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Riders of the Purple Sage-Part40_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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and, mustering and forming on the levels, soon merged and shaded



into night. Venters guided the burro nearer to the trail, so that

he could see its white line from the ridges, and rode on through



the hours.

Once down in the Pass without leaving a trail, he would hold



himself safe for the time being. When late in the night he

reached the break in the sage, he sent the burro down ahead of



him, and started an avalanche that all but buried the animal at

the bottom of the trail. Bruised and battered as he was, he had a



moment's elation, for he had hidden his tracks. Once more he

mounted the burro and rode on. The hour was the blackest of the



night when he made the thicket which inclosed his old camp. Here

he turned the burro loose in the grass near the spring, and then



lay down on his old bed of leaves.

He felt only vaguely, as outside things, the ache and burn and



throb of the muscles of his body. But a dammed-up torrent of

emotion at last burst its bounds, and the hour that saw his



release from immediate action was one that confounded him in the

reaction of his spirit. He suffered without understanding why. He



caught glimpses into himself, into unlit darkness of soul. The

fire that had blistered him and the cold which had frozen him now



united in one torturing possession of his mind and heart, and

like a fiery steed with ice-shod feet, ranged his being, ran



rioting through his blood, trampling the resurging good, dragging

ever at the evil.



Out of the subsiding chaos came a clear question. What had

happened? He had left the valley to go to Cottonwoods. Why? It



seemed that he had gone to kill a man--Oldring! The name riveted

his consciousness upon the one man of all men upon earth whom he



had wanted to meet. He had met the rustler. Venters recalled the

smoky haze of the saloon, the dark-visaged men, the huge Oldring.



He saw him step out of the door, a splendid specimen of manhood,

a handsome giant with purple-black and sweeping beard. He



remembered inquisitive gaze of falcon eyes. He heard himself

repeating: "Oldring, Bess is alive! But she's dead to you," and



he felt himself jerk, and his ears throbbed to the thunder of a

gun, and he saw the giant sink slowly to his knees. Was that only



the vitality of him--that awful light in the eyes--only the

hard-dying life of a tremendously powerful brute? A broken



whisper, strange as death: "Man, why--didn't--you wait!

Bess--was--" And Oldring plunged face forward, dead.



"I killed him," cried Venters, in remembering shock. "But it

wasn't that. Ah, the look in his eyes and his whisper!"



Herein lay the secret that had clamored to him through all the

tumult and stress of his emotions. What a look in the eyes of a



man shot through the heart! It had been neither hate nor ferocity

nor fear of men nor fear of death. It had been no passionate



glinting spirit of a fearless foe, willing shot for shot, life

for life, but lackingphysical power. Distinctly recalled now,



never to be forgotten, Venters saw in Oldring's magnificent eyes

the rolling of great, glad surprise--softness--love! Then came a



shadow and the terrible superhuman striving of his spirit to

speak. Oldring shot through the heart, had fought and forced back



death, not for a moment in which to shoot or curse, but to

whisper strange words.



What words for a dying man to whisper! Why had not Venters

waited? For what? That was no plea for life. It was regret that



there was not a moment of life left in which to speak. Bess

was--Herein lay renewed torture for Venters. What had Bess been



to Oldring? The old question, like a specter, stalked from its

grave to haunt him. He had overlooked, he had forgiven, he had



loved and he had forgotten; and now, out of the mystery of a

dying man's whisper rose again that perverse, unsatisfied,



jealousuncertainty. Bess had loved that splendid, black-crowned

giant--by her own confession she had loved him; and in Venters's



soul again flamed up the jealous hell. Then into the clamoring

hell burst the shot that had killed Oldring, and it rang in a



wild fiendish gladness, a hateful, vengeful joy. That passed to

the memory of the love and light in Oldring's eyes and the



mystery in his whisper. So the changing, swaying emotions

fluctuated in Venters's heart.



This was the climax of his year of suffering and the crucial

struggle of his life. And when the gray dawn came he rose, a



gloomy, almost heartbroken man, but victor over evil passions. He




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