Surprise Valley





Back in that strange canyon, which Venters had found indeed a



valley of surprises, the wounded girl's whispered appeal, almost



a prayer, not to take her back to the rustlers crowned the events



of the last few days with a confounding climax. That she should



not want to return to them staggered Venters. Presently, as



logical thought returned, her appeal confirmed his first



impression--that she was more unfortunate than bad-- and he



experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before that



Oldring's Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have been



formed and he would have considered her abandoned. But his first



knowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a



convulsion of agony; he had heard God's name whispered by



blood-stained lips; through her solemn and awful eyes he had



caught a glimpse of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty



to him, "Don't--take--me--back--there!"







Once for all Venters's quick mind formed a permanent conception



of this poor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life



had made her, but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced



the infinite, upon a few pitiful, halting words that betrayed



failure and wrong and misery, yet breathed the truth of a tragic



fate rather than a natural leaning to evil.







"What's your name?" he inquired.







"Bess," she answered.







"Bess what?"







"That's enough--just Bess."







The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of



fever. Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame



in her face, at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might



be a rustler's girl, but she was still capable of shame, she



might be dying, but she still clung to some little remnant of



honor.







"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter," he said. "But this



matters--what shall I do with you?"







"Are--you--a rider?" she whispered.







"Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost



my place--lost all I owned--and now I'm--I'm a sort of outcast.



My name's Bern Venters."







"You won't--take me--to Cottonwoods--or Glaze? I'd be--hanged."







"No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it's not safe



for me here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or



later he'll be found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer



hiding-place where I can't be trailed."







"Leave me--here."







"Alone--to die!"







"Yes."







"I will not." Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his



voice.







"What--do you want--to do--with me?" Her whispering grew



difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear



her.







"Why, let's see," he replied, slowly. "I'd like to take you some



place where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all



right."







"And--then?"







"Well, it'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your



wound. It's a bad one. And--Bess, if you don't want to live--if



you don't fight for life--you'll never--"







"Oh! I want--to live! I'm afraid--to die. But I'd



rather--die--than go back--to--to--"







"To Oldring?" asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.







Her lips moved in an affirmative.







"I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to



Glaze."







The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with



unutterable gratitude and wonder. And as suddenly Venters found



her eyes beautiful as he had never seen or felt beauty. They were



as dark blue as the sky at night. Then the flashing changed to a



long, thoughtful look, in which there was a wistful, unconscious



searching of his face, a look that trembled on the verge of hope



and trust.







"I'll try--to live," she said. The broken whisper just reached



his ears. "Do what--you want--with me."







"Rest then--don't worry--sleep," he replied.







Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and



with a sharp command to the dogs he strode from the camp. Venters



was conscious of an indefinite conflict of change within him. It



seemed to be a vague passing of old moods, a dim coalescing of



new forces, a moment of inexplicable transition. He was both cast



down and uplifted. He wanted to think and think of the meaning,



but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative need at



present was to find a safe retreat, and this called for



action.







So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This



trip he turned to the left and wended his skulking way southward



a mile or more to the opening of the valley, where lay the



strange scrawled rocks. He did not, however, venture boldly out



into the open sage, but clung to the right-hand wall and went



along that till its perpendicular line broke into the long



incline of bare stone.







Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange



character of this slope and realizing that a moving black object



could be seen far against such background. Before him ascended a



gradual swell of smooth stone. It was hard, polished, and full of



pockets worn by centuries of eddying rain-water. A hundred yards



up began a line of grotesque cedar-trees, and they extended along



the slope clear to its most southerly end. Beyond that end



Venters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars, few as they



were, would afford some cover.







Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than he



had estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance for



the deceiving nature of distances in that country. When he gained



the cover of cedars he paused to rest and look, and it was then



he saw how the trees sprang from holes in the bare rock. Ages of



rain had run down the slope, circling, eddying in depressions,



wearing deep round holes. There had been dry seasons,



accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose



wonderfully out of solid rock. But these were not beautiful



cedars. They were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as if



growth were torture, dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old.



Theirs had been a bitter fight, and Venters felt a strange



sympathy for them. This country was hard on trees--and men.







He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the



open valley. As he progressed, the belt of trees widened and he



kept to its upper margin. He passed shady pockets half full of



water, and, as he marked the location for possible future need,



he reflected that there had been no rain since the winter snows.



From one of these shady holes a rabbit hopped out and squatted



down, laying its ears flat.







Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself



to think of. But it would not do to fire his rifle there. So he



broke off a cedar branch and threw it. He crippled the rabbit,



which started to flounder up the slope. Venters did not wish to



lose the meat, and he never allowed crippled game to escape, to



die lingeringly in some covert. So after a careful glance below,



and back toward the canyon, he began to chase the rabbit.







The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him.



But it presently seemed singular why this rabbit, that might have



escaped downward, chose to ascend the slope. Venters knew then



that it had a burrow higher up. More than once he jerked over to



seize it, only in vain, for the rabbit by renewed effort eluded



his grasp. Thus the chase continued on up the bare slope. The



farther Venters climbed the more determined he grew to catch his



quarry. At last, panting and sweating, he captured the rabbit at



the foot of a steeper grade. Laying his rifle on the bulge of



rising stone, he killed the animal and slung it from his belt.







Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had



climbed far up that wonderful smooth slope, and had almost



reached the base of yellow cliff that rose skyward, a huge



scarred and cracked bulk. It frowned down upon him as if to



forbid further ascent. Venters bent over for his rifle, and, as



he picked it up from where it leaned against the steeper grade,



he saw several little nicks cut in the solid stone.







They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. Venters



began to count them--one--two--three--four--on up to sixteen.



That number carried his glance to the top of his first bulging



bench of cliff-base. Above, after a more level offset, was still



steeper slope, and the line of nicks kept on, to wind round a



projecting corner of wall.







A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if



Venters had not known what they signified he would never have



bestowed upon them the second glance. But he knew they had been



cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, he recognized them as



steps cut in the rock by the cliff-dwellers. With a pulse



beginning to beat and hammer away his calmness, he eyed that



indistinct line of steps, up to where the buttress of wall hid



further sight of them. He knew that behind the corner of stone



would be a cave or a crack which could never be suspected from



below. Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directed



him to a probable hiding-place. Again he laid aside his rifle,



and, removing boots and belt, he began to walk up the steps. Like



a mountain goat, he was agile, sure-footed, and he mounted the



first bench without bending to use his hands. The next ascent



took grip of fingers as well as toes, but he climbed steadily,



swiftly, to reach the projecting corner, and slipped around it.



Here he faced a notch in the cliff. At the apex he turned



abruptly into a ragged vent that split the ponderous wall clear



to the top, showing a narrow streak of blue sky.







At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, musty



dust. It zigzagged so that he could not see ahead more than a few



yards at a time. He noticed tracks of wildcats and rabbits in the



dusty floor. At every turn he expected to come upon a huge cavern



full of little square stone houses, each with a small aperture



like a staring dark eye. The passage lightened and widened, and



opened at the foot of a narrow, steep, ascending chute.







Venters had a moment's notice of the rock, which was of the same



smoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his gaze went



irresistibly upward to the precipitous walls of this wide ladder



of granite. These were ruined walls of yellow sandstone, and so



split and splintered, so overhanging with great sections of



balancing rim, so impending with tremendous crumbling crags, that



Venters caught his breath sharply, and, appalled, he



instinctively recoiled as if a step upward might jar the



ponderous cliffs from their foundation. Indeed, it seemed that



these ruined cliffs were but awaiting a breath of wind to



collapse and come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It would be a



foolhardy man who risked his life under the leaning, waiting



avalanches of rock in that gigantic split. Yet how many years had



they leaned there without falling! At the bottom of the incline



was an immense heap of weathered sandstone all crumbling to dust,



but there were no huge rocks as large as houses, such as rested



so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently and



inevitably to crash down. Slowly split from the parent rock by



the weathering process, and carved and sculptured by ages of wind



and rain, they waited their moment. Venters felt how foolish it



was for him to fear these broken walls; to fear that, after they



had endured for thousands of years, the moment of his passing



should be the one for them to slip. Yet he feared it.







"What a place to hide!" muttered Venters. "I'll climb--I'll see



where this thing goes. If only I can find water!"







With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline. And as he climbed



he bent his eyes downward. This, however, after a little grew



impossible; he had to look to obey his eager, curious mind. He



raised his glance and saw light between row on row of shafts and



pinnacles and crags that stood out from the main wall. Some



leaned against the cliff, others against each other; many stood



sheer and alone; all were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It was a



place of yellow, ragged ruin. The passage narrowed as he went up;



it became a slant, hard for him to stick on; it was smooth as



marble. Finally he surmounted it, surprised to find the walls



still several hundred feet high, and a narrow gorge leading down



on the other side. This was a divide between two inclines, about



twenty yards wide. At one side stood an enormous rock. Venters



gave it a second glance, because it rested on a pedestal. It



attracted closer attention. It was like a colossal pear of stone



standing on its stem. Around the bottom were thousands of little



nicks just distinguishable to the eye. They were marks of stone



hatchets. The cliff-dwellers had chipped and chipped away at this



boulder fill it rested its tremendous bulk upon a mere pin-point



of its surface. Venters pondered. Why had the little stone-men



hacked away at that big boulder? It bore no semblance to a statue



or an idol or a godhead or a sphinx. Instinctively he put his



hands on it and pushed; then his shoulder and heaved. The stone



seemed to groan, to stir, to grate, and then to move. It tipped a



little downward and hung balancing for a long instant, slowly



returned, rocked slightly, groaned, and settled back to its



former position.







Venters divined its significance. It had been meant for defense.



The cliff-dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this last stand,



had cunningly cut the rock until it balanced perfectly, ready to be



dislodged by strong hands. Just below it leaned a tottering crag



that would have toppled, starting an avalanche on an acclivity



where no sliding mass could stop. Crags and pinnacles, splintered



cliffs, and leaning shafts and monuments, would have thundered down



to block forever the outlet to Deception Pass.







"That was a narrow shave for me," said Venters, soberly. "A



balancing rock! The cliff-dwellers never had to roll it. They



died, vanished, and here the rock stands, probably little



changed....But it might serve another lonely dweller of the



cliffs. I'll hide up here somewhere, if I can only find water."







He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was gradual,



the space narrow, the course straight for many rods. A gloom hung



between the up-sweeping walls. In a turn the passage narrowed to



scarce a dozen feet, and here was darkness of night. But light



shone ahead; another abrupt turn brought day again, and then wide



open space.







Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging the



canyon rims, and through the enormous round portal gleamed and



glistened a beautiful valley shining under sunset gold reflected



by surrounding cliffs. He gave a start of surprise. The valley



was a cove a mile long, half that wide, and its enclosing walls



were smooth and stained, and curved inward, forming great caves.



He decided that its floor was far higher than the level of



Deception Pass and the intersecting canyons. No purple sage



colored this valley floor. Instead there were the white of



aspens, streaks of branch and slender trunk glistening from the



green of leaves, and the darker green of oaks, and through the



middle of this forest, from wall to wall, ran a winding line of



brilliant green which marked the course of cottonwoods and



willows.







"There's water here--and this is the place for me," said Venters.



"Only birds can peep over those walls, I've gone Oldring one



better."







Venters waited no longer, and turned swiftly to retrace his



steps. He named the canyon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder



that guarded the outlet Balancing Rock. Going down he did not



find himself attended by such fears as had beset him in the



climb; still, he was not easy in mind and could not occupy



himself with plans of moving the girl and his outfit until he had



descended to the notch. There he rested a moment and looked about



him. The pass was darkening with the approach of night. At the



corner of the wall, where the stone steps turned, he saw a spur



of rock that would serve to hold the noose of a lasso. He needed



no more aid to scale that place. As he intended to make the move



under cover of darkness, he wanted most to be able to tell where



to climb up. So, taking several small stones with him, he stepped



and slid down to the edge of the slope where he had left his



rifle and boots. He placed the stones some yards apart. He left



the rabbit lying upon the bench where the steps began. Then he



addressed a keen-sighted, remembering gaze to the rim-wall above.



It was serrated, and between two spears of rock, directly in line



with his position, showed a zigzag crack that at night would let



through the gleam of sky. This settled, he put on his belt and



boots and prepared to descend. Some consideration was necessary



to decide whether or not to leave his rifle there. On the return,



carrying the girl and a pack, it would be added encumbrance; and



after debating the matter he left the rifle leaning against the



bench. As he went straight down the slope he halted every few



rods to look up at his mark on the rim. It changed, but he fixed



each change in his memory. When he reached the first cedar-tree,



he tied his scarf upon a dead branch, and then hurried toward



camp, having no more concern about finding his trail upon the



return trip.







Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. It occurred



to him, as he glided into the grassy glade near camp and head the



whinny of a horse, that he had forgotten Wrangle. The big sorrel



could not be gotten into Surprise Valley. He would have to be



left here.







Venters determined at once to lead the other horses out through



the thicket and turn them loose. The farther they wandered from



this canyon the better it would suit him. He easily descried



Wrangle through the gloom, but the others were not in sight.



Venters whistled low for the dogs, and when they came trotting to



him he sent them out to search for the horses, and followed. It



soon developed that they were not in the glade nor the thicket.



Venters grew cold and rigid at the thought of rustlers having



entered his retreat. But the thought passed, for the demeanor of



Ring and Whitie reassured him. The horses had wandered away.







Under the clump of silver spruces a denser mantle of darkness,



yet not so thick that Venter's night-practiced eyes could not



catch the white oval of a still face. He bent over it with a



slight suspension of breath that was both caution lest he



frighten her and chill uncertainty of feeling lest he find her



dead. But she slept, and he arose to renewed activity.







He packed his saddle-bags. The dogs were hungry, they whined



about him and nosed his busy hands; but he took no time to feed



them nor to satisfy his own hunger. He slung the saddlebags over



his shoulders and made them secure with his lasso. Then he



wrapped the blankets closer about the girl and lifted her in his



arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumped the ground as Venters passed



him with the dogs. The sorrel knew he was being left behind, and



was not sure whether he liked it or not. Venters went on and



entered the thicket. Here he had to feel his way in pitch



blackness and to wedge his progress between the close saplings.



Time meant little to him now that he had started, and he edged



along with slow side movement till he got clear of the thicket.



Ring and Whitie stood waiting for him. Taking to the open aisles



and patches of the sage, he walked guardedly, careful not to



stumble or step in dust or strike against spreading



sage-branches.







If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time, when



he passed out of the black lines of shade into the wan starlight,



he glanced at the white face of the girl lying in his arms. She



had not awakened from her sleep or stupor. He did not rest until



he cleared the black gate of the canyon. Then he leaned against a



stone breast-high to him and gently released the girl from his



hold. His brow and hair and the palms of his hands were wet, and



there was a kind of nervous contraction of his muscles. They



seemed to ripple and string tense. He had a desire to hurry and



no sense of fatigue. A wind blew the scent of sage in his face.



The first early blackness of night passed with the brightening of



the stars. Somewhere back on his trail a coyote yelped, splitting



the dead silence. Venters's faculties seemed singularly



acute.







He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley better



traveling than the canyon. It was lighter, freer of sage, and



there were no rocks. Soon, out of the pale gloom shone a still



paler thing, and that was the low swell of slope. Venters mounted



it and his dogs walked beside him. Once upon the stone he slowed



to snail pace, straining his sight to avoid the pockets and



holes. Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars, like great



demons and witches chained to the rock and writhing in silent



anguish, loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. Venters



crossed this belt of cedars, skirted the upper border, and



recognized the tree he had marked, even before he saw his waving



scarf.







Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently, feet first and



slowly laid her out full length. What he feared was to reopen one



of her wounds. If he gave her a violent jar, or slipped and fell!



But the supreme confidence so strangely felt that night admitted



no such blunders.







The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity to lose its



definite outline in a misty, opaque cloud that shaded into the



over-shadowing wall. He scanned the rim where the serrated points



speared the sky, and he found the zigzag crack. It was dim, only



a shade lighter than the dark ramparts, but he distinguished it,



and that served.







Lifting the girl, he stepped upward, closely attending to the



nature of the path under his feet. After a few steps he stopped



to mark his line with the crack in the rim. The dogs clung closer



to him. While chasing the rabbit this slope had appeared



interminable to him; now, burdened as he was, he did not think of



length or height or toil. He remembered only to avoid a misstep



and to keep his direction. He climbed on, with frequent stops to



watch the rim, and before he dreamed of gaining the bench he



bumped his knees into it, and saw, in the dim gray light, his



rifle and the rabbit. He had come straight up without mishap or



swerving off his course, and his shut teeth unlocked.







As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little



ridge with her white face upturned, she opened her eyes. Wide,



staring black, at once like both the night and the stars, they



made her face seem still whiter.







"Is--it--you?" she asked, faintly.







"Yes," replied Venters.







"Oh! Where--are we?"







"I'm taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find you.



I must climb a little here and call the dogs. Don't be afraid.



I'll soon come for you."







She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a moment and



then closed. Venters pulled off his boots and then felt for the



little steps in the rock. The shade of the cliff above obscured



the point he wanted to gain, but he could see dimly a few feet



before him. What he had attempted with care he now went at with



surpassing lightness. Buoyant, rapid, sure, he attained the



corner of wall and slipped around it. Here he could not see a



hand before his face, so he groped along, found a little flat



space, and there removed the saddle-bags. The lasso he took back



with him to the corner and looped the noose over the spur of



rock.







"Ring--Whitie--come," he called, softly.







Low whines came up from below.







"Here! Come, Whitie--Ring," he repeated, this time sharply.







Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet; and out of



the gray gloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to reach his



side and pass beyond.







Venters descended, holding to the lasso. He tested its strength



by throwing all his weight upon it. Then he gathered the girl up,



and, holding her securely in his left arm, he began to climb, at



every few steps jerking his right hand upward along the lasso. It



sagged at each forward movement he made, but he balanced himself



lightly during the interval when he lacked the support of a taut



rope. He climbed as if he had wings, the strength of a giant, and



knew not the sense of fear. The sharp corner of cliff seemed to



cut out of the darkness. He reached it and the protruding shelf,



and then, entering the black shade of the notch, he moved blindly



but surely to the place where he had left the saddle-bags. He



heard the dogs, though he could not see them. Once more he



carefully placed the girl at his feet. Then, on hands and knees,



he went over the little flat space, feeling for stones. He



removed a number, and, scraping the deep dust into a heap, he



unfolded the outer blanket from around the girl and laid her upon



this bed. Then he went down the slope again for his boots, rifle,



and the rabbit, and, bringing also his lasso with him, he made



short work of that trip.







"Are--you--there?" The girl's voice came low from the blackness.







"Yes," he replied, and was conscious that his laboring breast



made speech difficult.







"Are we--in a cave?"







"Yes."







"Oh, listen!...The waterfall!...I hear it! You've brought me



back!"







Venters heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled to a pitch



almost softly shrill and the next lulled to a low, almost



inaudible sigh.







"That's--wind blowing--in the--cliffs," he panted. "You're far



from Oldring's--canyon."







The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme



lassitude following upon great exertion. It seemed that when he



lay down and drew his blanket over him the action was the last



before utter prostration. He stretched inert, wet, hot, his body



one great strife of throbbing, stinging nerves and bursting



veins. And there he lay for a long while before he felt that he



had begun to rest.







Rest came to him that night, but no sleep. Sleep he did not want.



The hours of strained effort were now as if they had never been,



and he wanted to think. Earlier in the day he had dismissed an



inexplicable feeling of change; but now, when there was no longer



demand on his cunning and strength and he had time to think, he



could not catch the illusive thing that had sadly perplexed as



well as elevated his spirit.







Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the cliff,



shone the lustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers for a



long, long year. To-night they were different. He studied them.



Larger, whiter, more radiant they seemed; but that was not the



difference he meant. Gradually it came to him that the



distinction was not one he saw, but one he felt. In this he



divined as much of the baffling change as he thought would be



revealed to him then. And as he lay there, with the singing of



the cliff-winds in his ears, the white stars above the dark, bold



vent, the difference which he felt was that he was no longer



alone.





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