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Riders of the Purple Sage-Part18_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Though exceedingly tired, he was yet loath to yield to lassitude,



but this night it was not from listening, watchfulvigilance; it

was from a desire to realize his position. The details of his



wild environment seemed the only substance of a strange dream. He

saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, the



undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and the

spear-pointed spruces. He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and



the soft, continuoussplash of falling water. The melancholy note

of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs.



Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seen

one, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were



as familiar to him as the canyon silence. Then they ceased, and

the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing



sound that Venters fancied was not of earth. Neither had he a

name for this, only it was inexpressibly wild and sweet. The



thought came that it might be a moan of the girl in her last

outcry of life, and he felt a tremor shake him. But no! This



sound was not human, though it was like despair. He began to

doubt his sensitive perceptions, to believe that he half-dreamed



what he thought he heard. Then the sound swelled with the

strengthening of the breeze, and he realized it was the singing



of the wind in the cliffs.

By and by a drowsiness overcame him, and Venters began to nod,



half asleep, with his back against a spruce. Rousing himself and

calling Whitie, he went to the cave. The girl lay barely visible



in the dimness. Ring crouched beside her, and the patting of his

tail on the stone assured Venters that the dog was awake and



faithful to his duty. Venters sought his own bed of fragrant

boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and



safety, the night seemed to steal away from him and he sank

softly into intangible space and rest and slumber.



Venters awakened to the sound of melody that he imagined was only

the haunting echo of dream music. He opened his eyes to another



surprise of this valley of beautiful surprises. Out of his cave

he saw the exquisitely fine foliage of the silver spruces



crossing a round space of blue morning sky; and in this lacy

leafage fluttered a number of gray birds with black and white



stripes and long tails. They were mocking-birds, and they were

singing as if they wanted to burst their throats. Venters



listened. One long, silver-tipped branch dropped almost to his

cave, and upon it, within a few yards of him, sat one of the



graceful birds. Venters saw the swelling and quivering of its

throat in song. He arose, and when he slid down out of his cave



the birds fluttered and flew farther away.

Venters stepped before the opening of the other cave and looked



in. The girl was awake, with wide eyes and listening look, and

she had a hand on Ring's neck.



"Mocking-birds!" she said.

"Yes," replied Venters, "and I believe they like our company."



"Where are we?"

"Never mind now. After a little I'll tell you."



"The birds woke me. When I heard them--and saw the shiny

trees--and the blue sky--and then a blaze of gold dropping



down--I wondered--"

She did not complete her fancy, but Venters imagined he



understood her meaning. She appeared to be wandering in mind.

Venters felt her face and hands and found them burning with



fever. He went for water, and was glad to find it almost as cold

as if flowing from ice. That water was the only medicine he had,



and he put faith in it. She did not want to drink, but he made

her swallow, and then he bathed her face and head and cooled her



wrists.

The day began with the heightening of the fever. Venters spent



the time reducing her temperature, cooling her hot cheeks and

temples. He kept close watch over her, and at the least



indication of restlessness, that he knew led to tossing and

rolling of the body, he held her tightly, so no violent move



could reopen her wounds. Hour after hour she babbled and laughed

and cried and moaned in delirium; but whatever her secret was she



did not reveal it.




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