“So as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah my name preceded me, an’ I had to meet a people prepared for me, an’ ready with guns. They made me a gun-man. An’ that suited me. In all this time signs of the proselyter an’ the giant with the blue-ice eyes an’ the gold beard seemed to fade dimmer out of the trail. Only twice in ten years did I find a trace of that mysterious man who had visited the proselyter at my home village. What he had to do with Milly’s fate was beyond all hope for me to learn, unless my guidin’ spirit led me to him! As for the other man, I knew, as sure as I breathed en’ the stars shone en’ the wind blew, that I’d meet him some day. “Eighteen years I’ve been on the trail. An’ it led me to the last lonely villages of the Utah border. Eighteen years!... I feel pretty old now. I was only twenty when I hit that trail. Well, as I told you, back here a ways a Gentile said Jane Withersteen could tell me about Milly Erne an’ show me her grave!” The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombrero round and round, and appeared to be counting the silver ornaments on the band. Jane, leaning toward him, sat as if petrified, listening intently, waiting to hear more. She could have shrieked, but power of tongue and lips were denied her. She saw only this sad, gray, passion-worn man, and she heard only the faint rustling of the leaves. “Well, I came to Cottonwoods,” went on Lassiter, “an’ you showed me Milly’s grave. An’ though your teeth have been shut tighter’n them of all the dead men lyin’ back along that trail, jest the same you told me the secret I’ve lived these eighteen years to hear! Jane, I said you’d tell me without ever me askin’. I didn’t need to ask my question here. The day, you remember, when that fat party throwed a gun on me in your court, an’—” “Oh! Hush!” whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands. “_I seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyter who ruined Milly Erne!_” For an instant Jane Withersteen’s brain was a whirling chaos and she recovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like one drowning. And as if by a lightning stroke she sprang from her dull apathy into exquisite torture. “_It’s a lie!_ Lassiter! No, no!” she moaned. “I swear—you’re wrong!” “Stop! You’d perjure yourself! But I’ll spare you that. You poor woman! Still blind! Still faithful!... Listen. I _know_. Let that settle it. An’ I give up my purpose!” “What is it—you say?” “I give up my purpose. I’ve come to see an’ feel differently. I can’t help poor Milly. An’ I’ve outgrowed revenge. I’ve come to see I can be no judge for men. I can’t kill a man jest for hate. Hate ain’t the same with me since I loved you and little Fay.” “Lassiter! You mean you won’t kill him?” Jane whispered. “No.” “For my sake?” “I reckon. I can’t understand, but I’ll respect your feelin’s.” “Because you—oh, because you love me?... Eighteen years! You were that terrible Lassiter! And _now_—because you love me?”