not swerve in the slightest from a square front to the group
before him.

"Look!" hoarsely whispered one of Tull's companions. "He packs two
black-butted guns--low down--they're hard to see--black akin them black
chaps."

"A gun-man!" whispered another. "Fellers, careful now about movin' your
hands."

The stranger's slow approach might have been a mere leisurely manner of
gait or the cramped short steps of a rider unused to walking; yet, as
well, it could have been the guarded advance of one who took no chances
with men.

"Hello, stranger!" called Tull. No welcome was in this greeting only a
gruff curiosity.

The rider responded with a curt nod. The wide brim of a black sombrero
cast a dark shade over his face. For a moment he closely regarded Tull
and his comrades, and then, halting in his slow walk, he seemed to
relax.

"Evenin', ma'am," he said to Jane, and removed his sombrero with quaint
grace.

Jane, greeting him, looked up into a face that she trusted instinctively
and which riveted her attention. It had all the characteristics of
the range rider's--the leanness, the red burn of the sun, and the set
changelessness that came from years of silence and solitude. But it was
not these which held her, rather the intensity of his gaze, a strained
weariness, a piercing wistfulness of keen, gray sight, as if the man
was forever looking for that which he never found. Jane's subtle woman's
intuition, even in that brief instant, felt a sadness, a hungering, a
secret.

"Jane Withersteen, ma'am?" he inquired.

"Yes," she replied.

"The water here is yours?"

"Yes."

"May I water my horse?"

"Certainly. There's the trough."

"But mebbe if you knew who I was--" He hesitated, with his glance on
the listening men. "Mebbe you wouldn't let me water him--though I ain't
askin' none for myself."

"Stranger, it doesn't matter who you are. Water your horse. And if you
are thirsty and hungry come into my house."

"Thanks, ma'am. I can't accept for myself--but for my tired horse--"

Trampling of hoofs interrupted the rider. More restless movements on
the part of Tull's men broke up the little circle, exposing the prisoner
Venters.

"Mebbe I've kind of hindered somethin'--for a few moments, perhaps?"
inquired the rider.

"Yes," replied Jane Withersteen, with a throb in her voice.

She felt the drawing power of his eyes; and then she saw him look at the
bound Venters, and at the men who held him, and their lead