The Best of Zane Grey

Excerpt

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this chance
meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe to move on. Then,
with sudden impulse, he turned the other way and went back along the grove.
When he reached the path leading to Jane¹s home he decided to go down to the
village. So he hurried onward, with quick soft steps. Once beyond the grove
he entered the one and only street. It was wide, lined with tall poplars,
and under each row of trees, inside the foot-path, were ditches where ran
the water from Jane Withersteen¹s spring.
 
Between the trees twinkled lights of cottage candles, and far down flared
bright windows of the village stores. When Venters got closer to these he
saw knots of men standing together in earnest conversation. The usual
lounging on the corners and benches and steps was not in evidence. Keeping
in the shadow, Venters went closer and closer until he could hear voices.
But he could not distinguish what was said. He recognized many Mormons, and
looked hard for Tull and his men, but looked in vain. Venters concluded that
the rustlers had not passed along the village street. No doubt these earnest
men were discussing Lassiter¹s coming. But Venters felt positive that Tull¹s
intention toward himself that day had not been and would not be revealed.
 
So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracing his
steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer¹s home next to it was also dark, and
likewise Tull¹s cottage. Upon almost any night at this hour there would be
lights here, and Venters marked the unusual omission.
 
As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he once more
slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently he descried two
mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Again the
starlight, brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull¹s stalwart figure,
and beside him the short, froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were
silent, and they rode on to disappear.
 
Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of the day,
trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughts overwhelmed him.
Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been his friend. And he skulked
about her home, gripping a gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place
or people or purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret
power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous store than
Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to those unfortunates whom
her people hated. She asked only the divine right of all women‹freedom; to
love and to live as her heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.
 
From The Best of Zane Grey by Zane Grey