“That’s been botherin’ me some. I tracked him an’ part of the trail was the hardest I ever tackled. Mebbe there’s a rustler or somebody in this country who’s as good at trackin’ as I am. If that’s so Venters ain’t safe.” “Well—tell me all about Bern and his valley.” To Jane’s surprise Lassiter showed disinclination for further talk about his trip. He appeared to be extremely fatigued. Jane reflected that one hundred and twenty miles, with probably a great deal of climbing on foot, all in three days, was enough to tire any rider. Moreover, it presently developed that Lassiter had returned in a mood of singular sadness and preoccupation. She put it down to a moodiness over the loss of her white herd and the now precarious condition of her fortune. Several days passed, and as nothing happened, Jane’s spirits began to brighten. Once in her musings she thought that this tendency of hers to rebound was as sad as it was futile. Meanwhile, she had resumed her walks through the grove with little Fay. One morning she went as far as the sage. She had not seen the slope since the beginning of the rains, and now it bloomed a rich deep purple. There was a high wind blowing, and the sage tossed and waved and colored beautifully from light to dark. Clouds scudded across the sky and their shadows sailed darkly down the sunny slope. Upon her return toward the house she went by the lane to the stables, and she had scarcely entered the great open space with its corrals and sheds when she saw Lassiter hurriedly approaching. Fay broke from her and, running to a corral fence, began to pat and pull the long, hanging ears of a drowsy burro. One look at Lassiter armed her for a blow. Without a word he led her across the wide yard to the rise of the ground upon which the stable stood. “Jane—look!” he said, and pointed to the ground. Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision made out splotches of blood on the stones, and broad, smooth marks in the dust, leading out toward the sage. “What made these?” she asked. “I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where there was hosses in the sage.” “Dead—or—wounded—men!” “I reckon—Jane, are you strong? Can you bear up?” His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyes—suddenly she could no longer look into them. “Strong?” she echoed, trembling. “I—I will be.” Up on the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shod hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer. “Where’s Blake—and—and Jerb?” she asked, haltingly. “I don’t know where Jerb is. Bolted, most likely,” replied Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door. “But Blake—poor Blake! He’s gone forever!... Be prepared, Jane.” With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near.