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his daily report about the horses. One of his daily duties was to give Black
Star and Night and the other racers a ten-mile run. This day it had been
omitted, and the boy grew confused in explanations that she had not asked for.
She did inquire if he would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in mingled
surprise and relief, assured her he would always work for her. Jane missed the
rattle and trot, canter and gallop of the incoming riders on the hard trails.
Dusk shaded the grove where she walked; the birds ceased singing; the wind
sighed through the leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running water murmured
down its stone-bedded channel. The glimmering of the first star was like the
peace and beauty of the night. Her faith welled up in her heart and said that
all would soon be right in her little world. She pictured Venters about his
lonely camp-fire sitting between his faithful dogs. She prayed for his safety,
for the success of his undertaking.
Early the next morning one of Jane s women brought in word that Judkins
wished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in her surprise to see him armed
with rifle and revolver, she forgot her intention to inquire about his wound.
 Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns.
 It s high time, Miss Withersteen, he replied.  Will you come into the
grove? It ain t jest exactly safe for me to be seen here.
She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods.
 What do you mean?
 Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother s house last night. While there, some
one knocked, an a man asked for me. I went to the door. He wore a mask. He
said I d better not ride any more for Jane Withersteen. His voice was hoarse
an strange, disguised I reckon, like his face. He said no more, an ran off
in the dark.
 Did you know who he was? asked Jane, in a low voice.
Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she feared to know. All
her calmness fled at a single thought
 Thet s why I m packin guns, went on Judkins.  For I ll never quit ridin
for you, Miss Withersteen, till you let me go.
 Judkins, do you want to leave me?
 Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss  a fast hoss, an send me out on the
sage.
 Oh, thank you, Judkins! You re more faithful than my own people. I ought not
accept your loyalty  you might suffer more through it. But what in the world
can I do? My head whirls. The wrong to Venters  the stolen herd  these
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masks, threats, this coil in the dark! I can t understand! But I feel
something dark and terrible closing in around me.
 Miss Withersteen, it s all simple enough, said Judkins, earnestly.  Now
please listen  an beggin your pardon  jest turn thet deaf Mormon ear
aside, an let me talk clear an plain in the other. I went around to the
saloons an the stores an the loafin places yesterday. All your riders are
in. There s talk of a vigilance band organized to hunt down rustlers. They
call themselves  The Riders. Thet s the report  thet s the reason given for
your riders leavin you. Strange thet only a few riders of other ranchers
joined the band! An Tull s man, Jerry Card  he s the leader. I seen him an
his hoss. He ain t been to Glaze. I m not easy to fool on the looks of a hoss
thet s traveled the sage. Tull an Jerry didn t ride to Glaze! & Well, I met
Blake an Dorn, both good friends of mine, usually, as far as their Mormon
lights will let  em go. But these fellers couldn t fool me, an they didn t
try very hard. I asked them, straight out like a man, why they left you like
thet. I didn t forget to mention how you nursed Blake s poor old mother when
she was sick, an how good you was to Dorn s kids. They looked ashamed, Miss
Withersteen. An they jest froze up  thet dark set look thet makes them
strange an different to me. But I could tell the difference between thet
first natural twinge of conscience an the later look of some secret thing.
An the difference I caught was thet they couldn t help themselves. They
hadn t no say in the matter. They looked as if their bein unfaithful to you
was bein faithful to a higher duty. An there s the secret. Why it s as plain
as  as sight of my gun here.
 Plain! & My herds to wander in the sage  to be stolen! Jane Withersteen a
poor woman! Her head to be brought low and her spirit broken! & Why, Judkins,
it s plain enough.
 Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an hold the white
herd. It s on the slope now, not ten miles out  three thousand head, an all
steers. They re wild, an likely to stampede at the pop of a jack-rabbit s
ears. We ll camp right with them, an try to hold them.
 Judkins, I ll reward you some day for your service, unless all is taken from
me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you pick of my horses, except Black
Star and Night. But  do not shed blood for my cattle nor heedlessly risk your
lives.
Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room, and there
could not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath. She went stone-blind in
the fury of a passion that had never before showed its power. Lying upon her
bed, sightless, voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossed
there while her fury burned and burned, and finally burned itself out.
Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression that would
break her, but of this new revelation of self. Until the last few days there
had been little in her life to rouse passions. Her forefathers had been
Vikings, savage chieftains who bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their
will. Her father had inherited that temper; and at times, like antelope
fleeing before fire on the slope, his people fled from his red rages. Jane
Withersteen realized that the spirit of wrath and war had lain dormant in her.
She shrank from black depths hitherto unsuspected. The one thing in man or
woman that she scorned above all scorn, and which she could not forgive, was
hate. Hate headed a flaming pathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond
her control there had been in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man who had
dragged her peaceful and loving spirit to this degradation was a minister of
God s word, an Elder of her church, the counselor of her beloved Bishop.
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The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the Old Stone House,
no longer concerned Jane Withersteen, she faced the foremost thought of her
life, what she now considered the mightiest problem  the salvation of her
soul.
She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had never prayed in
all her life  prayed to be forgiven for her sin to be immune from that dark,
hot hate; to love Tull as her minister, though she could not love him as a
man; to do her duty by her church and people and those dependent upon her
bounty; to hold reverence of God and womanhood inviolate.
When Jane Withersteen rose from that storm of wrath and prayer for help she
was serene, calm, sure  a changed woman. She would do her duty as she saw it,
live her life as her own truth guided her. She might never be able to marry a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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