THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN
“Lassiter, will you be my rider?” Jane had asked him.
“I reckon so,” he had replied.
Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they implied. She
wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges, and save
them if that were possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloud
all she meant, she was perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the
price to be paid, she must keep Lassiter close to her; she must shield
from him the man who had led Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she
so controlled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon’s name to
her own soul, she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing she
regarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of a
helper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she could
rule this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep
him from shedding blood, what strategy to play his flame and his
presence against the game of oppression her churchmen were waging
against her? Never would she forget the effect on Tull and his men when
Venters shouted Lassiter’s name. If she could not wholly control
Lassiter, then what she could do might put off the fatal day.
One of her safe racers was a dark bay, and she called him Bells because
of the way he struck his iron shoes on the stones. When Jerd led out
this slender, beautifully built horse Lassiter suddenly became all
eyes. A rider’s love of a thoroughbred shone in them. Round and round
Bells he walked, plainly weakening all the time in his determination
not to take one of Jane’s favorite racers.
“Lassiter, you’re half horse, and Bells sees it already,” said Jane,
laughing. “Look at his eyes. He likes you. He’ll love you, too. How can
you resist him? Oh, Lassiter, but Bells can run! It’s nip and tuck
between him and Wrangle, and only Black Star can beat him. He’s too
spirited a horse for a woman. Take him. He’s yours.”
“I jest am weak where a hoss’s concerned,” said Lassiter. “I’ll take
him, an’ I’ll take your orders, ma’am.”
“Well, I’m glad, but never mind the ma’am. Let it still be Jane.”
From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, riding
early and late, and coincident with his part in Jane’s affairs the days
assumed their old tranquillity. Her intelligence told her this was only
the lull before the storm, but her faith would not have it so.
She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these she
encountered Tull. He greeted her as he had before any trouble came
between them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick to forget, met
him halfway with manner almost cheerful. He regretted the loss of her
cattle; he assured her that the vigilantes which had been organized
would soon rout the rustlers; when that had been accomplished her
riders would likely return to her.
“You’ve done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter,” Tull went
on, severely. “He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent.”
“I had to have somebody. And perhaps making him my rider may turn out
best in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods.”
“You mean to stay his hand?”
“I do—if I can.”
“A woman like you can do anything with a man. That would be well, and
would atone in some measure for the errors you have made.”
He bowed and passed on. Jane resumed her walk with conflicting
thoughts. She resented Elder Tull’s cold, impassive manner that looked
down upon her as one who had incurred his just displeasure. Otherwise
he would have been the same calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had
known for ten years. In fact, except when he had revealed his passion
in the matter of the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could
be other than the grave, reproving preacher. He stood out now a
strange, secretive man. She would have thought better of him if he had
picked up the threads of their quarrel where they had parted. Was Tull
what he appeared to be? The question flung itself in-voluntarily over
Jane Withersteen’s inhibitive habit of faith without question. And she
refused to answer it. Tull could not fight in the open. Venters had
said, Lassiter had said, that her Elder shirked fight and worked in the
dark. Just now in this meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had
sued, exhorted, demanded that she marry him. He made no mention of
Venters. His manner was that of the minister who had been outraged, but
who overlooked the frailties of a woman. Beyond question he seemed
unutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to bear
upon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret power over
riders, with night journeys, with rustlers and stampedes of cattle. And
that convinced her again of unjust suspicions. But it was convincement
through an obstinate faith. She shuddered as she accepted it, and that
shudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt.
Jane turned into one of the wide lanes leading from the main street and
entered a huge, shady yard. Here were sweet-smelling clover, alfalfa,
flowers, and vegetables, all growing in happy confusion. And like these
fresh green things were the dozens of babies, tots, toddlers, noisy
urchins, laughing girls, a whole multitude of children of one family.
For Collier Brandt, the father of all this numerous progeny, was a
Mormon with four wives.
The big house where they lived was old, solid, picturesque, the lower
part built of logs, the upper of rough clapboards, with vines growing
up the outside stone chimneys. There were many wooden-shuttered
windows, and one pretentious window of glass proudly curtained in
white. As this house had four mistresses, it likewise had four separate
sections, not one of which communicated with another, and all had to be
entered from the outside.
In the shade of a wide, low, vine-roofed porch Jane found Brandt’s
wives entertaining Bishop Dyer. They were motherly women, of
comparatively similar ages, and plain-featured, and just at this moment
anything but grave. The Bishop was rather tall, of stout build, with
iron-gray hair and beard, and eyes of light blue. They were merry now;
but Jane had seen them when they were not, and then she feared him as
she had feared her father.
The women flocked around her in welcome.
“Daughter of Withersteen,” said the Bishop, gaily, as he took her hand,
“you have not been prodigal of your gracious self of late. A Sabbath
without you at service! I shall reprove Elder Tull.”
“Bishop, the guilt is mine. I’ll come to you and confess,” Jane
replied, lightly; but she felt the undercurrent of her words.
“Mormon love-making!” exclaimed the Bishop, rubbing his hands. “Tull
keeps you all to himself.”
“No. He is not courting me.”
“What? The laggard! If he does not make haste I’ll go a-courting myself
up to Withersteen House.”
There was laughter and further bantering by the Bishop, and then mild
talk of village affairs, after which he took his leave, and Jane was
left with her friend, Mary Brandt.
“Jane, you’re not yourself. Are you sad about the rustling of the
cattle? But you have so many, you are so rich.”
Then Jane confided in her, telling much, yet holding back her doubts of
fear.
“Oh, why don’t you marry Tull and be one of us?”
“But, Mary, I don’t love Tull,” said Jane, stubbornly.
“I don’t blame you for that. But, Jane Withersteen, you’ve got to
choose between the love of man and love of God. Often we Mormon women
have to do that. It’s not easy. The kind of happiness you want I wanted
once. I never got it, nor will you, unless you throw away your soul.
We’ve all watched your affair with Venters in fear and trembling. Some
dreadful thing will come of it. You don’t want him hanged or shot—or
treated worse, as that Gentile boy was treated in Glaze for fooling
round a Mormon woman. Marry Tull. It’s your duty as a Mormon. You’ll
feel no rapture as his wife—but think of Heaven! Mormon women don’t
marry for what they expect on earth. Take up the cross, Jane. Remember
your father found Amber Spring, built these old houses, brought Mormons
here, and fathered them. You are the daughter of Withersteen!”
Jane left Mary Brandt and went to call upon other friends. They
received her with the same glad welcome as had Mary, lavished upon her
the pent-up affection of Mormon women, and let her go with her ears
ringing of Tull, Venters, Lassiter, of duty to God and glory in Heaven.
“Verily,” murmured Jane, “I don’t know myself when, through all this, I
remain unchanged—nay, more fixed of purpose.”
She returned to the main street and bent her thoughtful steps toward
the center of the village. A string of wagons drawn by oxen was
lumbering along. These “sage-freighters,” as they were called, hauled
grain and flour and merchandise from Sterling, and Jane laughed
suddenly in the midst of her humility at the thought that they were her
property, as was one of the three stores for which they freighted
goods. The water that flowed along the path at her feet, and turned
into each cottage-yard to nourish garden and orchard, also was hers, no
less her private property because she chose to give it free. Yet in
this village of Cottonwoods, which her father had founded and which she
maintained she was not her own mistress; she was not able to abide by
her own choice of a husband. She was the daughter of Withersteen.
Suppose she proved it, imperiously! But she quelled that proud
temptation at its birth.
Nothing could have replaced the affection which the village people had
for her; no power could have made her happy as the pleasure her
presence gave. As she went on down the street past the stores with
their rude platform entrances, and the saloons where tired horses stood
with bridles dragging, she was again assured of what was the bread and
wine of life to her—that she was loved. Dirty boys playing in the
ditch, clerks, teamsters, riders, loungers on the corners, ranchers on
dusty horses, little girls running errands, and women hurrying to the
stores all looked up at her coming with glad eyes.
Jane’s various calls and wandering steps at length led her to the
Gentile quarter of the village. This was at the extreme southern end,
and here some thirty Gentile families lived in huts and shacks and
log-cabins and several dilapidated cottages. The fortunes of these
inhabitants of Cottonwoods could be read in their abodes. Water they
had in abundance, and therefore grass and fruit-trees and patches of
alfalfa and vegetable gardens. Some of the men and boys had a few stray
cattle, others obtained such intermittent employment as the Mormons
reluctantly tendered them. But none of the families was prosperous,
many were very poor, and some lived only by Jane Withersteen’s
beneficence.
As it made Jane happy to go among her own people, so it saddened her to
come in contact with these Gentiles. Yet that was not because she was
unwelcome; here she was gratefully received by the women, passionately
by the children. But poverty and idleness, with their attendant
wretchedness and sorrow, always hurt her. That she could alleviate this
distress more now than ever before proved the adage that it was an ill
wind that blew nobody good. While her Mormon riders were in her employ
she had found few Gentiles who would stay with her, and now she was
able to find employment for all the men and boys. No little shock was
it to have man after man tell her that he dare not accept her kind
offer.
“It won’t do,” said one Carson, an intelligent man who had seen better
days. “We’ve had our warning. Plain and to the point! Now there’s
Judkins, he packs guns, and he can use them, and so can the daredevil
boys he’s hired. But they’ve little responsibility. Can we risk having
our homes burned in our absence?”
Jane felt the stretching and chilling of the skin of her face as the
blood left it.
“Carson, you and the others rent these houses?” she asked.
“You ought to know, Miss Withersteen. Some of them are yours.”
“I know?... Carson, I never in my life took a day’s labor for rent or a
yearling calf or a bunch of grass, let alone gold.”
“Bivens, your store-keeper, sees to that.”
“Look here, Carson,” went on Jane, hurriedly, and now her cheeks were
burning. “You and Black and Willet pack your goods and move your
families up to my cabins in the grove. They’re far more comfortable
than these. Then go to work for me. And if aught happens to you there
I’ll give you money—gold enough to leave Utah!”
The man choked and stammered, and then, as tears welled into his eyes,
he found the use of his tongue and cursed. No gentle speech could ever
have equaled that curse in eloquent expression of what he felt for Jane
Withersteen. How strangely his look and tone reminded her of Lassiter!
“No, it won’t do,” he said, when he had somewhat recovered himself.
“Miss Withersteen, there are things that you don’t know, and there’s
not a soul among us who can tell you.”
“I seem to be learning many things, Carson. Well, then, will you let me
aid you—say till better times?”
“Yes, I will,” he replied, with his face lighting up. “I see what it
means to you, and you know what it means to me. Thank you! And if
better times ever come, I’ll be only too happy to work for you.”
“Better times will come. I trust God and have faith in man. Good day,
Carson.”
The lane opened out upon the sage-inclosed alfalfa fields, and the last
habitation, at the end of that lane of hovels, was the meanest.
Formerly it had been a shed; now it was a home. The broad leaves of a
wide-spreading cottonwood sheltered the sunken roof of weathered
boards. Like an Indian hut, it had one floor. Round about it were a few
scanty rows of vegetables, such as the hand of a weak woman had time
and strength to cultivate. This little dwelling-place was just outside
the village limits, and the widow who lived there had to carry her
water from the nearest irrigation ditch. As Jane Withersteen entered
the unfenced yard a child saw her, shrieked with joy, and came tearing
toward her with curls flying. This child was a little girl of four
called Fay. Her name suited her, for she was an elf, a sprite, a
creature so fairy-like and beautiful that she seemed unearthly.
“Muvver sended for oo,” cried Fay, as Jane kissed her, “an’ oo never
tome.”
“I didn’t know, Fay; but I’ve come now.”
Fay was a child of outdoors, of the garden and ditch and field, and she
was dirty and ragged. But rags and dirt did not hide her beauty. The
one thin little bedraggled garment she wore half covered her fine, slim
body. Red as cherries were her cheeks and lips; her eyes were violet
blue, and the crown of her childish loveliness was the curling golden
hair. All the children of Cottonwoods were Jane Withersteen’s friends,
she loved them all. But Fay was dearest to her. Fay had few playmates,
for among the Gentile children there were none near her age, and the
Mormon children were forbidden to play with her. So she was a shy,
wild, lonely child.
“Muvver’s sick,” said Fay, leading Jane toward the door of the hut.
Jane went in. There was only one room, rather dark and bare, but it was
clean and neat. A woman lay upon a bed.
“Mrs. Larkin, how are you?” asked Jane, anxiously.
“I’ve been pretty bad for a week, but I’m better now.”
“You haven’t been here all alone—with no one to wait on you?”
“Oh no! My women neighbors are kind. They take turns coming in.”
“Did you send for me?”
“Yes, several times.”
“But I had no word—no messages ever got to me.”
“I sent the boys, and they left word with your women that I was ill and
would you please come.”
A sudden deadly sickness seized Jane. She fought the weakness, as she
fought to be above suspicious thoughts, and it passed, leaving her
conscious of her utter impotence. That, too, passed as her spirit
rebounded. But she had again caught a glimpse of dark underhand
domination, running its secret lines this time into her own household.
Like a spider in the blackness of night an unseen hand had begun to run
these dark lines, to turn and twist them about her life, to plait and
weave a web. Jane Withersteen knew it now, and in the realization
further coolness and sureness came to her, and the fighting courage of
her ancestors.
“Mrs. Larkin, you’re better, and I’m so glad,” said Jane. “But may I
not do something for you—a turn at nursing, or send you things, or take
care of Fay?”
“You’re so good. Since my husband’s been gone what would have become of
Fay and me but for you? It was about Fay that I wanted to speak to you.
This time I thought surely I’d die, and I was worried about Fay. Well,
I’ll be around all right shortly, but my strength’s gone and I won’t
live long. So I may as well speak now. You remember you’ve been asking
me to let you take Fay and bring her up as your daughter?”
“Indeed yes, I remember. I’ll be happy to have her. But I hope the
day—”
“Never mind that. The day’ll come—sooner or later. I refused your
offer, and now I’ll tell you why.”
“I know why,” interposed Jane. “It’s because you don’t want her brought
up as a Mormon.”
“No, it wasn’t altogether that.” Mrs. Larkin raised her thin hand and
laid it appealingly on Jane’s. “I don’t like to tell you. But—it’s
this: I told all my friends what you wanted. They know you, care for
you, and they said for me to trust Fay to you. Women will talk, you
know. It got to the ears of Mormons—gossip of your love for Fay and
your wanting her. And it came straight back to me, in jealousy,
perhaps, that you wouldn’t take Fay as much for love of her as because
of your religious duty to bring up another girl for some Mormon to
marry.”
“That’s a damnable lie!” cried Jane Withersteen.
“It was what made me hesitate,” went on Mrs. Larkin, “but I never
believed it at heart. And now I guess I’ll let you—”
“Wait! Mrs. Larkin, I may have told little white lies in my life, but
never a lie that mattered, that hurt any one. Now believe me. I love
little Fay. If I had her near me I’d grow to worship her. When I asked
for her I thought only of that love.... Let me prove this. You and Fay
come to live with me. I’ve such a big house, and I’m so lonely. I’ll
help nurse you, take care of you. When you’re better you can work for
me. I’ll keep little Fay and bring her up—without Mormon teaching. When
she’s grown, if she should want to leave me, I’ll send her, and not
empty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you.”
“I knew it was a lie,” replied the mother, and she sank back upon her
pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. “Jane
Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I’ve been deeply grateful to you.
But because you’re a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don’t
know much about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the
same.”