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CHAPTER VIII. SURPRISE VALLEY
Back in that strange canyon, which Venters had found indeed a valley of
surprises, the wounded girl's whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not to
take her back to the rustlers crowned the events of the last few days with
a confounding climax. That she should not want to return to them staggered
Venters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal confirmed his
first impression—that she was more unfortunate than bad—and he
experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before that Oldring's
Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have been formed and he would
have considered her abandoned. But his first knowledge had come when he
lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion of agony; he had heard God's
name whispered by blood-stained lips; through her solemn and awful eyes he
had caught a glimpse of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty to
Once for all Venters's quick mind formed a permanent conception of this
poor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her,
but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a few
pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery, yet
breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to evil.
"What's your name?" he inquired.
"Bess," she answered.
"That's enough—just Bess."
The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever.
Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face, at
the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler's girl, but
she was still capable of shame, she might be dying, but she still clung to
some little remnant of honor.
"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter," he said. "But this matters—what
shall I do with you?"
"Are—you—a rider?" she whispered.
"Not now. I was once. I drove the Withersteen herds. But I lost my place—lost
all I owned—and now I'm—I'm a sort of outcast. My name's Bern
"You won't—take me—to Cottonwoods—or Glaze? I'd be—hanged."
"No, indeed. But I must do something with you. For it's not safe for me
here. I shot that rustler who was with you. Sooner or later he'll be
found, and then my tracks. I must find a safer hiding-place where I can't
"I will not." Venters spoke shortly with a kind of ring in his voice.
"What—do you want—to do—with me?" Her whispering grew
difficult, so low and faint that Venters had to stoop to hear her.
"Why, let's see," he replied, slowly. "I'd like to take you some place
where I could watch by you, nurse you, till you're all right."
"Well, it'll be time to think of that when you're cured of your wound.
It's a bad one. And—Bess, if you don't want to live—if you
don't fight for life—you'll never—"
"Oh! I want—to live! I'm afraid—to die. But I'd rather—die—than
"To Oldring?" asked Venters, interrupting her in turn.
Her lips moved in an affirmative.
"I promise not to take you back to him or to Cottonwoods or to Glaze."
The mournful earnestness of her gaze suddenly shone with unutterable
gratitude and wonder. And as suddenly Venters found her eyes beautiful as
he had never seen or felt beauty. They were as dark blue as the sky at
night. Then the flashing changed to a long, thoughtful look, in which
there was a wistful, unconscious searching of his face, a look that
trembled on the verge of hope and trust.
"I'll try—to live," she said. The broken whisper just reached his
ears. "Do what—you want—with me."
"Rest then—don't worry—sleep," he replied.
Abruptly he arose, as if words had been decision for him, and with a sharp
command to the dogs he strode from the camp. Venters was conscious of an
indefinite conflict of change within him. It seemed to be a vague passing
of old moods, a dim coalescing of new forces, a moment of inexplicable
transition. He was both cast down and uplifted. He wanted to think and
think of the meaning, but he resolutely dispelled emotion. His imperative
need at present was to find a safe retreat, and this called for action.
So he set out. It still wanted several hours before dark. This trip he
turned to the left and wended his skulking way southward a mile or more to
the opening of the valley, where lay the strange scrawled rocks. He did
not, however, venture boldly out into the open sage, but clung to the
right-hand wall and went along that till its perpendicular line broke into
the long incline of bare stone.
Before proceeding farther he halted, studying the strange character of
this slope and realizing that a moving black object could be seen far
against such background. Before him ascended a gradual swell of smooth
stone. It was hard, polished, and full of pockets worn by centuries of
eddying rain-water. A hundred yards up began a line of grotesque
cedar-trees, and they extended along the slope clear to its most southerly
end. Beyond that end Venters wanted to get, and he concluded the cedars,
few as they were, would afford some cover.
Therefore he climbed swiftly. The trees were farther up than he had
estimated, though he had from long habit made allowance for the deceiving
nature of distances in that country. When he gained the cover of cedars he
paused to rest and look, and it was then he saw how the trees sprang from
holes in the bare rock. Ages of rain had run down the slope, circling,
eddying in depressions, wearing deep round holes. There had been dry
seasons, accumulations of dust, wind-blown seeds, and cedars rose
wonderfully out of solid rock. But these were not beautiful cedars. They
were gnarled, twisted into weird contortions, as if growth were torture,
dead at the tops, shrunken, gray, and old. Theirs had been a bitter fight,
and Venters felt a strange sympathy for them. This country was hard on
He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the open
valley. As he progressed, the belt of trees widened and he kept to its
upper margin. He passed shady pockets half full of water, and, as he
marked the location for possible future need, he reflected that there had
been no rain since the winter snows. From one of these shady holes a
rabbit hopped out and squatted down, laying its ears flat.
Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself to think
of. But it would not do to fire his rifle there. So he broke off a cedar
branch and threw it. He crippled the rabbit, which started to flounder up
the slope. Venters did not wish to lose the meat, and he never allowed
crippled game to escape, to die lingeringly in some covert. So after a
careful glance below, and back toward the canyon, he began to chase the
The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him. But it
presently seemed singular why this rabbit, that might have escaped
downward, chose to ascend the slope. Venters knew then that it had a
burrow higher up. More than once he jerked over to seize it, only in vain,
for the rabbit by renewed effort eluded his grasp. Thus the chase
continued on up the bare slope. The farther Venters climbed the more
determined he grew to catch his quarry. At last, panting and sweating, he
captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade. Laying his rifle on
the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slung it from his
Before starting down he waited to catch his breath. He had climbed far up
that wonderful smooth slope, and had almost reached the base of yellow
cliff that rose skyward, a huge scarred and cracked bulk. It frowned down
upon him as if to forbid further ascent. Venters bent over for his rifle,
and, as he picked it up from where it leaned against the steeper grade, he
saw several little nicks cut in the solid stone.
They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart. Venters began to
count them—one—two—three—four—on up to
sixteen. That number carried his glance to the top of his first bulging
bench of cliff-base. Above, after a more level offset, was still steeper
slope, and the line of nicks kept on, to wind round a projecting corner of
A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if Venters had
not known what they signified he would never have bestowed upon them the
second glance. But he knew they had been cut there by hand, and, though
age-worn, he recognized them as steps cut in the rock by the
cliff-dwellers. With a pulse beginning to beat and hammer away his
calmness, he eyed that indistinct line of steps, up to where the buttress
of wall hid further sight of them. He knew that behind the corner of stone
would be a cave or a crack which could never be suspected from below.
Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directed him to a probable
hiding-place. Again he laid aside his rifle, and, removing boots and belt,
he began to walk up the steps. Like a mountain goat, he was agile,
sure-footed, and he mounted the first bench without bending to use his
hands. The next ascent took grip of fingers as well as toes, but he
climbed steadily, swiftly, to reach the projecting corner, and slipped
around it. Here he faced a notch in the cliff. At the apex he turned
abruptly into a ragged vent that split the ponderous wall clear to the
top, showing a narrow streak of blue sky.
At the base this vent was dark, cool, and smelled of dry, musty dust. It
zigzagged so that he could not see ahead more than a few yards at a time.
He noticed tracks of wildcats and rabbits in the dusty floor. At every
turn he expected to come upon a huge cavern full of little square stone
houses, each with a small aperture like a staring dark eye. The passage
lightened and widened, and opened at the foot of a narrow, steep,
Venters had a moment's notice of the rock, which was of the same
smoothness and hardness as the slope below, before his gaze went
irresistibly upward to the precipitous walls of this wide ladder of
granite. These were ruined walls of yellow sandstone, and so split and
splintered, so overhanging with great sections of balancing rim, so
impending with tremendous crumbling crags, that Venters caught his breath
sharply, and, appalled, he instinctively recoiled as if a step upward
might jar the ponderous cliffs from their foundation. Indeed, it seemed
that these ruined cliffs were but awaiting a breath of wind to collapse
and come tumbling down. Venters hesitated. It would be a foolhardy man who
risked his life under the leaning, waiting avalanches of rock in that
gigantic split. Yet how many years had they leaned there without falling!
At the bottom of the incline was an immense heap of weathered sandstone
all crumbling to dust, but there were no huge rocks as large as houses,
such as rested so lightly and frightfully above, waiting patiently and
inevitably to crash down. Slowly split from the parent rock by the
weathering process, and carved and sculptured by ages of wind and rain,
they waited their moment. Venters felt how foolish it was for him to fear
these broken walls; to fear that, after they had endured for thousands of
years, the moment of his passing should be the one for them to slip. Yet
he feared it.
"What a place to hide!" muttered Venters. "I'll climb—I'll see where
this thing goes. If only I can find water!"
With teeth tight shut he essayed the incline. And as he climbed he bent
his eyes downward. This, however, after a little grew impossible; he had
to look to obey his eager, curious mind. He raised his glance and saw
light between row on row of shafts and pinnacles and crags that stood out
from the main wall. Some leaned against the cliff, others against each
other; many stood sheer and alone; all were crumbling, cracked, rotten. It
was a place of yellow, ragged ruin. The passage narrowed as he went up; it
became a slant, hard for him to stick on; it was smooth as marble. Finally
he surmounted it, surprised to find the walls still several hundred feet
high, and a narrow gorge leading down on the other side. This was a divide
between two inclines, about twenty yards wide. At one side stood an
enormous rock. Venters gave it a second glance, because it rested on a
pedestal. It attracted closer attention. It was like a colossal pear of
stone standing on its stem. Around the bottom were thousands of little
nicks just distinguishable to the eye. They were marks of stone hatchets.
The cliff-dwellers had chipped and chipped away at this boulder till it
rested its tremendous bulk upon a mere pin-point of its surface. Venters
pondered. Why had the little stone-men hacked away at that big boulder? It
bore no semblance to a statue or an idol or a godhead or a sphinx.
Instinctively he put his hands on it and pushed; then his shoulder and
heaved. The stone seemed to groan, to stir, to grate, and then to move. It
tipped a little downward and hung balancing for a long instant, slowly
returned, rocked slightly, groaned, and settled back to its former
Venters divined its significance. It had been meant for defense. The
cliff-dwellers, driven by dreaded enemies to this last stand, had
cunningly cut the rock until it balanced perfectly, ready to be dislodged
by strong hands. Just below it leaned a tottering crag that would have
toppled, starting an avalanche on an acclivity where no sliding mass could
stop. Crags and pinnacles, splintered cliffs, and leaning shafts and
monuments, would have thundered down to block forever the outlet to
"That was a narrow shave for me," said Venters, soberly. "A balancing
rock! The cliff-dwellers never had to roll it. They died, vanished, and
here the rock stands, probably little changed.... But it might serve
another lonely dweller of the cliffs. I'll hide up here somewhere, if I
can only find water."
He descended the gorge on the other side. The slope was gradual, the space
narrow, the course straight for many rods. A gloom hung between the
up-sweeping walls. In a turn the passage narrowed to scarce a dozen feet,
and here was darkness of night. But light shone ahead; another abrupt turn
brought day again, and then wide open space.
Above Venters loomed a wonderful arch of stone bridging the canyon rims,
and through the enormous round portal gleamed and glistened a beautiful
valley shining under sunset gold reflected by surrounding cliffs. He gave
a start of surprise. The valley was a cove a mile long, half that wide,
and its enclosing walls were smooth and stained, and curved inward,
forming great caves. He decided that its floor was far higher than the
level of Deception Pass and the intersecting canyons. No purple sage
colored this valley floor. Instead there were the white of aspens, streaks
of branch and slender trunk glistening from the green of leaves, and the
darker green of oaks, and through the middle of this forest, from wall to
wall, ran a winding line of brilliant green which marked the course of
cottonwoods and willows.
"There's water here—and this is the place for me," said Venters.
"Only birds can peep over those walls, I've gone Oldring one better."
Venters waited no longer, and turned swiftly to retrace his steps. He
named the canyon Surprise Valley and the huge boulder that guarded the
outlet Balancing Rock. Going down he did not find himself attended by such
fears as had beset him in the climb; still, he was not easy in mind and
could not occupy himself with plans of moving the girl and his outfit
until he had descended to the notch. There he rested a moment and looked
about him. The pass was darkening with the approach of night. At the
corner of the wall, where the stone steps turned, he saw a spur of rock
that would serve to hold the noose of a lasso. He needed no more aid to
scale that place. As he intended to make the move under cover of darkness,
he wanted most to be able to tell where to climb up. So, taking several
small stones with him, he stepped and slid down to the edge of the slope
where he had left his rifle and boots. He placed the stones some yards
apart. He left the rabbit lying upon the bench where the steps began. Then
he addressed a keen-sighted, remembering gaze to the rim-wall above. It
was serrated, and between two spears of rock, directly in line with his
position, showed a zigzag crack that at night would let through the gleam
of sky. This settled, he put on his belt and boots and prepared to
descend. Some consideration was necessary to decide whether or not to
leave his rifle there. On the return, carrying the girl and a pack, it
would be added encumbrance; and after debating the matter he left the
rifle leaning against the bench. As he went straight down the slope he
halted every few rods to look up at his mark on the rim. It changed, but
he fixed each change in his memory. When he reached the first cedar-tree,
he tied his scarf upon a dead branch, and then hurried toward camp, having
no more concern about finding his trail upon the return trip.
Darkness soon emboldened and lent him greater speed. It occurred to him,
as he glided into the grassy glade near camp and head the whinny of a
horse, that he had forgotten Wrangle. The big sorrel could not be gotten
into Surprise Valley. He would have to be left here.
Venters determined at once to lead the other horses out through the
thicket and turn them loose. The farther they wandered from this canyon
the better it would suit him. He easily descried Wrangle through the
gloom, but the others were not in sight. Venters whistled low for the
dogs, and when they came trotting to him he sent them out to search for
the horses, and followed. It soon developed that they were not in the
glade nor the thicket. Venters grew cold and rigid at the thought of
rustlers having entered his retreat. But the thought passed, for the
demeanor of Ring and Whitie reassured him. The horses had wandered away.
Under the clump of silver spruces a denser mantle of darkness, yet not so
thick that Venter's night-practiced eyes could not catch the white oval of
a still face. He bent over it with a slight suspension of breath that was
both caution lest he frighten her and chill uncertainty of feeling lest he
find her dead. But she slept, and he arose to renewed activity.
He packed his saddle-bags. The dogs were hungry, they whined about him and
nosed his busy hands; but he took no time to feed them nor to satisfy his
own hunger. He slung the saddlebags over his shoulders and made them
secure with his lasso. Then he wrapped the blankets closer about the girl
and lifted her in his arms. Wrangle whinnied and thumped the ground as
Venters passed him with the dogs. The sorrel knew he was being left
behind, and was not sure whether he liked it or not. Venters went on and
entered the thicket. Here he had to feel his way in pitch blackness and to
wedge his progress between the close saplings. Time meant little to him
now that he had started, and he edged along with slow side movement till
he got clear of the thicket. Ring and Whitie stood waiting for him. Taking
to the open aisles and patches of the sage, he walked guardedly, careful
not to stumble or step in dust or strike against spreading sage-branches.
If he were burdened he did not feel it. From time to time, when he passed
out of the black lines of shade into the wan starlight, he glanced at the
white face of the girl lying in his arms. She had not awakened from her
sleep or stupor. He did not rest until he cleared the black gate of the
canyon. Then he leaned against a stone breast-high to him and gently
released the girl from his hold. His brow and hair and the palms of his
hands were wet, and there was a kind of nervous contraction of his
muscles. They seemed to ripple and string tense. He had a desire to hurry
and no sense of fatigue. A wind blew the scent of sage in his face. The
first early blackness of night passed with the brightening of the stars.
Somewhere back on his trail a coyote yelped, splitting the dead silence.
Venters's faculties seemed singularly acute.
He lifted the girl again and pressed on. The valley better traveling than
the canyon. It was lighter, freer of sage, and there were no rocks. Soon,
out of the pale gloom shone a still paler thing, and that was the low
swell of slope. Venters mounted it and his dogs walked beside him. Once
upon the stone he slowed to snail pace, straining his sight to avoid the
pockets and holes. Foot by foot he went up. The weird cedars, like great
demons and witches chained to the rock and writhing in silent anguish,
loomed up with wide and twisting naked arms. Venters crossed this belt of
cedars, skirted the upper border, and recognized the tree he had marked,
even before he saw his waving scarf.
Here he knelt and deposited the girl gently, feet first and slowly laid
her out full length. What he feared was to reopen one of her wounds. If he
gave her a violent jar, or slipped and fell! But the supreme confidence so
strangely felt that night admitted no such blunders.
The slope before him seemed to swell into obscurity to lose its definite
outline in a misty, opaque cloud that shaded into the over-shadowing wall.
He scanned the rim where the serrated points speared the sky, and he found
the zigzag crack. It was dim, only a shade lighter than the dark ramparts,
but he distinguished it, and that served.
Lifting the girl, he stepped upward, closely attending to the nature of
the path under his feet. After a few steps he stopped to mark his line
with the crack in the rim. The dogs clung closer to him. While chasing the
rabbit this slope had appeared interminable to him; now, burdened as he
was, he did not think of length or height or toil. He remembered only to
avoid a misstep and to keep his direction. He climbed on, with frequent
stops to watch the rim, and before he dreamed of gaining the bench he
bumped his knees into it, and saw, in the dim gray light, his rifle and
the rabbit. He had come straight up without mishap or swerving off his
course, and his shut teeth unlocked.
As he laid the girl down in the shallow hollow of the little ridge with
her white face upturned, she opened her eyes. Wide, staring black, at once
like both the night and the stars, they made her face seem still whiter.
"Is—it—you?" she asked, faintly.
"Yes," replied Venters.
"Oh! Where—are we?"
"I'm taking you to a safe place where no one will ever find you. I must
climb a little here and call the dogs. Don't be afraid. I'll soon come for
She said no more. Her eyes watched him steadily for a moment and then
closed. Venters pulled off his boots and then felt for the little steps in
the rock. The shade of the cliff above obscured the point he wanted to
gain, but he could see dimly a few feet before him. What he had attempted
with care he now went at with surpassing lightness. Buoyant, rapid, sure,
he attained the corner of wall and slipped around it. Here he could not
see a hand before his face, so he groped along, found a little flat space,
and there removed the saddle-bags. The lasso he took back with him to the
corner and looped the noose over the spur of rock.
"Ring—Whitie—come," he called, softly.
Low whines came up from below.
"Here! Come, Whitie—Ring," he repeated, this time sharply.
Then followed scraping of claws and pattering of feet; and out of the gray
gloom below him swiftly climbed the dogs to reach his side and pass
Venters descended, holding to the lasso. He tested its strength by
throwing all his weight upon it. Then he gathered the girl up, and,
holding her securely in his left arm, he began to climb, at every few
steps jerking his right hand upward along the lasso. It sagged at each
forward movement he made, but he balanced himself lightly during the
interval when he lacked the support of a taut rope. He climbed as if he
had wings, the strength of a giant, and knew not the sense of fear. The
sharp corner of cliff seemed to cut out of the darkness. He reached it and
the protruding shelf, and then, entering the black shade of the notch, he
moved blindly but surely to the place where he had left the saddle-bags.
He heard the dogs, though he could not see them. Once more he carefully
placed the girl at his feet. Then, on hands and knees, he went over the
little flat space, feeling for stones. He removed a number, and, scraping
the deep dust into a heap, he unfolded the outer blanket from around the
girl and laid her upon this bed. Then he went down the slope again for his
boots, rifle, and the rabbit, and, bringing also his lasso with him, he
made short work of that trip.
"Are—you—there?" The girl's voice came low from the blackness.
"Yes," he replied, and was conscious that his laboring breast made speech
"Are we—in a cave?"
"Oh, listen!... The waterfall!... I hear it! You've brought me back!"
Venters heard a murmuring moan that one moment swelled to a pitch almost
softly shrill and the next lulled to a low, almost inaudible sigh.
"That's—wind blowing—in the—cliffs," he panted. "You're
far from Oldring's—canyon."
The effort it cost him to speak made him conscious of extreme lassitude
following upon great exertion. It seemed that when he lay down and drew
his blanket over him the action was the last before utter prostration. He
stretched inert, wet, hot, his body one great strife of throbbing,
stinging nerves and bursting veins. And there he lay for a long while
before he felt that he had begun to rest.
Rest came to him that night, but no sleep. Sleep he did not want. The
hours of strained effort were now as if they had never been, and he wanted
to think. Earlier in the day he had dismissed an inexplicable feeling of
change; but now, when there was no longer demand on his cunning and
strength and he had time to think, he could not catch the illusive thing
that had sadly perplexed as well as elevated his spirit.
Above him, through a V-shaped cleft in the dark rim of the cliff, shone
the lustrous stars that had been his lonely accusers for a long, long
year. To-night they were different. He studied them. Larger, whiter, more
radiant they seemed; but that was not the difference he meant. Gradually
it came to him that the distinction was not one he saw, but one he felt.
In this he divined as much of the baffling change as he thought would be
revealed to him then. And as he lay there, with the singing of the
cliff-winds in his ears, the white stars above the dark, bold vent, the
difference which he felt was that he was no longer alone.