“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 there are more men like him, it seems to me they would attract him most. We’re only a wild, lonely border settlement. It’s only recently that the rustlers have made killings here. Nor have there been saloons till lately, nor the drifting in of outcasts. Has not this gun-man some special mission here?” Jane maintained silence. “Tell me,” ordered Bishop Dyer, sharply. “Yes,” she replied. “Do you know what it is?” “Yes.” “Tell me that.” “Bishop Dyer, I don’t want to tell.” He waved his hand in an imperative gesture of command. The red once more leaped to his face, and in his steel-blue eyes glinted a pin-point of curiosity. “That first day,” whispered Jane, “Lassiter said he came here to find—Milly Erne’s grave!” With downcast eyes Jane watched the swift flow of the amber water. She saw it and tried to think of it, of the stones, of the ferns; but, like her body, her mind was in a leaden vise. Only the Bishop’s voice could release her. Seemingly there was silence of longer duration than all her former life. “For what—else?” When Bishop Dyer’s voice did cleave the silence it was high, curiously shrill, and on the point of breaking. It released Jane’s tongue, but she could not lift her eyes. “To kill the man who persuaded Milly Erne to abandon her home and her husband—and her God!”