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CHAPTER IV. DECEPTION PASS
The rider thundered up and almost threw his foam-flecked horse in the
sudden stop. He was a giant form, and with fearless eyes.
"Judkins, you're all bloody!" cried Jane, in affright. "Oh, you've been
"Nothin' much Miss Withersteen. I got a nick in the shoulder. I'm some wet
an' the hoss's been throwin' lather, so all this ain't blood."
"What's up?" queried Venters, sharply.
"Rustlers sloped off with the red herd."
"Where are my riders?" demanded Jane.
"Miss Withersteen, I was alone all night with the herd. At daylight this
mornin' the rustlers rode down. They began to shoot at me on sight. They
chased me hard an' far, burnin' powder all the time, but I got away."
"Jud, they meant to kill you," declared Venters.
"Now I wonder," returned Judkins. "They wanted me bad. An' it ain't
regular for rustlers to waste time chasin' one rider."
"Thank heaven you got away," said Jane. "But my riders—where are
"I don't know. The night-riders weren't there last night when I rode down,
en' this mornin' I met no day-riders."
"Judkins! Bern, they've been set upon—killed by Oldring's men!"
"I don't think so," replied Venters, decidedly. "Jane, your riders haven't
gone out in the sage."
"Bern, what do you mean?" Jane Withersteen turned deathly pale.
"You remember what I said about the unseen hand?"
"I hope so. But I fear—" Venters finished, with a shake of his head.
"Bern, you're bitter; but that's only natural. We'll wait to see what's
happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house with me. Your wound must
be attended to."
"Jane, I'll find out where Oldring drives the herd," vowed Venters.
"No, no! Bern, don't risk it now—when the rustlers are in such
"I'm going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?"
"Twenty-five hundred head."
"Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? Why, a hundred
head is a big steal. I've got to find out."
"Don't go," implored Jane.
"Bern, you want a hoss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, if it's not too
bold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don't let him go."
"Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can't be caught. Which one—Black
"Jane, I won't take either," said Venters, emphatically. "I wouldn't risk
losing one of your favorites."
"Thet's the hoss," replied Judkins. "Wrangle can outrun Black Star an'
Night. You'd never believe it, Miss Withersteen, but I know. Wrangle's the
biggest en' fastest hoss on the sage."
"Oh no, Wrangle can't beat Black Star. But, Bern, take Wrangle if you will
go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful careful.... God speed
She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with the
Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The boy came
running. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits, to be packed
in saddlebags. His own horse he turned loose into the nearest corral. Then
he went for Wrangle. The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the
opposite of amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the
yard he broke from Venters, and plunged about with ears laid back. Venters
had to rope him, and then he kicked down a section of fence, stood on his
hind legs, crashed down and fought the rope. Jerd returned to lend a hand.
"Wrangle don't git enough work," said Jerd, as the big saddle went on.
"He's unruly when he's corralled, an' wants to run. Wait till he smells
"Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him but once.
Run? Say, he's swift as wind!"
When Venters's boot touched the stirrup the sorrel bolted, giving him the
rider's flying mount. The swing of this fiery horse recalled to Venters
days that were not really long past, when he rode into the sage as the
leader of Jane Withersteen's riders. Wrangle pulled hard on a tight rein.
He galloped out of the lane, down the shady border of the grove, and
hauled up at the watering-trough, where he pranced and champed his bit.
Venters got off and filled his canteen while the horse drank. The dogs,
Ring and Whitie, came trotting up for their drink. Then Venters remounted
and turned Wrangle toward the sage.
A wide, white trail wound away down the slope. One keen, sweeping glance
told Venters that there was neither man nor horse nor steer within the
limit of his vision, unless they were lying down in the sage. Ring loped
in the lead and Whitie loped in the rear. Wrangle settled gradually into
an easy swinging canter, and Venters's thoughts, now that the rush and
flurry of the start were past, and the long miles stretched before him,
reverted to a calm reckoning of late singular coincidences.
There was the night ride of Tull's, which, viewed in the light of
subsequent events, had a look of his covert machinations; Oldring and his
Masked Rider and his rustlers riding muffled horses; the report that Tull
had ridden out that morning with his man Jerry on the trail to Glaze, the
strange disappearance of Jane Withersteen's riders, the unusually
determined attempt to kill the one Gentile still in her employ, an
intention frustrated, no doubt, only by Judkin's magnificent riding of her
racer, and lastly the driving of the red herd. These events, to Venters's
color of mind, had a dark relationship. Remembering Jane's accusation of
bitterness, he tried hard to put aside his rancor in judging Tull. But it
was bitter knowledge that made him see the truth. He had felt the shadow
of an unseen hand; he had watched till he saw its dim outline, and then he
had traced it to a man's hate, to the rivalry of a Mormon Elder, to the
power of a Bishop, to the long, far-reaching arm of a terrible creed. That
unseen hand had made its first move against Jane Withersteen. Her riders
had been called in, leaving her without help to drive seven thousand head
of cattle. But to Venters it seemed extraordinary that the power which had
called in these riders had left so many cattle to be driven by rustlers
and harried by wolves. For hand in glove with that power was an insatiate
greed; they were one and the same.
"What can Oldring do with twenty-five hundred head of cattle?" muttered
Venters. "Is he a Mormon? Did he meet Tull last night? It looks like a
black plot to me. But Tull and his churchmen wouldn't ruin Jane
Withersteen unless the Church was to profit by that ruin. Where does
Oldring come in? I'm going to find out about these things."
Wrangle did the twenty-five miles in three hours and walked little of the
way. When he had gotten warmed up he had been allowed to choose his own
gait. The afternoon had well advanced when Venters struck the trail of the
red herd and found where it had grazed the night before. Then Venters
rested the horse and used his eyes. Near at hand were a cow and a calf and
several yearlings, and farther out in the sage some straggling steers. He
caught a glimpse of coyotes skulking near the cattle. The slow sweeping
gaze of the rider failed to find other living things within the field of
sight. The sage about him was breast-high to his horse, oversweet with its
warm, fragrant breath, gray where it waved to the light, darker where the
wind left it still, and beyond the wonderful haze-purple lent by distance.
Far across that wide waste began the slow lift of uplands through which
Deception Pass cut its tortuous many-canyoned way.
Venters raised the bridle of his horse and followed the broad cattle
trail. The crushed sage resembled the path of a monster snake. In a few
miles of travel he passed several cows and calves that had escaped the
drive. Then he stood on the last high bench of the slope with the floor of
the valley beneath. The opening of the canyon showed in a break of the
sage, and the cattle trail paralleled it as far as he could see. That
trail led to an undiscovered point where Oldring drove cattle into the
pass, and many a rider who had followed it had never returned. Venters
satisfied himself that the rustlers had not deviated from their usual
course, and then he turned at right angles off the cattle trail and made
for the head of the pass.
The sun lost its heat and wore down to the western horizon, where it
changed from white to gold and rested like a huge ball about to roll on
its golden shadows down the slope. Venters watched the lengthening of the
rays and bars, and marveled at his own league-long shadow. The sun sank.
There was instant shading of brightness about him, and he saw a kind of
cold purple bloom creep ahead of him to cross the canyon, to mount the
opposite slope and chase and darken and bury the last golden flare of
Venters rode into a trail that he always took to get down into the canyon.
He dismounted and found no tracks but his own made days previous.
Nevertheless he sent the dog Ring ahead and waited. In a little while Ring
returned. Whereupon Venters led his horse on to the break in the ground.
The opening into Deception Pass was one of the remarkable natural
phenomena in a country remarkable for vast slopes of sage, uplands
insulated by gigantic red walls, and deep canyons of mysterious source and
outlet. Here the valley floor was level, and here opened a narrow chasm, a
ragged vent in yellow walls of stone. The trail down the five hundred feet
of sheer depth always tested Venters's nerve. It was bad going for even a
burro. But Wrangle, as Venters led him, snorted defiance or disgust rather
than fear, and, like a hobbled horse on the jump, lifted his ponderous
iron-shod fore hoofs and crashed down over the first rough step. Venters
warmed to greater admiration of the sorrel; and, giving him a loose
bridle, he stepped down foot by foot. Oftentimes the stones and shale
started by Wrangle buried Venters to his knees; again he was hard put to
it to dodge a rolling boulder, there were times when he could not see
Wrangle for dust, and once he and the horse rode a sliding shelf of
yellow, weathered cliff. It was a trail on which there could be no stops,
and, therefore, if perilous, it was at least one that did not take long in
Venters breathed lighter when that was over, and felt a sudden assurance
in the success of his enterprise. For at first it had been a reckless
determination to achieve something at any cost, and now it resolved itself
into an adventure worthy of all his reason and cunning, and keenness of
eye and ear.
Pinyon pines clustered in little clumps along the level floor of the pass.
Twilight had gathered under the walls. Venters rode into the trail and up
the canyon. Gradually the trees and caves and objects low down turned
black, and this blackness moved up the walls till night enfolded the pass,
while day still lingered above. The sky darkened; and stars began to show,
at first pale and then bright. Sharp notches of the rim-wall, biting like
teeth into the blue, were landmarks by which Venters knew where his
camping site lay. He had to feel his way through a thicket of slender oaks
to a spring where he watered Wrangle and drank himself. Here he unsaddled
and turned Wrangle loose, having no fear that the horse would leave the
thick, cool grass adjacent to the spring. Next he satisfied his own
hunger, fed Ring and Whitie and, with them curled beside him, composed
himself to await sleep.
There had been a time when night in the high altitude of these Utah
uplands had been satisfying to Venters. But that was before the oppression
of enemies had made the change in his mind. As a rider guarding the herd
he had never thought of the night's wildness and loneliness; as an
outcast, now when the full silence set in, and the deep darkness, and
trains of radiant stars shone cold and calm, he lay with an ache in his
heart. For a year he had lived as a black fox, driven from his kind. He
longed for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand. In the daytime there
was riding from place to place, and the gun practice to which something
drove him, and other tasks that at least necessitated action, at night,
before he won sleep, there was strife in his soul. He yearned to leave the
endless sage slopes, the wilderness of canyons, and it was in the lonely
night that this yearning grew unbearable. It was then that he reached
forth to feel Ring or Whitie, immeasurably grateful for the love and
companionship of two dogs.
On this night the same old loneliness beset Venters, the old habit of sad
thought and burning unquiet had its way. But from it evolved a conviction
that his useless life had undergone a subtle change. He had sensed it
first when Wrangle swung him up to the high saddle, he knew it now when he
lay in the gateway of Deception Pass. He had no thrill of adventure,
rather a gloomy perception of great hazard, perhaps death. He meant to
find Oldring's retreat. The rustlers had fast horses, but none that could
catch Wrangle. Venters knew no rustler could creep upon him at night when
Ring and Whitie guarded his hiding-place. For the rest, he had eyes and
ears, and a long rifle and an unerring aim, which he meant to use.
Strangely his foreshadowing of change did not hold a thought of the
killing of Tull. It related only to what was to happen to him in Deception
Pass; and he could no more lift the veil of that mystery than tell where
the trails led to in that unexplored canyon. Moreover, he did not care.
And at length, tired out by stress of thought, he fell asleep.
When his eyes unclosed, day had come again, and he saw the rim of the
opposite wall tipped with the gold of sunrise. A few moments sufficed for
the morning's simple camp duties. Near at hand he found Wrangle, and to
his surprise the horse came to him. Wrangle was one of the horses that
left his viciousness in the home corral. What he wanted was to be free of
mules and burros and steers, to roll in dust-patches, and then to run down
the wide, open, windy sage-plains, and at night browse and sleep in the
cool wet grass of a springhole. Jerd knew the sorrel when he said of him,
"Wait till he smells the sage!"
Venters saddled and led him out of the oak thicket, and, leaping astride,
rode up the canyon, with Ring and Whitie trotting behind. An old
grass-grown trail followed the course of a shallow wash where flowed a
thin stream of water. The canyon was a hundred rods wide, its yellow walls
were perpendicular; it had abundant sage and a scant growth of oak and
pinon. For five miles it held to a comparatively straight bearing, and
then began a heightening of rugged walls and a deepening of the floor.
Beyond this point of sudden change in the character of the canyon Venters
had never explored, and here was the real door to the intricacies of
He reined Wrangle to a walk, halted now and then to listen, and then
proceeded cautiously with shifting and alert gaze. The canyon assumed
proportions that dwarfed those of its first ten miles. Venters rode on and
on, not losing in the interest of his wide surroundings any of his caution
or keen search for tracks or sight of living thing. If there ever had been
a trail here, he could not find it. He rode through sage and clumps of
pinon trees and grassy plots where long-petaled purple lilies bloomed. He
rode through a dark constriction of the pass no wider than the lane in the
grove at Cottonwoods. And he came out into a great amphitheater into which
jutted huge towering corners of a confluence of intersecting canyons.
Venters sat his horse, and, with a rider's eye, studied this wild
cross-cut of huge stone gullies. Then he went on, guided by the course of
running water. If it had not been for the main stream of water flowing
north he would never have been able to tell which of those many openings
was a continuation of the pass. In crossing this amphitheater he went by
the mouths of five canyons, fording little streams that flowed into the
larger one. Gaining the outlet which he took to be the pass, he rode on
again under over hanging walls. One side was dark in shade, the other
light in sun. This narrow passageway turned and twisted and opened into a
valley that amazed Venters.
Here again was a sweep of purple sage, richer than upon the higher levels.
The valley was miles long, several wide, and inclosed by unscalable walls.
But it was the background of this valley that so forcibly struck him.
Across the sage-flat rose a strange up-flinging of yellow rocks. He could
not tell which were close and which were distant. Scrawled mounds of
stone, like mountain waves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and
In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when he had
proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing white tails of a
herd of running antelope. He rode along the edge of the stream which wound
toward the western end of the slowly looming mounds of stone. The high
slope retreated out of sight behind the nearer protection. To Venters the
valley appeared to have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone that
had hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the stream
till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Venters quit the dark slit which
baffled further search in that direction, and rode out along the curved
edge of stone where it met the sage. It was not long before he came to a
low place, and here Wrangle readily climbed up.
All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed rock. Not a
tuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull rust-yellow. He saw
where, to the right, this uneven flow of stone ended in a blunt wall.
Leftward, from the hollow that lay at his feet, mounted a gradual
slow-swelling slope to a great height topped by leaning, cracked, and
ruined crags. Not for some time did he grasp the wonder of that acclivity.
It was no less than a mountain-side, glistening in the sun like polished
granite, with cedar-trees springing as if by magic out of the denuded
surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale, and rains had washed
it free of dust. Far up the curved slope its beautiful lines broke to meet
the vertical rim-wall, to lose its grace in a different order and color of
rock, a stained yellow cliff of cracks and caves and seamed crags. And
straight before Venters was a scene less striking but more significant to
his keen survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hummocky rock began the
valley of sage, and the mouths of canyons, one of which surely was another
gateway into the pass.
He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, he commenced
a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not successful and
concluded the water dropped into an underground passage. Then he returned
to where he had left Wrangle, and led him down off the stone to the sage.
It was a short ride to the opening canyons. There was no reason for a
choice of which one to enter. The one he rode into was a clear, sharp
shaft in yellow stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderful wind-worn caves
low down and high above buttressed and turreted ramparts. Farther on
Venters came into a region where deep indentations marked the line of
canyon walls. These were huge, cove-like blind pockets extending back to a
sharp corner with a dense growth of underbrush and trees.
Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had hoped, he
found abundant grass. He had to bend the oak saplings to get his horse
through. Deciding to make this a hiding-place if he could find water, he
worked back to the limit of the shelving walls. In a little cluster of
silver spruces he found a spring. This inclosed nook seemed an ideal place
to leave his horse and to camp at night, and from which to make stealthy
trips on foot. The thick grass hid his trail; the dense growth of oaks in
the opening would serve as a barrier to keep Wrangle in, if, indeed, the
luxuriant browse would not suffice for that. So Venters, leaving Whitie
with the horse, called Ring to his side, and, rifle in hand, worked his
way out to the open. A careful photographing in mind of the formation of
the bold outlines of rimrock assured him he would be able to return to his
retreat even in the dark.
Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canyon, and among
these Venters threaded his way with the step of an Indian. At intervals he
put his hand on the dog and stopped to listen. There was a drowsy hum of
insects, but no other sound disturbed the warm midday stillness. Venters
saw ahead a turn, more abrupt than any yet. Warily he rounded this corner,
once again to halt bewildered.
The canyon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and gray growths.
It was the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, at regular distances, like
spokes, ran the outgoing canyons. Here a dull red color predominated over
the fading yellow. The corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled,
to taper into towers and serrated peaks and pinnacled domes.
Venters pushed on more heedfully than ever. Toward the center of this
circle the sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart He was about to sheer
off to the right, where thickets and jumbles of fallen rock would afford
him cover, when he ran right upon a broad cattle trail. Like a road it
was, more than a trail, and the cattle tracks were fresh. What surprised
him more, they were wet! He pondered over this feature. It had not rained.
The only solution to this puzzle was that the cattle had been driven
through water, and water deep enough to wet their legs.
Suddenly Ring growled low. Venters rose cautiously and looked over the
sage. A band of straggling horsemen were riding across the oval. He sank
down, startled and trembling. "Rustlers!" he muttered. Hurriedly he
glanced about for a place to hide. Near at hand there was nothing but
sage-brush. He dared not risk crossing the open patches to reach the
rocks. Again he peeped over the sage. The rustlers—four—five—seven—eight
in all, were approaching, but not directly in line with him. That was
relief for a cold deadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his
veins. He crouched down with bated breath and held the bristling dog.
He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse laughter of
men, and then voices gradually dying away. Long moments passed. Then he
rose. The rustlers were riding into a canyon. Their horses were tired, and
they had several pack animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters
doubted that they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Olding's
band had split. Venters watched these horsemen disappear under a bold
The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval. Venters kept a
steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there were more, to see from
what canyon they rode. A quarter of an hour went by. Reward for his
vigilance came when he descried three more mounted men, far over to the
north. But out of what canyon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He
watched the three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner
where the others had gone.
"Up that canyon!" exclaimed Venters. "Oldring's den! I've found it!"
A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks all pointed
west. The broad trail came from the direction of the canyon into which the
rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the cattle had been driven out of it
across the oval. There were no tracks pointing the other way. It had been
in his mind that Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous,
and not from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and
where did it lead? Venters knew he wasted time in pondering the question,
but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. For many years Oldring's
mysterious entrance and exit to Deception Pass had been all-absorbing
topics to sage-riders.
All at once the dog put an end to Venters's pondering. Ring sniffed the
air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and then growled. Venters
wheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred yards, coming straight at him.
One, lagging behind the other, was Oldring's Masked Rider.
Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage-brush. But,
guarded as his action was, the first horse detected it. He stopped short,
snorted, and shot up his ears. The rustler bent forward, as if keenly
peering ahead. Then, with a swift sweep, he jerked a gun from its sheath
The bullet zipped through the sage-brush. Flying bits of wood struck
Venters, and the hot, stinging pain seemed to lift him in one leap. Like a
flash the blue barrel of his rifle gleamed level and he shot once—twice.
The foremost rustler dropped his weapon and toppled from his saddle, to
fall with his foot catching in a stirrup. The horse snorted wildly and
plunged away, dragging the rustler through the sage.
The Masked Rider huddled over his pommel slowly swaying to one side, and
then, with a faint, strange cry, slipped out of the saddle.