Zane Grey - Riders of the Purple Sage

Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could not tell. Lassiter’s horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams. Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time to save them, and went on dripping, heaving, staggering.

“Oh, Lassiter, we must run – we must run!”

He looked back, saying nothing. The bandage had blown from his head, and blood trickled down his face. He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of the ride, of his burden. Yet how cool and gay he looked – how intrepid!

The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk. Hours sped or dragged. Time was an instant – an eternity. Jane Withersteen felt hell pursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall from her horse.

“Oh, Lassiter! Is he coming?”

The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fay’s golden hair floated on the breeze. The sun shone; the walls gleamed; the sage glistened. And then it seemed the sun vanished, the walls shaded, the sage paled. The horses walked – trotted – galloped – ran – to fall again to walk. Shadows gathered under shelving cliffs. The canyon turned, brightened, opened into a long, wide, wall-enclosed valley. Again the sun, lowering in the west, reddened the sage. Far ahead round, scrawled stone appeared to block the Pass.

“Bear up, Jane, bear up!” called Lassiter. “It’s our game, if you don’t weaken.”

“Lassiter! Go on – alone! Save little Fay!”

“Only with you!”

“Oh! – I’m a coward – a miserable coward! I can’t fight or think or hope or pray! I’m lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is he coming? I’ll not – hold out—”

“Keep your breath, woman, an’ ride not for yourself or for me, but for Fay!”

A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter’s horse to a walk.

“He’s done,” said the rider.

“Oh, no – no!” moaned Jane.

“Look back, Jane, look back. Three – four miles we’ve come across this valley, an’ no Tull yet in sight. Only a few more miles!”

Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gap in the wall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horse in the lead. Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold, horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiter’s limping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last at Fay’s golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, Lassiter’s horse stumbled and fell. He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle.

“Jane, take the child,” he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane clasped her arms suddenly strong. “They’re gainin’,” went on Lassiter, as he watched the pursuing riders. “But we’ll beat ’em yet.”

Turning with Jane’s bridle in his hand, he was about to start when he saw the saddle-bag on the fallen horse.

“I’ve jest about got time,” he muttered, and with swift fingers that did not blunder or fumble he loosened the bag and threw it over his shoulder. Then he started to run, leading Jane’s horse, and he ran, and trotted, and walked, and ran again. Close ahead now Jane saw a rise of bare rock. Lassiter reached it, searched along the base, and, finding a low place, dragged the weary horse up and over round, smooth stone. Looking backward, Jane saw Tull’s white horse not a mile distant, with riders strung out in a long line behind him. Looking forward, she saw more valley to the right, and to the left a towering cliff. Lassiter pulled the horse and kept on.

Little Fay lay in her arms with wide-open eyes – eyes which were still shadowed by pain, but no longer fixed, glazed in terror. The golden curls blew across Jane’s lips; the little hands feebly clasped her arm; a ghost of a troubled, trustful smile hovered round the sweet lips. And Jane Withersteen awoke to the spirit of a lioness.

Lassiter was leading the horse up a smooth slope toward cedar trees of twisted and bleached appearance. Among these he halted.

“Jane, give me the girl an’ get down,” he said. As if it wrenched him he unbuckled the empty black guns with a strange air of finality. He then received Fay in his arms and stood a moment looking backward. Tull’s white horse mounted the ridge of round stone, and several bays or blacks followed. “I wonder what he’ll think when he sees them empty guns. Jane, bring your saddle-bag and climb after me.”

A glistening, wonderful bare slope, with little holes, swelled up and up to lose itself in a frowning yellow cliff. Jane closely watched her steps and climbed behind Lassiter. He moved slowly. Perhaps he was only husbanding his strength. But she saw drops of blood on the stone, and then she knew. They climbed and climbed without looking back. Her breast labored; she began to feel as if little points of fiery steel were penetrating her side into her lungs. She heard the panting of Lassiter and the quicker panting of the dogs.

“Wait – here,” he said.

Before her rose a bulge of stone, nicked with little cut steps, and above that a corner of yellow wall, and overhanging that a vast, ponderous cliff.

The dogs pattered up, disappeared round the corner. Lassiter mounted the steps with Fay, and he swayed like a drunken man, and he too disappeared. But instantly he returned alone, and half ran, half slipped down to her.

Then from below pealed up hoarse shouts of angry men. Tull and several of his riders had reached the spot where Lassiter had parted with his guns.

“You’ll need that breath – mebbe!” said Lassiter, facing downward, with glittering eyes.

“Now, Jane, the last pull,” he went on. “Walk up them little steps. I’ll follow an’ steady you. Don’t think. Jest go. Little Fay’s above. Her eyes are open. She jest said to me, ‘Where’s muvver Jane?’ ”

Without a fear or a tremor or a slip or a touch of Lassiter’s hand Jane Withersteen walked up that ladder of cut steps.

He pushed her round the corner of the wall. Fay lay, with wide staring eyes, in the shade of a gloomy wall. The dogs waited. Lassiter picked up the child and turned into a dark cleft. It zigzagged. It widened. It opened. Jane was amazed at a wonderfully smooth and steep incline leading up between ruined, splintered, toppling walls. A red haze from the setting sun filled this passage. Lassiter climbed with slow, measured steps, and blood dripped from him to make splotches on the white stone. Jane tried not to step in his blood, but was compelled, for she found no other footing. The saddle-bag began to drag her down; she gasped for breath, she thought her heart was bursting. Slower, slower yet the rider climbed, whistling as he breathed. The incline widened. Huge pinnacles and monuments of stone stood alone, leaning fearfully. Red sunset haze shone through cracks where the wall had split. Jane did not look high, but she felt the overshadowing of broken rims above. She felt that it was a fearful, menacing place. And she climbed on in heartrending effort. And she fell beside Lassiter and Fay at the top of the incline in a narrow, smooth divide.

He staggered to his feet – staggered to a huge, leaning rock that rested on a small pedestal. He put his hand on it – the hand that had been shot through – and Jane saw blood drip from the ragged hole. Then he fell.

“Jane – I – can’t – do – it!” he whispered.

“What?”

“Roll the – stone! … All my – life I’ve loved – to roll stones – an’ now I – can’t!”

“What of it? You talk strangely. Why roll that stone?”

“I planned to – fetch you here – to roll this stone. See! It’ll smash the crags – loosen the walls – close the outlet!”