WEST WIND
When the storm abated Venters sought his own cave, and late in the
night, as his blood cooled and the stir and throb and thrill subsided,
he fell asleep.
With the breaking of dawn his eyes unclosed. The valley lay drenched
and bathed, a burnished oval of glittering green. The rain-washed walls
glistened in the morning light. Waterfalls of many forms poured over
the rims. One, a broad, lacy sheet, thin as smoke, slid over the
western notch and struck a ledge in its downward fall, to bound into
broader leap, to burst far below into white and gold and rosy mist.
Venters prepared for the day, knowing himself a different man.
“It’s a glorious morning,” said Bess, in greeting.
“Yes. After the storm the west wind,” he replied.
“Last night was I—very much of a baby?” she asked, watching him.
“Pretty much.”
“Oh, I couldn’t help it!”
“I’m glad you were afraid.”
“Why?” she asked, in slow surprise.
“I’ll tell you some day,” he answered, soberly. Then around the
camp-fire and through the morning meal he was silent; afterward he
strolled thoughtfully off alone along the terrace. He climbed a great
yellow rock raising its crest among the spruces, and there he sat down
to face the valley and the west.
“I love her!”
Aloud he spoke—unburdened his heart—confessed his secret. For an
instant the golden valley swam before his eyes, and the walls waved,
and all about him whirled with tumult within.
“I love her!... I understand now.”
Reviving memory of Jane Withersteen and thought of the complications of
the present amazed him with proof of how far he had drifted from his
old life. He discovered that he hated to take up the broken threads, to
delve into dark problems and difficulties. In this beautiful valley he
had been living a beautiful dream. Tranquillity had come to him, and
the joy of solitude, and interest in all the wild creatures and
crannies of this incomparable valley—and love. Under the shadow of the
great stone bridge God had revealed Himself to Venters.
“The world seems very far away,” he muttered, “but it’s there—and I’m
not yet done with it. Perhaps I never shall be.... Only—how glorious it
would be to live here always and never think again!”
Whereupon the resurging reality of the present, as if in irony of his
wish, steeped him instantly in contending thought. Out of it all he
presently evolved these things: he must go to Cottonwoods; he must
bring supplies back to Surprise Valley; he must cultivate the soil and
raise corn and stock, and, most imperative of all, he must decide the
future of the girl who loved him and whom he loved. The first of these
things required tremendous effort, the last one, concerning Bess,
seemed simply and naturally easy of accomplishment. He would marry her.
Suddenly, as from roots of poisonous fire, flamed up the forgotten
truth concerning her. It seemed to wither and shrivel up all his joy on
its hot, tearing way to his heart. She had been Oldring’s Masked Rider.
To Venters’s question, “What were you to Oldring?” she had answered
with scarlet shame and drooping head.
“What do I care who she is or what she was!” he cried, passionately.
And he knew it was not his old self speaking. It was this softer,
gentler man who had awakened to new thoughts in the quiet valley.
Tenderness, masterful in him now, matched the absence of joy and
blunted the knife-edge of entering jealousy. Strong and passionate
effort of will, surprising to him, held back the poison from piercing
his soul.
“Wait!... Wait!” he cried, as if calling. His hand pressed his breast,
and he might have called to the pang there. “Wait! It’s all so
strange—so wonderful. Anything can happen. Who am I to judge her? I’ll
glory in my love for her. But I can’t tell it—can’t give up to it.”
Certainly he could not then decide her future. Marrying her was
impossible in Surprise Valley and in any village south of Sterling.
Even without the mask she had once worn she would easily have been
recognized as Oldring’s Rider. No man who had ever seen her would
forget her, regardless of his ignorance as to her sex. Then more
poignant than all other argument was the fact that he did not want to
take her away from Surprise Valley. He resisted all thought of that. He
had brought her to the most beautiful and wildest place of the uplands;
he had saved her, nursed her back to strength, watched her bloom as one
of the valley lilies; he knew her life there to be pure and sweet—she
belonged to him, and he loved her. Still these were not all the reasons
why he did not want to take her away. Where could they go? He feared
the rustlers—he feared the riders—he feared the Mormons. And if he
should ever succeed in getting Bess safely away from these immediate
perils, he feared the sharp eyes of women and their tongues, the big
outside world with its problems of existence. He must wait to decide
her future, which, after all, was deciding his own. But between her
future and his something hung impending. Like Balancing Rock, which
waited darkly over the steep gorge, ready to close forever the outlet
to Deception Pass, that nameless thing, as certain yet intangible as
fate, must fall and close forever all doubts and fears of the future.
“I’ve dreamed,” muttered Venters, as he rose. “Well, why not?... To
dream is happiness! But let me just once see this clearly wholly; then
I can go on dreaming till the thing falls. I’ve got to tell Jane
Withersteen. I’ve dangerous trips to take. I’ve work here to make
comfort for this girl. She’s mine. I’ll fight to keep her safe from
that old life. I’ve already seen her forget it. I love her. And if a
beast ever rises in me I’ll burn my hand off before I lay it on her
with shameful intent. And, by God! sooner or later I’ll kill the man
who hid her and kept her in Deception Pass!”
As he spoke the west wind softly blew in his face. It seemed to soothe
his passion. That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, and it carried a
sweet, strange burden of far-off things—tidings of life in other
climes, of sunshine asleep on other walls—of other places where reigned
peace. It carried, too, sad truth of human hearts and mystery—of
promise and hope unquenchable. Surprise Valley was only a little niche
in the wide world whence blew that burdened wind. Bess was only one of
millions at the mercy of unknown motive in nature and life. Content had
come to Venters in the valley; happiness had breathed in the slow, warm
air; love as bright as light had hovered over the walls and descended
to him; and now on the west wind came a whisper of the eternal triumph
of faith over doubt.
“How much better I am for what has come to me!” he exclaimed. “I’ll let
the future take care of itself. Whatever falls, I’ll be ready.”
Venters retraced his steps along the terrace back to camp, and found
Bess in the old familiar seat, waiting and watching for his return.
“I went off by myself to think a little,” he explained.
“You never looked that way before. What—what is it? Won’t you tell me?”
“Well, Bess, the fact is I’ve been dreaming a lot. This valley makes a
fellow dream. So I forced myself to think. We can’t live this way much
longer. Soon I’ll simply have to go to Cottonwoods. We need a whole
pack train of supplies. I can get—”
“Can you go safely?” she interrupted.
“Why, I’m sure of it. I’ll ride through the Pass at night. I haven’t
any fear that Wrangle isn’t where I left him. And once on him—Bess,
just wait till you see that horse!”
“Oh, I want to see him—to ride him. But—but, Bern, this is what
troubles me,” she said. “Will—will you come back?”
“Give me four days. If I’m not back in four days you’ll know I’m dead.
For that only shall keep me.”
“Oh!”
“Bess, I’ll come back. There’s danger—I wouldn’t lie to you—but I can
take care of myself.”
“Bern, I’m sure—oh, I’m sure of it! All my life I’ve watched hunted
men. I can tell what’s in them. And I believe you can ride and shoot
and see with any rider of the sage. It’s not—not that I—fear.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“Why—why—why should you come back at all?”
“I couldn’t leave you here alone.”
“You might change your mind when you get to the village—among old
friends—”
“I won’t change my mind. As for old friends—” He uttered a short,
expressive laugh.
“Then—there—there must be a—a woman!” Dark red mantled the clear tan of
temple and cheek and neck. Her eyes were eyes of shame, upheld a long
moment by intense, straining search for the verification of her fear.
Suddenly they drooped, her head fell to her knees, her hands flew to
her hot cheeks.
“Bess—look here,” said Venters, with a sharpness due to the violence
with which he checked his quick, surging emotion.
As if compelled against her will—answering to an irresistible
voice—Bess raised her head, looked at him with sad, dark eyes, and
tried to whisper with tremulous lips.
“There’s no woman,” went on Venters, deliberately holding her glance
with his. “Nothing on earth, barring the chances of life, can keep me
away.”
Her face flashed and flushed with the glow of a leaping joy; but like
the vanishing of a gleam it disappeared to leave her as he had never
beheld her.
“I am nothing—I am lost—I am nameless!”
“Do you _want_ me to come back?” he asked, with sudden stern coldness.
“Maybe _you_ want to go back to Oldring!”
That brought her erect, trembling and ashy pale, with dark, proud eyes
and mute lips refuting his insinuation.
“Bess, I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that. But you angered
me. I intend to work—to make a home for you here—to be a—a brother to
you as long as ever you need me. And you must forget what you
are—were—I mean, and be happy. When you remember that old life you are
bitter, and it hurts me.”
“I was happy—I shall be very happy. Oh, you’re so good that—that it
kills me! If I think, I can’t believe it. I grow sick with wondering
_why_. I’m only a—_let me say it_—only a lost, nameless—girl of the
rustlers. _Oldring’s Girl_, they called me. That you should save me—be
so good and kind—want to make me happy—why, it’s beyond belief. No
wonder I’m wretched at the thought of your leaving me. But I’ll be
wretched and bitter no more. I promise you. If only I could repay you
even a little—”
“You’ve repaid me a hundredfold. Will you believe me?”
“Believe you! I couldn’t do else.”
“Then listen!... Saving you, I saved myself. Living here in this valley
with you, I’ve found myself. I’ve learned to think while I was
dreaming. I never troubled myself about God. But God, or some wonderful
spirit, has whispered to me here. I absolutely deny the truth of what
you say about yourself. I can’t explain it. There are things too deep
to tell. Whatever the terrible wrongs you’ve suffered, God holds you
blameless. I see that—feel that in you every moment you are near me.
I’ve a mother and a sister ’way back in Illinois. If I could I’d take
you to them—to-morrow.”
“_If it were true!_ Oh, I might—I might lift my head!” she cried.
“Lift it then—you child. For I swear it’s true.”
She did lift her head with the singular wild grace always a part of her
actions, with that old unconscious intimation of innocence which always
tortured Venters, but now with something more—a spirit rising from the
depths that linked itself to his brave words.
“I’ve been thinking—too,” she cried, with quivering smile and swelling
breast. “I’ve discovered myself—too. I’m young—I’m alive—I’m so
full—oh! I’m a woman!”
“Bess, I believe I can claim credit of that last discovery—before you,”
Venters said, and laughed.
“Oh, there’s more—there’s something I must tell you.”
“Tell it, then.”
“When will you go to Cottonwoods?”
“As soon as the storms are past, or the worst of them.”
“I’ll tell you before you go. I can’t now. I don’t know how I shall
then. But it must be told. I’d never let you leave me without knowing.
For in spite of what you say there’s a chance you mightn’t come back.”
Day after day the west wind blew across the valley. Day after day the
clouds clustered gray and purple and black. The cliffs sang and the
caves rang with Oldring’s knell, and the lightning flashed, the thunder
rolled, the echoes crashed and crashed, and the rains flooded the
valley. Wild flowers sprang up everywhere, swaying with the lengthening
grass on the terraces, smiling wanly from shady nooks, peeping
wondrously from year-dry crevices of the walls. The valley bloomed into
a paradise. Every single moment, from the breaking of the gold bar
through the bridge at dawn on to the reddening of rays over the western
wall, was one of colorful change. The valley swam in thick, transparent
haze, golden at dawn, warm and white at noon, purple in the twilight.
At the end of every storm a rainbow curved down into the leaf-bright
forest to shine and fade and leave lingeringly some faint essence of
its rosy iris in the air.
Venters walked with Bess, once more in a dream, and watched the lights
change on the walls, and faced the wind from out of the west.
Always it brought softly to him strange, sweet tidings of far-off
things. It blew from a place that was old and whispered of youth. It
blew down the grooves of time. It brought a story of the passing hours.
It breathed low of fighting men and praying women. It sang clearly the
song of love. That ever was the burden of its tidings—youth in the
shady woods, waders through the wet meadows, boy and girl at the
hedgerow stile, bathers in the booming surf, sweet, idle hours on
grassy, windy hills, long strolls down moonlit lanes—everywhere in
far-off lands, fingers locked and bursting hearts and longing lips—from
all the world tidings of unquenchable love.
Often, in these hours of dreams he watched the girl, and asked himself
of what was she dreaming? For the changing light of the valley
reflected its gleam and its color and its meaning in the changing light
of her eyes. He saw in them infinitely more than he saw in his dreams.
He saw thought and soul and nature—strong vision of life. All tidings
the west wind blew from distance and age he found deep in those
dark-blue depths, and found them mysteries solved. Under their wistful
shadow he softened, and in the softening felt himself grow a sadder, a
wiser, and a better man.
While the west wind blew its tidings, filling his heart full, teaching
him a man’s part, the days passed, the purple clouds changed to white,
and the storms were over for that summer.
“I must go now,” he said.
“When?” she asked.
“At once—to-night.”
“I’m glad the time has come. It dragged at me. Go—for you’ll come back
the sooner.”
Late in the afternoon, as the ruddy sun split its last flame in the
ragged notch of the western wall, Bess walked with Venters along the
eastern terrace, up the long, weathered slope, under the great stone
bridge. They entered the narrow gorge to climb around the fence long
before built there by Venters. Farther than this she had never been.
Twilight had already fallen in the gorge. It brightened to waning
shadow in the wider ascent. He showed her Balancing Rock, of which he
had often told her, and explained its sinister leaning over the outlet.
Shuddering, she looked down the long, pale incline with its closed-in,
toppling walls.
“What an awful trail! Did you carry me up here?”
“I did, surely,” replied he.
“It frightens me, somehow. Yet I never was afraid of trails. I’d ride
anywhere a horse could go, and climb where he couldn’t. But there’s
something fearful here. I feel as—as if the place was watching me.”
“Look at this rock. It’s balanced here—balanced perfectly. You know I
told you the cliff-dwellers cut the rock, and why. But they’re gone and
the rock waits. Can’t you see—feel how it waits here? I moved it once,
and I’ll never dare again. A strong heave would start it. Then it would
fall and bang, and smash that crag, and jar the walls, and close
forever the outlet to Deception Pass!”
“Ah! When you come back I’ll steal up here and push and push with all
my might to roll the rock and close forever the outlet to the Pass!”
She said it lightly, but in the undercurrent of her voice was a heavier
note, a ring deeper than any ever given mere play of words.
“Bess!... You can’t dare me! Wait till I come back with supplies—then
roll the stone.”
“I—was—in—fun.” Her voice now throbbed low. “Always you must be free to
go when you will. Go now... this place presses on me—stifles me.”
“I’m going—but you had something to tell me?”
“Yes.... Will you—come back?”
“I’ll come if I live.”
“But—but you mightn’t come?”
“That’s possible, of course. It’ll take a good deal to kill me. A man
couldn’t have a faster horse or keener dog. And, Bess, I’ve guns, and
I’ll use them if I’m pushed. But don’t worry.”
“I’ve faith in you. I’ll not worry until after four days. Only—because
you mightn’t come—I _must_ tell you—”
She lost her voice. Her pale face, her great, glowing, earnest eyes,
seemed to stand alone out of the gloom of the gorge. The dog whined,
breaking the silence.
“I _must_ tell you—because you mightn’t come back,” she whispered. “You
_must_ know what—what I think of your goodness—of you. Always I’ve been
tongue-tied. I seemed not to be grateful. It was deep in my heart. Even
now—if I were other than I am—I couldn’t tell you. But I’m nothing—only
a rustler’s girl—nameless—infamous. You’ve saved me—and I’m—I’m yours
to do with as you like.... With all my heart and soul—I love you!”