“He coveted the girl. She was innocent--she had no notion. One evening after supper he and she rode up into a narrow draw, here in western Wyoming, to seek flowers. He roped her and gagged her and left her while he returned to the camp, on one pretext or another. He succeeded in fastening a note inside her tent: ‘Tell my husband I’ve gone with a better man.’” “I got the note,” nodded the old man grimly. “Well?” “The note was a forgery and a lie,” said I. He sneered again. “How do you know?”? “I know. This first night he rode with the woman tied to her saddle; the second night he freed her. He didn’t fear pursuit, and the trail and the train were fifty miles behind. It was a lowering evening, and a wild land. He advanced upon her, she smiled as if she had yielded, but when he reached for her she struck him across the mouth and snatched his knife from his belt and defied him.” “Indeed? And how do you happen to know that, sir?” “Wait. This stopped him for a moment. She fell upon her knees and prayed to God for help. He wiped his lips and laughed. Can you imagine that little scene, Mr. Brown? She in white, as she was----” “She always loved white. There you are right,” conceded the old man. “And disheveled and at bay; he in his buckskins and greasy black Indian hair, his lips bloody and his teeth glistening; and all the country around promising no succor for her?” “My imagination is dead,” he said. “Yours seems much alive. Well, go on, go on.” “Lavelle wiped his lips and laughed. ‘There’s no God in this region, my lady,’ he mocked. ‘There’s only you and me.’” “God-forsaken, God-forsaken,” the old man muttered. “A land God-forsaken it is, as I have been.” “Is it?” I challenged. “Wait. She prayed, and these are her very words: ‘God, lift me from this fiend’s hands, or give me strength to lift myself.’ Lavelle taunted: ‘Why not call upon your husband? He’ll be hot to know. I left him just enough word to make him curious.’ And he told her of the note. She cried: ‘Oh! How I hate you! Some day he shall know, and know the truth. I hope he kills you.’ ‘Not for you, he won’t,’ Lavelle answered. ‘He won’t want you after you’ve lived in my Sioux lodge for a while.’” The old man’s hands had clenched. He gazed fixedly as if witnessing the scene. “At this,” I proceeded, “she saw something in the fellow’s eyes that alarmed her. When he rushed her she dodged and lunged, and snapped the knife blade close to the hilt, upon his belt buckle. Then she ran, leaving a strip of her dress in his fingers. She ran for higher ground--ran like a hunted rabbit; sprang across a fissure, and gained the top of a butte--a flat butte or mesa. And he made after, jeering, for he knew that she had trapped herself. The mesa top ended abruptly. Further flight was barred. He came on slowly, enjoying her plight.” The old man rasped: “You say all this. How do you know? Answer me that.”