ible
thumping of heads and clicking of horns. Bawling, climbing, goring, the
great mass of steers on the inside wrestled in a crashing din, heaved
and groaned under the pressure. Then came a deadlock. The inner strife
ceased, and the hideous roar and crash. Movement went on in the outer
circle, and that, too, gradually stilled. The white herd had come to a
stop, and the pall of yellow dust began to drift away on the wind.

Jane Withersteen waited on the ridge with full and grateful heart.
Lassiter appeared, making his weary way toward her through the sage. And
up on the slope Judkins rode into sight with his troop of boys. For the
present, at least, the white herd would be looked after.

When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on Black Star's mane, Jane
could not find speech.

"Killed--my--hoss," he panted.

"Oh! I'm sorry," cried Jane. "Lassiter! I know you can't replace him,
but I'll give you any one of my racers--Bells, or Night, even Black
Star."

"I'll take a fast hoss, Jane, but not one of your favorites," he
replied. "Only--will you let me have Black Star now an' ride him over
there an' head off them fellers who stampeded the herd?"

He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of dust in the
purple sage.

"I can head them off with this hoss, an' then--"

"Then, Lassiter?"

"They'll never stampede no more cattle."

"Oh! No! No!... Lassiter, I won't let you go!"

But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling hands shook
Black Star's bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter's.

CHAPTER VII. THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN

"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him.

"I reckon so," he had replied.

Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they implied. She
wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse and ranges, and save
them if that were possible. Yet, though she could not have spoken aloud
all she meant, she was perfectly honest with herself. Whatever the price
to be paid, she must keep Lassiter close to her; she must shield from
him the man who had led Milly Erne to Cottonwoods. In her fear she so
controlled her mind that she did not whisper this Mormon's name to her
own soul, she did not even think it. Besides, beyond this thing she
regarded as a sacred obligation thrust upon her, was the need of a
helper, of a friend, of a champion in this critical time. If she could
rule this gun-man, as Venters had called him, if she could even keep h