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Riders of the Purple Sage-Part38_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by

washes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon



line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting

canyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading



toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass.

Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail



went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail,

and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove



cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at all

that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had



many holes to his burrow.

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his



relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some

bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse



so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the

hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and



Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended

to make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the safer



it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go

over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead



he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was

recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters was



overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star

presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook



himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little

pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a



drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a

drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more.



Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time

Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.



The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and

the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales.



Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and,

taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one



ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of

water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his



fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything

but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within



roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in

disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a



quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet

doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he



might be caught.

As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he



kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There

was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters



sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick

and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters



clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.

The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western



rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened.

The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts



appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the



thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south.

Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in



thundering flight.

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His



head was high and twisted, in a most singular position for a

running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape



clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled

Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange



position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters's

nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went



down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his

leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.



Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of

Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a



memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought

of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to



break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad.

The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more



than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it

was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel



turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.




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