Her question seemed to break a spell. The rider arose as if he had just remembered himself and had tarried longer than his wont. “Ma’am, I have hunted all over the southern Utah and Nevada for—somethin’. An’ through your name I learned where to find it—here in Cottonwoods.” “My name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it and from whom?” “At the little village—Glaze, I think it’s called—some fifty miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a Gentile, a rider who said you’d know where to tell me to find—” “What?” she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off. “Milly Erne’s grave,” he answered low, and the words came with a wrench. Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder. “Milly Erne’s grave?” she echoed, in a whisper. “What do you know of Milly Erne, my best-beloved friend—who died in my arms? What were you to her?” “Did I claim to be anythin’?” he inquired. “I know people—relatives—who have long wanted to know where she’s buried, that’s all.” “Relatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother who was shot in Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne’s grave is in a secret burying-ground on my property.” “Will you take me there?... You’ll be offendin’ Mormons worse than by breakin’ bread with me.” “Indeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. To-morrow, perhaps.” “Thank you, Jane Withersteen,” replied the rider, and he bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court. “Will you not stay—sleep under my roof?” she asked. “No, ma’am, an’ thanks again. I never sleep indoors. An’ even if I did there’s that gatherin’ storm in the village below. No, no. I’ll go to the sage. I hope you won’t suffer none for your kindness to me.” “Lassiter,” said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, “my bed too, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there.” “Mebbe so. But the sage is wide an’ I won’t be near. Good night.” At Lassiter’s low whistle the black horse whinnied, and carefully picked his blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand and together they passed slowly into the shade of the cottonwoods. “Jane, I must be off soon,” said Venters. “Give me my guns. If I’d had my guns—” “Either my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead,” she interposed. “Tull would be—surely.” “Oh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach you forebearance, mercy? Bern, it’s divine to forgive your enemies. ‘Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath.’” “Hush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion—after to-day. To-day this strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I’ll die a man!... Give me my guns.” Silently she went into the house, to return with a heavy cartridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him in silent eloquence.