Tull and his men, but looked in vain.
Venters concluded that the rustlers had not passed along the village
street. No doubt these earnest men were discussing Lassiter's coming.
But Venters felt positive that Tull's intention toward himself that day
had not been and would not be revealed.

So Venters, seeing there was little for him to learn, began retracing
his steps. The church was dark, Bishop Dyer's home next to it was also
dark, and likewise Tull's cottage. Upon almost any night at this hour
there would be lights here, and Venters marked the unusual omission.

As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he once
more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently he descried
two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the shadow of a tree. Again
the starlight, brighter now, aided him, and he made out Tull's stalwart
figure, and beside him the short, froglike shape of the rider Jerry.
They were silent, and they rode on to disappear.

Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of
the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His thoughts
overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who had been his
friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a gun stealthily as an
Indian, a man without place or people or purpose. Above her hovered the
shadow of grim, hidden, secret power. No queen could have given more
royally out of a bounteous store than Jane Withersteen gave her people,
and likewise to those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only
the divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her heart
willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.

"For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village of
Cottonwoods," muttered Venters, as he strode on. "Soon it'll burst. I
don't like the prospects." That night the villagers whispered in the
street--and night-riding rustlers muffled horses--and Tull was at work
in secret--and out there in the sage hid a man who meant something
terrible--Lassiter!

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage, climbed
the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a western star.
From time to time he stopped to listen and heard only the usual familiar
bark of coyote and sweep of wind and rustle of sage. Presently a low
jumble of rocks loomed up darkly somewhat to his right, and, turning
that way, he whistled softly. Out of the rocks glided a dog that leaped
and whined abo