“So that’s troublin’ you. I reckon it needn’t. You see it was this way. I come round the house an’ seen that fat party an’ heard him talkin’ loud. Then he seen me, an’ very impolite goes straight for his gun. He oughtn’t have tried to throw a gun on me—whatever his reason was. For that’s meetin’ me on my own grounds. I’ve seen runnin’ molasses that was quicker’n him. Now I didn’t know who he was, visitor or friend or relation of yours, though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an’ I couldn’t get serious about shootin’. So I winged him—put a bullet through his arm as he was pullin’ at his gun. An’ he dropped the gun there, an’ a little blood. I told him he’d introduced himself sufficient, an’ to please move out of my vicinity. An’ he went.” Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there was a hint of levity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her brow, was gentle and steady. His impassive face, and the kind gray eyes, further stilled her agitation. “He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple him—you wouldn’t kill him—you—_Lassiter?_” “That’s about the size of it.” Jane kissed his hand. All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished. “Don’t do that! I won’t stand it! An’ I don’t care a damn who that fat party was.” He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair. Then with the wet scarf he had used to bathe her face he wiped the blood from the stone flags and, picking up the gun, he threw it upon a couch. With that he began to pace the court, and his silver spurs jangled musically, and the great gun-sheaths softly brushed against his leather chaps. “So—it’s true—what I heard him say?” Lassiter asked, presently halting before her. “You made love to me—to bind my hands?” “Yes,” confessed Jane. It took all her woman’s courage to meet the gray storm of his glance. “All these days that you’ve been so friendly an’ like a pardner—all these evenin’s that have been so bewilderin’ to me—your beauty—an’—an’ the way you looked an’ came close to me—they were woman’s tricks to bind my hands?” “Yes.” “An’ your sweetness that seemed so natural, an’ your throwin’ little Fay an’ me so much together—to make me love the child—all that was for the same reason?” “Yes.” Lassiter flung his arms—a strange gesture for him. “Mebbe it wasn’t much in your Mormon thinkin’, for you to play that game. But to ring the child in—that was hellish!” Jane’s passionate, unheeding zeal began to loom darkly. “Lassiter, whatever my intention in the beginning, Fay loves you dearly—and I—I’ve grown to—to like you.” “That’s powerful kind of you, now,” he said. Sarcasm and scorn made his voice that of a stranger. “An’ you sit there an’ look me straight in the eyes! You’re a wonderful strange woman, Jane Withersteen.” “I’m not ashamed, Lassiter. I told you I’d try to change you.” “Would you mind tellin’ me just what you tried?”