Deception Pass





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.





Dave Sees Something Deep Into Cattle Land facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

Feedback