they had come to soften in hatred. At any time this work called

for a clearness of mind that precluded anxiety and worry; but
under the present circumstances it required all her vigor and

obstinate tenacity to pin her attention upon her task.
Sunset came, bringing with the end of her labor a patient

calmness and power to wait that had not been hers earlier in the
day. She expected Judkins, but he did not appear. Her house was

always quiet; to-night, however, it seemed unusually so. At
supper her women served her with a silent assiduity; it spoke

what their sealed lips could not utter--the sympathy of Mormon
women. Jerd came to her with the key of the great door of the

stone stable, and to make his daily report about the horses. One
of his daily duties was to give Black Star and Night and the

other racers a ten-mile run. This day it had been omitted, and
the boy grew confused in explanations that she had not asked for.

She did inquire if he would return on the morrow, and Jerd, in
mingled surprise and relief, assured her he would always work for

her. Jane missed the rattle and trot, canter and gallop of the
incoming riders on the hard trails. Dusk shaded the grove where

she walked; the birds ceased singing; the wind sighed through the
leaves of the cottonwoods, and the running water murmured down

its stone-bedded channel. The glimmering of the first star was
like the peace and beauty of the night. Her faith welled up in

her heart and said that all would soon be right in her little
world. She pictured Venters about his lonely camp-fire sitting

between his faithful dogs. She prayed for his safety, for the
success of his undertaking.

Early the next morning one of Jane's women brought in word that
Judkins wished to speak to her. She hurried out, and in her

surprise to see him armed with rifle and revolver, she forgot her
intention to inquire about his wound.

"Judkins! Those guns? You never carried guns."
"It's high time, Miss Withersteen," he replied. "Will you come

into the grove? It ain't jest exactly safe for me to be seen
here."

She walked with him into the shade of the cottonwoods.
"What do you mean?"

"Miss Withersteen, I went to my mother's house last night. While
there, some one knocked, an' a man asked for me. I went to the

door. He wore a mask. He said I'd better not ride any more for
Jane Withersteen. His voice was hoarse an' strange, disguised I

reckon, like his face. He said no more, an' ran off in the
dark."

"Did you know who he was?" asked Jane, in a low voice.
Jane did not ask to know; she did not want to know; she feared to

know. All her calmness fled at a single thought
"Thet's why I'm packin' guns," went on Judkins. "For I'll never

quit ridin' for you, Miss Withersteen, till you let me
go."

"Judkins, do you want to leave me?"
"Do I look thet way? Give me a hoss--a fast hoss, an' send me out

on the sage."
"Oh, thank you, Judkins! You're more faithful than my own people.

I ought not accept your loyalty--you might suffer more through
it. But what in the world can I do? My head whirls. The wrong to

Venters--the stolen herd--these masks, threats, this coil in the
dark! I can't understand! But I feel something dark and terrible

closing in around me."
"Miss Withersteen, it's all simple enough," said Judkins,

earnestly. "Now please listen--an' beggin' your pardon--jest turn
thet deaf Mormon ear aside, an' let me talk clear an' plain in

the other. I went around to the saloons an' the stores an' the
loafin' places yesterday. All your riders are in. There's talk of

a vigilance band organized to hunt down rustlers. They call
themselves 'The Riders.' Thet's the report--thet's the reason

given for your riders leavin' you. Strange thet only a few riders
of other ranchers joined the band! An' Tull's man, Jerry Card--

he's the leader. I seen him en' his hoss. He 'ain't been to
Glaze. I'm not easy to fool on the looks of a hoss thet's

traveled the sage. Tull an' Jerry didn't ride to Glaze!...Well, I
met Blake en' Dorn, both good friends of mine, usually, as far as

their Mormon lights will let 'em go. But these fellers couldn't
fool me, an' they didn't try very hard. I asked them, straight

out like a man, why they left you like thet. I didn't forget to
mention how you nursed Blake's poor old mother when she was sick,

an' how good you was to Dorn's kids. They looked ashamed, Miss
Withersteen. An' they jest froze up--thet dark set look thet

makes them strange an' different to me. But I could tell the
difference between thet first natural twinge of conscience an'

the later look of some secret thing. An' the difference I caught
was thet they couldn't help themselves. They hadn't no say in the

matter. They looked as if their bein' unfaithful to you was bein'
faithful to a higher duty. An' there's the secret. Why it's as

plain as--as sight of my gun here."
"Plain!...My herds to wander in the sage--to be stolen! Jane

Withersteen a poor woman! Her head to be brought low and her
spirit broken!...Why, Judkins, it's plain enough."

"Miss Withersteen, let me get what boys I can gather, an' hold
the white herd. It's on the slope now, not ten miles out--three

thousand head, an' all steers. They're wild, an' likely to
stampede at the pop of a jack-rabbit's ears. We'll camp right

with them, en' try to hold them."
"Judkins, I'll reward you some day for your service, unless all

is taken from me. Get the boys and tell Jerd to give you pick of
my horses, except Black Star and Night. But--do not shed blood

for my cattle nor heedlessly risk your lives."
Jane Withersteen rushed to the silence and seclusion of her room,

and there could not longer hold back the bursting of her wrath.
She went stone-blind in the fury of a passion that had never

before showed its power. Lying upon her bed, sightless,
voiceless, she was a writhing, living flame. And she tossed there

while her fury burned and burned, and finally burned itself out.
Then, weak and spent, she lay thinking, not of the oppression

that would break her, but of this new revelation of self. Until
the last few days there had been little in her life to rouse

passions. Her forefathers had been Vikings, savage chieftains who
bore no cross and brooked no hindrance to their will. Her father

had inherited that temper; and at times, like antelope fleeing
before fire on the slope, his people fled from his red rages.

Jane Withersteen realized that the spirit of wrath and war had
lain dormant in her. She shrank from black depths hitherto

unsuspected. The one thing in man or woman that she scorned above
all scorn, and which she could not forgive, was hate. Hate headed

a flamingpathway straight to hell. All in a flash, beyond her
control there had been in her a birth of fiery hate. And the man

who had dragged her peaceful and loving spirit to this
degradation was a minister of God's word, an Elder of her church,

the counselor of her beloved Bishop.
The loss of herds and ranges, even of Amber Spring and the Old

Stone House, no longer concerned Jane Withersteen, she faced the
foremost thought of her life, what she now considered the

mightiest problem--the salvation of her soul.
She knelt by her bedside and prayed; she prayed as she had never

prayed in all her life--prayed to be forgiven for her sin to be
immune from that dark, hot hate; to love Tull as her minister,