Attended by something somber for Venters, the day passed. At

night in the cool winds the fever abated and she slept.
The second day was a repetition of the first. On the third he

seemed to see her wither and waste away before his eyes. That day
he scarcely went from her side for a moment, except to run for

fresh, cool water; and he did not eat. The fever broke on the
fourth day and left her spent and shrunken, a slip of a girl with

life only in her eyes. They hung upon Venters with a mute
observance, and he found hope in that.

To rekindle the spark that had nearly flickered out, to nourish
the little life and vitality that remained in her, was Venters's

problem. But he had little resource other than the meat of the
rabbits and quail; and from these he made broths and soups as

best he could, and fed her with a spoon. It came to him that the
human body, like the human soul, was a strange thing and capable

of recovering from terrible shocks. For almost immediately she
showed faint signs of gathering strength. There was one more

waiting day, in which he doubted, and spent long hours by her
side as she slept, and watched the gentle swell of her breast

rise and fall in breathing, and the wind stir the tangled
chestnut curls. On the next day he knew that she would live.

Upon realizing it he abruptly left the cave and sought his
accustomed seat against the trunk of a big spruce, where once

more he let his glance stray along the sloping terraces. She
would live, and the somber gloom lifted out of the valley, and he

felt relief that was pain. Then he roused to the call of action,
to the many things he needed to do in the way of making camp

fixtures and utensils, to the necessity of hunting food, and the
desire to explore the valley.

But he decided to wait a few more days before going far from
camp, because he fancied that the girl rested easier when she

could see him near at hand. And on the first day her languor
appeared to leave her in a renewed grip of life. She awoke

stronger from each short slumber; she ate greedily, and she moved
about In her bed of boughs; and always, it seemed to Venters, her

eyes followed him. He knew now that her recovery would be rapid.
She talked about the dogs, about the caves, the valley, about how

hungry she was, till Venters silenced her, asking her to put off
further talk till another time. She obeyed, but she sat up in her

bed, and her eyes roved to and fro, and always back to him.
Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and

would not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, which
actions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however, and

Venters was quick to catch in her the first intimations of
thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation.

He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon his
return he was amazed and somewhat anxiouslyconcerned to see his

invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and her
bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, intending to

advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she might
overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on the

little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval
face with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue

circles. She looked at him and he looked at her. In that exchange
of glances he imagined each saw the other in some different

guise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girl could
be Oldring's Masked Rider. It flashed over him that he had made a

mistake which presently she would explain.
"Help me down," she said.

"But--are you well enough?" he protested. "Wait--a little
longer."

"I'm weak--dizzy. But I want to get down."
He lifted her--what a light burden now!--and stood her upright

beside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting
steps. She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small head

scarcely reached his shoulder. But now, as she clung to his arm,
the rider's costume she wore did not contradict, as it had done

at first, his feeling of her femininity. She might be the famous
Masked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but her

outline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and
tremulous lips, and especially a something that Venters felt as a

subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her sex.
She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the

spruce that overspread the camp-fire.
"Now tell me--everything," she said.

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery
of the rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment.

"You shot me--and now you've saved my life?"
"Yes. After almost killing you I've pulled you through."

"Are you glad?"
"I should say so!"

Her eyes were unusuallyexpressive, and they regarded him
steadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions

and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and
sadness.

"Tell me--about yourself?" she asked.
He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his

various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the
Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an

outcast.
Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he

questioned her in turn.
"Are you Oldring's Masked Rider?"

"Yes," she replied, and dropped her eyes.
"I knew it--I recognized your figure--and mask, for I saw you

once. Yet I can't believe it!...But you never were really that
rustler, as we riders knew him? A thief--a marauder--a kidnapper

of women--a murderer of sleeping riders!"
"No! I never stole--or harmed any one--in all my life. I only

rode and rode--"
"But why--why?" he burst out. "Why the name? I understand Oldring

made you ride. But the black mask--the mystery--the things laid
to your hands--the threats in your infamous name--the

night-riding credited to you--the evil deeds deliberately blamed
on you and acknowledged by rustlers--even Oldring himself! Why?

Tell me why?"
"I never knew that," she answered low. Her drooping head

straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met
Venters's with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It

verified his own conviction.
"Never knew? That's strange! Are you a Mormon?"

"No."
"Is Oldring a Mormon?"

"No."
"Do you--care for him?"

"Yes. I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hate
him!"

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him
self to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to

confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear.
"What are--what were you to Oldring?"

Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the
girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks

crept the red of shame.
Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It