particular, bore Jane Withersteen close to an infringement of her

womanhood. In the beginning she had reasoned that her appeal to
Lassiter must be through the senses. With whatever means she

possessed in the way of adornment she enhanced her beauty. And
she stooped to artifices that she knew were unworthy of her, but

which she deliberately chose to employ. She made of herself a
girl in every variable mood wherein a girl might be desirable. In

those moods she was not above the methods of an inexperienced
though natural flirt. She kept close to him whenever opportunity

afforded; and she was forever playfully, yet passionately
underneath the surface, fighting him for possession of the great

black guns. These he would never yield to her. And so in that
manner their hands were often and long in contact. The more of

simplicity that she sensed in him the greater the advantage she
took.

She had a trick of changing--and it was not altogether
voluntary--from this gay, thoughtless, girlish coquettishness to

the silence and the brooding, burning mystery of a woman's mood.
The strength and passion and fire of her were in her eyes, and

she so used them that Lassiter had to see this depth in her, this
haunting promise more fitted to her years than to the flaunting

guise of a wilful girl.
The July days flew by. Jane reasoned that if it were possible for

her to be happy during such a time, then she was happy. Little
Fay completely filled a long aching void in her heart. In

fettering the hands of this Lassiter she was accomplishing the
greatest good of her life, and to do good even in a small way

rendered happiness to Jane Withersteen. She had attended the
regular Sunday services of her church; otherwise she had not gone

to the village for weeks. It was unusual that none of her
churchmen or friends had called upon her of late; but it was

neglect for which she was glad. Judkins and his boy riders had
experienced no difficulty in driving the white herd. So these

warm July days were free of worry, and soon Jane hoped she had
passed the crisis; and for her to hope was presently to trust,

and then to believe. She thought often of Venters, but in a
dreamy, abstract way. She spent hours teaching and playing with

little Fay. And the activity of her mind centered around
Lassiter. The direction she had given her will seemed to blunt

any branching off of thought from that straight line. The mood
came to obsess her.

In the end, when her awakening came, she learned that she had
builded better than she knew. Lassiter, though kinder and gentler

than ever, had parted with his quaint humor and his coldness and
his tranquillity to become a restless and unhappy man. Whatever

the power of his deadlyintent toward Mormons, that passion now
had a rival, the one equally burning and consuming. Jane

Withersteen had one moment of exultation before the dawn of a
strange uneasiness. What if she had made of herself a lure, at

tremendous cost to him and to her, and all in vain!
That night in the moonlit grove she summoned all her courage and,

turning suddenly in the path, she faced Lassiter and leaned close
to him, so that she touched him and her eyes looked up to his.

"Lassiter!...Will you do anything for me?"
In the moonlight she saw his dark, worn face change, and by that

change she seemed to feel him immovable as a wall of stone.
Jane slipped her hands down to the swinging gun-sheaths, and when

she had locked her fingers around the huge, cold handles of the
guns, she trembled as with a chilling ripple over all her body.

"May I take your guns?"
"Why?" he asked, and for the first time to her his voice carried

a harsh note. Jane felt his hard, strong hands close round her
wrists. It was not wholly with intent that she leaned toward him,

for the look of his eyes and the feel of his hands made her weak.
"It's no trifle--no woman's whim--it's deep--as my heart. Let me

take them?"
"Why?"

"I want to keep you from killing more men--Mormons. You must let
me save you from more wickedness--more wanton bloodshed--" Then

the truth forced itself falteringly from her lips. "You
must--let--help me to keep my vow to Milly Erne. I swore to

her--as she lay dying--that if ever any one came here to avenge
her--I swore I would stay his hand. Perhaps I--I alone can save

the--the man who--who--Oh, Lassiter!...I feel that I can't change
you--then soon you'll be out to kill--and you'll kill by

instinct--and among the Mormons you kill will be the
one--who...Lassiter, if you care a little for me--let me--for my

sake--let me take your guns!"
As if her hands had been those of a child, he unclasped their

clinging grip from the handles of his guns, and, pushing her
away, he turned his gray face to her in one look of terrible

realization and then strode off into the shadows of the
cottonwoods.

When the first shock of her futileappeal to Lassiter had passed,
Jane took his cold, silent condemnation and abruptdeparture not

so much as a refusal to her entreaty as a hurt and stunned
bitterness for her attempt at his betrayal. Upon further thought

and slow consideration of Lassiter's past actions, she believed
he would return and forgive her. The man could not be hard to a

woman, and she doubted that he could stay away from her. But at
the point where she had hoped to find him vulnerable see now

began to fear he was proof against all persuasion. The iron and
stone quality that she had early suspected in him had actually

cropped out as an impregnable barrier. Nevertheless, if Lassiter
remained in Cottonwoods she would never give up her hope and

desire to change him. She would change him if she had to
sacrifice everything dear to her except hope of heaven.

Passionately devoted as she was to her religion, she had yet
refused to marry a Mormon. But a situation had developed wherein

self paled in the great white light of religious duty of the
highest order. That was the leading motive, the divinely

spiritual one; but there were other motives, which, like
tentacles, aided in drawing her will to the acceptance of a

possible abnegation. And through the watches of that sleepless
night Jane Withersteen, in fear and sorrow and doubt, came

finally to believe that if she must throw herself into Lassiter's
arms to make him abide by "Thou shalt not kill!" she would yet do

well.
In the morning she expected Lassiter at the usual hour, but she

was not able to go at once to the court, so she sent little Fay.
Mrs. Larkin was ill and required attention. It appeared that the

mother, from the time of her arrival at Withersteen House, had
relaxed and was slowly losing her hold on life. Jane had believed

that absence of worry and responsibility coupled with good
nursing and comfort would mend Mrs. Larkin's broken health. Such,

however, was not the case.
When Jane did get out to the court, Fay was there alone, and at

the moment embarking on a dubiousvoyage down the stone-lined
amber stream upon a craft of two brooms and a pillow. Fay was as

delightfully wet as she could possibly wish to get.
Clatter of hoofs distracted Fay and interrupted the scolding she

was gleefully receiving from Jane. The sound was not the
light-spirited trot that Bells made when Lassiter rode him into

the outer court. This was slower and heavier, and Jane did not
recognize in it any of her other horses. The appearance of Bishop

Dyer startled Jane. He dismounted with his rapid, jerky motion
flung the bridle, and, as he turned toward the inner court and

stalked up on the stone flags, his boots rang. In his
authoritative front, and in the red anger unmistakably flaming in

his face, he reminded Jane of her father.