“I knew it—I recognized your figure—and mask, for I saw you once. Yet I can’t believe it!... But you never _were_ really that rustler, as we riders knew him? A thief—a marauder—a kidnapper of women—a murderer of sleeping riders!” “No! I never stole—or harmed any one—in all my life. I only rode and rode—” “But why—why?” he burst out. “Why the name? I understand Oldring made you ride. But the black mask—the mystery—the things laid to your hands—the threats in your infamous name—the night-riding credited to you—the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you and acknowledged by rustlers—even Oldring himself! Why? Tell me why?” “I never knew that,” she answered low. Her drooping head straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters’s with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It verified his own conviction. “Never knew? That’s strange! Are you a Mormon?” “No.” “Is Oldring a Mormon?” “No.” “Do you—care for him?” “Yes. I hate his men—his life—sometimes I almost hate him!” Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear. “What are—what _were_ you to Oldring?” Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept the red of shame. Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It seemed so different—his thought when spoken. Yet her shame established in his mind something akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering to feel for her. “D—n that question!—forget it!” he cried, in a passion of pain for her and anger at himself. “But once and for all—tell me—I know it, yet I want to hear you say so—you couldn’t help yourself?” “Oh no.” “Well, that makes it all right with me,” he went on, honestly. “I—I want you to feel that... you see—we’ve been thrown together—and—and I want to help you—not hurt you. I thought life had been cruel to me, but when I think of yours I feel mean and little for my complaining. Anyway, I was a lonely outcast. And now!... I don’t see very clearly what it all means. Only we are here—together. We’ve got to stay here, for long, surely till you are well. But you’ll never go back to Oldring. And I’m sure helping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There’s something now for me to do. And if I can win back your strength—then get you away, out of this wild country—help you somehow to a happier life—just think how good that’ll be for me!” CHAPTER X. LOVE