calves; and he succeeded in completing his task without Bess being any the wiser.
That night he made two more trips to Oldring's range, and again on the following night, and yet another on the next. With eight calves in his corral, he concluded that he had enough; but it dawned upon him then that he did not want to kill one. “I've rustled Oldring's cattle,” he said, and laughed. He noted then that all the calves were red. “Red!” he exclaimed. “From the red herd. I've stolen Jane Withersteen's cattle!... That's about the strangest thing yet.”
One more trip he undertook to Oldring's valley, and this time he roped a yearling steer and killed it and cut out a small quarter of beef. The howling of coyotes told him he need have no apprehension that the work of his knife would be discovered. He packed the beef back to camp and hung it upon a spruce-tree. Then he sought his bed.
On the morrow he was up bright and early, glad that he had a surprise for Bess. He could hardly wait for her to come out. Presently she appeared and walked under the spruce. Then she approached the camp-fire. There was a tinge of healthy red in the bronze of her cheeks, and her slender form had begun to round out in graceful lines.
“Bess, didn't you say you were tired of rabbit?” inquired Venters. “And quail and beaver?”
“Indeed I did.”
“What would you like?”
“I'm tired of meat, but if we have to live on it I'd like some beef.”
“Well, how does that strike you?” Venters pointed to the quarter hanging from the spruce-tree. “We'll have fresh beef for a few days, then we'll cut the rest into strips and dry it.”
“Where did you get that?” asked Bess, slowly.
“I stole that from Oldring.”
“You went back to the canyon—you risked—” While she hesitated the tinge of bloom faded out of her cheeks.
“It wasn't any risk, but it was hard work.”
“I'm sorry I said I was tired of rabbit. Why! How—When did you get that beef?”
“Last night.”
“While I was asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I woke last night sometime—but I didn't know.”
Her eyes were widening, darkening with thought, and whenever they did so the steady, watchful, seeing gaze gave place to the wistful light. In the former she saw as the primitive woman without thought; in the latter she looked inward, and her gaze was the reflection of a troubled mind. For long Venters had not seen that dark change, that deepening of blue, which he thought was beautiful and sad. But now he wanted to make her think.
“I've done more than pack in that beef,” he said. “For five nights I've been working while you slept. I've got eight calves corralled near a ravine. Eight calves, all alive and doing fine!”
“You went five nights!”
All that Venters could make of the dilation of her eyes, her slow pallor, and her exclamation, was fear—fear for herself or for him.
“Yes. I didn't tell you, because I knew you were afraid to be left alone.”
“Alone?” She echoed his word, but the meaning of it was nothing to her. She had not even thought of being left alone. It was not, then, fear for herself, but for him. This girl, always slow of speech and action, now seemed almost stupid. She put forth a hand that might have indicated the groping of her mind. Suddenly she stepped swiftly to him, with a look and touch that drove from him any doubt of her quick intelligence or feeling.
“Oldring has men watch the herds—they would kill you. You must never go again!”
When she had spoken, the strength and the blaze of her died, and she swayed toward Venters.
“Bess, I'll not go again,” he said, catching her.
She leaned against him, and her body was limp and vibrated to a long, wavering tremble. Her face was upturned to his. Woman's face, woman's eyes, woman's lips—all acutely and blindly and sweetly and terribly truthful in their betrayal! But as her fear was instinctive, so was her clinging to this one and only friend.
Venters gently put her from him and steadied her upon her feet; and all the while his blood raced wild, and a thrilling tingle unsteadied his nerve, and something—that he had seen and felt in her—that he could not understand—seemed very close to him, warm and rich as a fragrant breath, sweet as nothing had ever before been sweet to him.
With all his will Venters strove for calmness and thought and judgment unbiased by pity, and reality unswayed by sentiment. Bess's eyes were still fixed upon him with all her soul bright in that wistful light. Swiftly, resolutely he put out of mind all of her life except what had been spent with him. He scorned himself for the intelligence that made him still doubt. He meant to judge her as she had judged him. He was face to face with the inevitableness of life itself. He saw destiny in the dark, straight path of her wonderful eyes. Here was the simplicity, the sweetness of a girl contending with new and strange and enthralling emotions here the living truth of innocence; here the blind terror of a woman confronted with the thought of death to her savior and protector. All this Venters saw, but, besides, there was in Bess's eyes a slow-dawning consciousness that seemed about to break out in glorious radiance.
“Bess, are you thinking?” he asked.
“Yes—oh yes!”
“Do you realize we are here alone—man and woman?”
“Yes.”
“Have you thought that we may make our way out to civilization, or we may have to stay here—alone—hidden from the world all our lives?”
“I never thought—till now.”
“Well, what's your choice—to go—or to stay here—alone with me?”
“Stay!” New-born thought of self, ringing vibrantly in her voice, gave her answer singular power.
Venters trembled, and then swiftly turned his gaze from her face—from her eyes. He knew what she had only half divined—that she loved him.
Chapter XI – Faith And Unfaith
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AT JANE WITHERSTEEN's home the promise made to Mrs. Larkin to care for little Fay had begun to be fulfilled. Like a gleam of sunlight through the cottonwoods was the coming of the child to the gloomy house of Withersteen. The big, silent halls echoed with childish laughter. In the shady court, where Jane spent many of the hot July days, Fay's tiny feet pattered over the stone flags and splashed in the amber stream. She prattled incessantly. What difference, Jane thought, a child made in her home! It had never been a real home, she discovered. Even the tidiness and neatness she had so observed, and upon which she had insisted to her women, became, in the light of Fay's smile, habits that now lost their importance.
