in the Mormon Elder's brain, and had been accomplished through

his orders--revived in Venters a memory of hatred that had been
smothered by press of other emotions. Only a few days had elapsed

since the hour of his encounter with Tull, yet they had been
forgotten and now seemed far off, and the interval one that now

appeared large and profound with incalculable change in his
feelings. Hatred of Tull still existed in his heart, but it had

lost its white heat. His affection for Jane Withersteen had not
changed in the least; nevertheless, he seemed to view it from

another angle and see it as another thing--what, he could not
exactly define. The recalling of these two feelings was to

Venters like getting glimpses into a self that was gone; and the
wonder of them--perhaps the change which was too illusive for

him--was the fact that a strange irritation accompanied the
memory and a desire to dismiss it from mind. And straightway he

did dismiss it, to return to thoughts of his significant present.
"Bess, tell me one more thing," he said. "Haven't you known any

women-- any young people?"
"Sometimes there were women with the men; but Oldring never let

me know them. And all the young people I ever saw in my life was
when I rode fast through the villages."

Perhaps that was the most puzzling and thought-provoking thing
she had yet said to Venters. He pondered, more curious the more

he learned, but he curbed his inquisitive desires, for he saw her
shrinking on the verge of that shame, the causing of which had

occasioned him such self-reproach. He would ask no more. Still he
had to think, and he found it difficult to think clearly. This

sad-eyed girl was so utterly different from what it would have
been reason to believe such a remarkable life would have made

her. On this day he had found her simple and frank, as natural as
any girl he had ever known. About her there was something sweet.

Her voice was low and well modulated. He could not look into her
face, meet her steady, unabashed, yet wistful eyes, and think of

her as the woman she had confessed herself. Oldring's Masked
Rider sat before him, a girl dressed as a man. She had been made

to ride at the head of infamous forays and drives. She had been
imprisoned for many months of her life in an obscure cabin. At

times the most vicious of men had been her companions; and the
vilest of women, if they had not been permitted to approach her,

had, at least, cast their shadows over her. But--but in spite of
all this--there thundered at Venters some truth that lifted its

voice higher than the clamoring facts of dishonor, some truth
that was the very life of her beautiful eyes; and it was

innocence.
In the days that followed, Venters balanced perpetually in mind

this haunting conception of innocence over against the cold and
sickening fact of an unintentional yet actual gift. How could it

be possible for the two things to be true? He believed the latter
to be true, and he would not relinquish his conviction of the

former; and these conflicting thoughts augmented the mystery that
appeared to be a part of Bess. In those ensuing days, however, it

became clear as clearest light that Bess was rapidly regaining
strength; that, unless reminded of her long association with

Oldring, she seemed to have forgotten it; that, like an Indian
who lives solely from moment to moment, she was utterly absorbed

in the present.
Day by day Venters watched the white of her face slowly change to

brown, and the wasted cheeks fill out by imperceptible degrees.
There came a time when he could just trace the line of

demarcation between the part of her face once hidden by a mask
and that left exposed to wind and sun. When that line disappeared

in clear bronze tan it was as if she had been washed clean of the
stigma of Oldring's Masked Rider. The suggestion of the mask

always made Venters remember; now that it was gone he seldom
thought of her past. Occasionally he tried to piece together the

several stages of strange experience and to make a whole. He had
shot a masked outlaw the very sight of whom had been ill omen to

riders; he had carried off a wounded woman whose bloody lips
quivered in prayer; he had nursed what seemed a frail, shrunken

boy; and now he watched a girl whose face had become strangely
sweet, whose dark-blue eyes were ever upon him without boldness,

without shyness, but with a steady, grave, and growing light.
Many times Venters found the clear gaze embarrassing to him, yet,

like wine, it had an exhilarating effect. What did she think when
she looked at him so? Almost he believed she had no thought at

all. All about her and the present there in Surprise Valley, and
the dim yet subtly impending future, fascinated Venters and made

him thoughtful as all his lonely vigils in the sage had
not.

Chiefly it was the present that he wished to dwell upon; but it
was the call of the future which stirred him to action. No idea

had he of what that future had in store for Bess and him. He
began to think of improving Surprise Valley as a place to live

in, for there was no telling how long they would be compelled to
stay there. Venters stubbornly resisted the entering into his

mind of an insistent thought that, clearly realized, might have
made it plain to him that he did not want to leave Surprise

Valley at all. But it was imperative that he consider practical
matters; and whether or not he was destined to stay long there,

he felt the immediate need of a change of diet. It would be
necessary for him to go farther afield for a variety of meat, and

also that he soon visit Cottonwoods for a supply of food.
It occurred again to Venters that he could go to the canyon where

Oldring kept his cattle, and at little risk he could pack out
some beef. He wished to do this, however, without letting Bess

know of it till after he had made the trip. Presently he hit upon
the plan of going while she was asleep.

That very night he stole out of camp, climbed up under the stone
bridge, and entered the outlet to the Pass. The gorge was full of

luminous gloom. Balancing Rock loomed dark and leaned over the
pale descent. Transformed in the shadowy light, it took shape and

dimensions of a spectral god waiting--waiting for the moment to
hurl himself down upon the tottering walls and close forever the

outlet to Deception Pass. At night more than by day Venters felt
something fearful and fateful in that rock, and that it had

leaned and waited through a thousand years to have somehow to
deal with his destiny.

"Old man, if you must roll, wait till I get back to the girl, and
then roll!" he said, aloud, as if the stones were indeed a god.

And those spoken words, in their grim note to his ear, as well as
contents to his mind, told Venters that he was all but drifting

on a current which he had not power nor wish to stem.
Venters exercised his usual care in the matter of hiding tracks

from the outlet, yet it took him scarcely an hour to reach
Oldring's cattle. Here sight of many calves changed his original

intention, and instead of packing out meat he decided to take a
calf out alive. He roped one, securely tied its feet, and swung

it over his shoulder. Here was an exceedingly heavy burden, but
Venters was powerful--he could take up a sack of grain and with

ease pitch it over a pack-saddle--and he made long distance
without resting. The hardest work came in the climb up to the

outlet and on through to the valley. When he had accomplished it,
he became fired with another idea that again changed his

intention. He would not kill the calf, but keep it alive. He
would go back to Oldring's herd and pack out more calves.

Thereupon he secured the calf in the best available spot for the
moment and turned to make a second trip.