uncomprehending and she saw him rapidly
saddle Black Star and
Night. Then he drew her into the light of the huge windows,
standing over her, gripping her arm with fingers like cold steel.
"Yes, Jane, it's ended--but you're not goin' to Dyer!...I'm goin'
instead!"
Looking at him--he was so terrible of aspect--she could not
comprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray as
death, with eyes that would have made her
shriek had she the
strength, with the strange,
ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the
gentle Lassiter? What was this presence in the hall, about him,
about her--this cold,
invisible presence?
"Yes, it's ended, Jane," he was
saying, so
awfully quiet and cool
and implacable, "an' I'm goin' to make a little call. I'll lock
you in here, an' when I get back have the
saddle-bags full of
meat an bread. An' be ready to ride!"
"Lassiter!" cried Jane.
Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately
she tried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged
in
torment, and she succeeded, and then she knew.
"No--no--no!" she wailed. "You said you'd foregone your
vengeance. You promised not to kill Bishop Dyer."
"If you want to talk to me about him--leave off the Bishop. I
don't understand that name, or its use."
"Oh, hadn't you foregone your
vengeance on--on Dyer? But--your
actions--your words--your guns--your terrible looks!... They
don't seem
foregoingvengeance?"
"Jane, now it's justice."
"You'll--kill him?"
"If God lets me live another hour! If not God--then the devil who
drives me!"
"You'll kill him--for yourself--for your vengeful hate?"
"No!"
"For Milly Erne's sake?"
"No."
"For little Fay's?"
"No!"
"Oh--for whose?"
"For yours!"
"His blood on my soul!" whispered Jane, and she fell to her
knees. This was the long-pending hour of fruition. And the habit
of years--the religious
passion of her life--leaped from
lethargy, and the long months of
gradual drifting to doubt were
as if they had never been. "If you spill his blood it'll be on my
soul--and on my father's. Listen." And she clasped his knees, and
clung there as he tried to raise her. "Listen. Am I nothing to
you?'
"Woman--don't
trifle at words! I love you! An' I'll soon prove
it."
"I'll give myself to you--I'll ride away with you--marry you, if
only you'll spare him?"
His answer was a cold, ringing, terrible laugh.
"Lassiter--I'll love you. Spare him!"
She
sprang up in
despairing, breaking spirit, and encircled his
neck with her arms, and held him in an
embrace that he strove
vainly to
loosen. "Lassiter, would you kill me? I'm fighting my
last fight for the principles of my youth--love of religion, love
of father. You don't know--you can't guess the truth, and I can't
speak ill. I'm losing all. I'm changing. All I've gone through is
nothing to this hour. Pity me-- help me in my
weakness. You're
strong again--oh, so
cruelly,
coldly strong! You're killing me. I
see you--feel you as some other Lassiter! My master, be
merciful--spare him!"
His answer was a
ruthless smile.
She clung the closer to him, and leaned her panting breast on
him, and lifted her face to his. "Lassiter, I do love you! It's
leaped out of my agony. It comes suddenly with a terrible blow of
truth. You are a man! I never knew it till now. Some wonderful
change came to me when you buckled on these guns and showed that
gray, awful face. I loved you then. All my life I've loved, but
never as now. No woman can love like a broken woman. If it were
not for one thing--just one thing--and yet! I can't speak it--I'd
glory in your manhood--the lion in you that means to slay for me.
Believe me--and spare Dyer. Be merciful--great as it's in you to
be great....Oh, listen and believe--I have nothing, but I'm a
woman--a beautiful woman, Lassiter--a
passionate, loving
woman--and I love you! Take me--hide me in some wild place--and
love me and mend my broken heart. Spare him and take me
away."
She lifted her face closer and closer to his, until their lips
nearly touched, and she hung upon his neck, and with strength
almost spent pressed and still pressed her palpitating body to
his.
"Kiss me!" she whispered, blindly.
"No--not at your price!" he answered. His voice had changed or
she had lost
clearness of hearing.
"Kiss me!...Are you a man? Kiss me and save me!"
"Jane, you never played fair with me. But now you're blisterin'
your lips--blackenin' your soul with lies!"
"By the memory of my mother--by my Bible--no! No, I have no
Bible! But by my hope of heaven I swear I love you!"
Lassiter's gray lips formed soundless words that meant even her
love could not avail to bend his will. As if the hold of her arms
was that of a child's he
loosened it and stepped away.
"Wait! Don't go! Oh, hear a last word!...May a more just and
merciful God than the God I was taught to
worship judge
me--forgive me--save me! For I can no longer keep
silent!...Lassiter, in pleading for Dyer I've been pleading more
for my father. My father was a Mormon master, close to the
leaders of the church. It was my father who sent Dyer out to
proselyte. It was my father who had the blue-ice eye and the
beard of gold. It was my father you got trace of in the past
years. Truly, Dyer ruined Milly Erne--dragged her from her
home--to Utah--to Cottonwoods. But it was for my father! If Milly
Erne was ever wife of a Mormon that Mormon was my father! I never
knew--never will know whether or not she was a wife. Blind I may
be, Lassiter--fanatically
faithful to a false religion I may have
been but I know justice, and my father is beyond human justice.
Surely he is meeting just punishment--somewhere. Always it has
appalled me--the thought of your killing Dyer for my father's
sins. So I have prayed!"
"Jane, the past is dead. In my love for you I forgot the past.
This thing I'm about to do ain't for myself or Milly or Fay. It s
not because of anythin' that ever happened in the past, but for
what is happenin' right now. It's for you!...An' listen. Since I
was a boy I've never thanked God for anythin'. If there is a
God--an' I've come to believe it--I thank Him now for the years
that made me Lassiter!...I can reach down en' feel these big
guns, en' know what I can do with them. An', Jane, only one of
the miracles Dyer professes to believe in can save him!"
Again for Jane Withersteen came the
spinning of her brain in
darkness, and as she whirled in endless chaos she seemed to be
falling at the feet of a
luminous figure--a man--Lassiter--who
had saved her from herself, who could not be changed, who would
slay rightfully. Then she slipped into utter blackness.
When she recovered from her faint she became aware that she was
lying on a couch near the window in her sitting-room. Her brow
felt damp and cold and wet, some one was chafing her hands; she
recognized Judkins, and then saw that his lean, hard face wore
the hue and look of
excessive agitation.
"Judkins!" Her voice broke weakly.
"Aw, Miss Withersteen, you're comin' round fine. Now jest lay
still a little. You're all right; everythin's all right."
"Where is--he?"
"Who?"
"Lassiter!"
"You needn't worry none about him."
"Where is he? Tell me--instantly."
"War, he's in the other room patchin' up a few triflin' bullet
holes."
"Ah!...Bishop' Dyer?"
"When I seen him last--a matter of half an hour ago, he was on
his knees. He was some busy, but he wasn't prayin'!"
"How
strangely you talk! I'll sit up. I'm--well, strong again.
Tell me. Dyer on his knees! What was he doing?"
"War, beggin' your
pardon fer blunt talk, Miss Withersteen, Dyer
was on his knees an' not prayin'. You remember his big, broad
hands? You've seen 'em raised in blessin' over old gray men an'
little curly-headed children like--like Fay Larkin! Come to think
of thet, I disremember ever hearin' of his liftin' his big hands
in blessin' over a woman. Wal, when I seen him last--jest a
little while ago--he was on his knees, not prayin', as I
remarked--an' he was pressin' his big hands over some bigger
wounds."
"Man, you drive me mad! Did Lassiter kill Dyer?"
"Yes."
"Did he kill Tull?"
"No. Tull's out of the village with most of his riders. He's
expected back before evenin'. Lassiter will hev to git away
before Tull en' his riders come in. It's sure death fer him here.
An' wuss fer you, too, Miss Withersteen. There'll be some of an
uprisin' when Tull gits back."
"I shall ride away with Lassiter. Judkins, tell me all you
saw--all you know about this killing." She realized, without
wonder or amaze, how Judkins's one word, affirming the death of
Dyer--that the
catastrophe had fallen--had completed the change
whereby she had been molded or
beaten or broken into another
woman. She felt calm,
slightly cold, strong as she had not been
strong since the first shadow fell upon her.
"I jest saw about all of it, Miss Withersteen, an' I'll be glad
to tell you if you'll only hev
patience with me," said Judkins,
earnestly. "You see, I've been pecooliarly interested, an'
nat'rully I'm some excited. An' I talk a lot thet mebbe ain't
necessary, but I can't help thet.
"I was at the meetin'-house where Dyer was holdin' court. You
know he allus acts as magistrate an' judge when Tull's away. An'
the trial was fer tryin' what's left of my boy riders--thet
helped me hold your cattle--fer a lot of hatched-up things the
boys never did. We're used to thet, an' the boys wouldn't hev
minded bein' locked up fer a while, or hevin' to dig ditches, or
whatever the judge laid down. You see, I divided the gold you
give me among all my boys, an' they all hid it, en' they all feel
rich. Howsomever, court was adjourned before the judge passed
sentence. Yes, ma'm, court was adjourned some strange an' quick,
much as if lightnin' hed struck the meetin'-house.
"I hed trouble attendin' the trial, but I got in. There was a
good many people there, all my boys, an' Judge Dyer with his
several clerks. Also he hed with him the five riders who've been
guardin' him pretty close of late. They was Carter, Wright,
Jengessen, an' two new riders from Stone Bridge. I didn't hear
their names, but I heard they was handy men with guns an' they
looked more like rustlers than riders. Anyway, there they was,
the five all in a row.
"Judge Dyer was tellin' Willie Kern, one of my best an' steadiest
boys-- Dyer was tellin' him how there was a ditch opened near
Willie's home lettin' water through his lot, where it hadn't
ought to go. An' Willie was tryin' to git a word in to prove he
wasn't at home all the day it happened--which was true, as I
know--but Willie couldn't git a word in, an' then Judge Dyer went
on layin' down the law. An' all to onct he happened to look down
the long room. An' if ever any man turned to stone he was thet
man.