“My dear Lassiter, where could I be gone—as you put it?” asked Jane, in curious surprise. “I reckon you might be somewhere. Mebbe tied in an old barn—or corralled in some gulch—or chained in a cave! _Milly Erne was_—till she give in! Mebbe that’s news to you.... Well, if you’re gone I’ll hunt for you.” “No, Lassiter,” she replied, sadly and low. “If I’m gone just forget the unhappy woman whose blinded selfish deceit you repaid with kindness and love.” She heard a deep, muttering curse, under his breath, and then the silvery tinkling of his spurs as he moved away. Jane entered upon the duties of that day with a settled, gloomy calm. Disaster hung in the dark clouds, in the shade, in the humid west wind. Blake, when he reported, appeared without his usual cheer; and Jerd wore a harassed look of a worn and worried man. And when Judkins put in appearance, riding a lame horse, and dismounted with the cramp of a rider, his dust-covered figure and his darkly grim, almost dazed expression told Jane of dire calamity. She had no need of words. “Miss Withersteen, I have to report—loss of the—white herd,” said Judkins, hoarsely. “Come, sit down, you look played out,” replied Jane, solicitously. She brought him brandy and food, and while he partook of refreshments, of which he appeared badly in need, she asked no questions. “No one rider—could hev done more—Miss Withersteen,” he went on, presently. “Judkins, don’t be distressed. You’ve done more than any other rider. I’ve long expected to lose the white herd. It’s no surprise. It’s in line with other things that are happening. I’m grateful for your service.”