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"Is that the Larkin pauper?" he asked, bruskly, without any



greeting to Jane.

"It's Mrs. Larkin's little girl," replied Jane, slowly.



"I hear you intend to raise the child?"

"Yes."



"Of course you mean to give her Mormon bringing-up?"

"No."



His questions had been swift. She was amazed at a feeling that

some one else was replying for her.



"I've come to say a few things to you." He stopped to measure her

with stern, speculative eye.



Jane Withersteen loved this man. From earliest childhood she had

been taught to revere and love bishops of her church. And for ten



years Bishop Dyer had been the closest friend and counselor of

her father, and for the greater part of that period her own



friend and Scriptural teacher. Her interpretation of her creed

and her religious activity in fidelity to it, her acceptance of



mysterious and holy Mormon truths, were all invested in this

Bishop. Bishop Dyer as an entity was next to God. He was God's



mouthpiece to the little Mormon community at Cottonwoods. God

revealed himself in secret to this mortal.



And Jane Withersteen suddenly suffered a paralyzing affront to

her consciousness of reverence by some strange, irresistible



twist of thought wherein she saw this Bishop as a man. And the

train of thought hurdled the rising, crying protests of that



other self whose poise she had lost. It was not her Bishop who

eyed her in curious measurement. It was a man who tramped into



her presence without removing his hat, who had no greeting for

her, who had no semblance of courtesy. In looks, as in action, he



made her think of a bull stamping cross-grained into a corral.

She had heard of Bishop Dyer forgetting the minister in the fury



of a common man, and now she was to feel it. The glance by which

she measured him in turn momentarily veiled the divine in the



ordinary. He looked a rancher; he was booted, spurred, and

covered with dust; he carried a gun at his hip, and she



remembered that he had been known to use it. But during the long

moment while he watched her there was nothing commonplace in the



slow-gathering might of his wrath.

"Brother Tull has talked to me," he began. "It was your father's



wish that you marry Tull, and my order. You refused

him?"



"Yes."

"You would not give up your friendship with that tramp Venters?"



"No."

"But you'll do as I order!" he thundered. "Why, Jane Withersteen,



you are in danger of becoming a heretic! You can thank your

Gentile friends for that. You face the damning of your soul to



perdition."

In the flux and reflux of the whirling torture of Jane's mind,



that new, daring spirit of hers vanished in the old habitual

order of her life. She was a Mormon, and the Bishop regained



ascendance.

"It's well I got you in time, Jane Withersteen. What would your



father have said to these goings-on of yours? He would have put

you in a stone cage on bread and water. He would have taught you



something about Mormonism. Remember, you're a born Mormon. There

have been Mormons who turned heretic--damn their souls!--but no



born Mormon ever left us yet. Ah, I see your shame. Your faith is

not shaken. You are only a wild girl." The Bishop's tone



softened. "Well, it's enough that I got to you in time....Now

tell me about this Lassiter. I hear strange things."



"What do you wish to know?" queried Jane.

"About this man. You hired him?"



"Yes, he's riding for me. When my riders left me I had to have

any one I could get."



"Is it true what I hear--that he's a gun-man, a Mormon-hater,

steeped in blood?"



"True--terribly true, I fear."

"But what's he doing here in Cottonwoods? This place isn't



notorious enough for such a man. Sterling and the villages north,

where there's universal gun-packing and fights every day--where






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