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Riders of the Purple Sage-Part4_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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No unusual circumstances was it for Oldring and some of his men



to visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to

prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled



meant that mischief was brewing. Moreover, to Venters the

presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially



ominous. For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode

through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly;



riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there

always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore.



Oldring's band did not confine themselves to the rustling of

cattle.



Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this

chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe



to move on. Then, with sudden impulse, he turned the other way

and went back along the grove. When he reached the path leading



to Jane's home he decided to go down to the village. So he

hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove he



entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall

poplars, and under each row of trees, inside the foot-path, were



ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen's spring.

Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far



down flared bright windows of the village stores. When Venters

got closer to these he saw knots of men standing together in



earnest conversation. The usual lounging on the corners and

benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping in the shadow



Venters went closer and closer until he could hear voices. But he

could not distinguish what was said. He recognized many Mormons,



and looked hard for Tull and his men, but looked in vain.

Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the



village street. No doubt these earnest men were discussing

Lassiter's coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull's



intention toward himself that day had not been and would not be

revealed.



So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began

retracing his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next



to it was also dark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any

night at this hour there would be lights here, and Venters marked



the unusual omission.

As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he



once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently

he descried two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the



shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him,

and he made out Tull's stalwart figure, and beside him the short,



froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, and they

rode on to disappear.



Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of

the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His



thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who

had been his friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a



gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or people or

purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret



power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous

store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to



those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only the

divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her



heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.

"For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village of



Cottonwoods," muttered Venters, as he strode on. "Soon it'll

burst. I don't like the prospects." That night the villagers



whispered in the street--and night-riding rustlers muffled

horses--and Tull was at work in secret--and out there in the sage



hid a man who meant something terrible--Lassiter!

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage,



climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a

western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard



only the usual familiar bark of coyote and sweep of wind and

rustle of sage. Presently a low jumble of rocks loomed up darkly



somewhat to his right, and, turning that way, he whistled softly.

Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped and whined about him.



He climbed over rough, broken rock, picking his way carefully,

and then went down. Here it was darker, and sheltered from the



wind. A white object guided him. It was another dog, and this one

was asleep, curled up between a saddle and a pack. The animal



awoke and thumped his tail in greeting. Venters placed the saddle

for a pillow, rolled in his blankets, with his face upward to the



stars. The white dog snuggled close to him. The other whined and




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