. I'll
help nurse you, take care of you. When you're better you can work for
me. I'll keep little Fay and bring her up--without Mormon teaching.
When she's grown, if she should want to leave me, I'll send her, and not
empty-handed, back to Illinois where you came from. I promise you."

"I knew it was a lie," replied the mother, and she sank back upon
her pillow with something of peace in her white, worn face. "Jane
Withersteen, may Heaven bless you! I've been deeply grateful to you. But
because you're a Mormon I never felt close to you till now. I don't know
much about religion as religion, but your God and my God are the same."

CHAPTER VIII. SURPRISE VALLEY

Back in that strange canyon, which Venters had found indeed a valley of
surprises, the wounded girl's whispered appeal, almost a prayer, not to
take her back to the rustlers crowned the events of the last few days
with a confounding climax. That she should not want to return to them
staggered Venters. Presently, as logical thought returned, her appeal
confirmed his first impression--that she was more unfortunate than
bad--and he experienced a sensation of gladness. If he had known before
that Oldring's Masked Rider was a woman his opinion would have been
formed and he would have considered her abandoned. But his first
knowledge had come when he lifted a white face quivering in a convulsion
of agony; he had heard God's name whispered by blood-stained lips;
through her solemn and awful eyes he had caught a glimpse
of her soul. And just now had come the entreaty to him,
"Don't--take--me--back--there!"

Once for all Venters's quick mind formed a permanent conception of this
poor girl. He based it, not upon what the chances of life had made her,
but upon the revelation of dark eyes that pierced the infinite, upon a
few pitiful, halting words that betrayed failure and wrong and misery,
yet breathed the truth of a tragic fate rather than a natural leaning to
evil.

"What's your name?" he inquired.

"Bess," she answered.

"Bess what?"

"That's enough--just Bess."

The red that deepened in her cheeks was not all the flush of fever.
Venters marveled anew, and this time at the tint of shame in her face,
at the momentary drooping of long lashes. She might be a rustler's girl,
but she was still capable of shame, she might be dying, but she still
clung to some little remnant of honor.

"Very well, Bess. It doesn't matter," he said. "But this matters--what
shal