of



their kind when exhausted, faithful and patient, but as if every



weary, splashing, slipping step would be their last.







All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched with



a thrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers



drove the burros, and straight through the middle, where the



water spread into a fleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke.



Following closely, the rustlers rode into this white mist,



showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then they



vanished.







Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden



utterance.







"Good Heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler!...There's a cavern



under that waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a canyon



beyond. Oldring hides in there. He needs only to guard a trail



leading down from the sage-flat above. Little danger of this



outlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled on it by luck,



after I had given up. And now I know the truth of what puzzled me



most--why that cattle trail was wet!"







He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of the



sage-brush. Returning, he had no time to spare, only now and



then, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyes



ahead. The abundant grass left no trace of his trail. Short work



he made of the distance to the circle of canyons. He doubted that



he would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted to; yet he



looked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a rider



picturing landmarks never to be forgotten.







Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of the



sage-oval and the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred except



the gentle wave of the tips of the brush. Then he pressed on past



the mouths of several canyons and over ground new to him, now



close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved to be easy



traveling, well screened from possible observation from the north



and west, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepening



shade of his own canyon. Then the huge, notched bulge of red rim



loomed over him, a mark by which he knew again the deep cove



where his camp lay hidden. As he penetrated the thicket, safe



again for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl he had



left there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he find



her? He ran into camp, frightening the dogs.







The girl lay with wide-open, dark eyes, and they dilated when he



knelt beside her. The flush of fever shone in her cheeks. He



lifted her and held water to her dry lips, and felt an



inexplicable sense of lightness as he saw her swallow in a slow,



choking gulp. Gently he laid her back.







"Who--are--you?" she whispered, haltingly.







"I'm the man who shot you," he replied.







"You'll--not--kill me--now?"







"No, no."







"What--will--you--do--with me?"







"When you get better--strong enough--I'll take you back to the



canyon where the rustlers ride through the waterfall."







As with a faint shadow from a flitting wing overhead, the marble



whiteness of her face seemed to change.







"Don't--take--me--back--there!"



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