th slabs of rock. Then he smoothed out the crushed trail
in grass and sage. The rustler's horse had stopped a quarter of a mile
off and was grazing.

When Venters rapidly strode toward the Masked Rider not even the cold
nausea that gripped him could wholly banish curiosity. For he had shot
Oldring's infamous lieutenant, whose face had never been seen. Venters
experienced a grim pride in the feat. What would Tull say to this
achievement of the outcast who rode too often to Deception Pass?

Venters's curious eagerness and expectation had not prepared him for the
shock he received when he stood over a slight, dark figure. The rustler
wore the black mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons.
Venters glanced at the drooping horse, there were no gun-sheaths on the
saddle.

"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears no belt.
He couldn't pack guns in that rig.... Strange!"

A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told
Venters the rider still lived.

"He's alive!... I've got to stand here and watch him die. And I shot an
unarmed man."

Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and the black
cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to
curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw
was a clear demarcation, where the brown of tanned skin met the white
that had been hidden from the sun.

"Oh, he's only a boy!... What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"

The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lips
moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse.

Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had
entered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands
that shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet
blouse.

First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, from
which welled a slender red stream. Then the graceful, beautiful swell of
a woman's breast!

"A woman!" he cried. "A girl!... I've killed a girl!"

She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They were fathomless
blue. Consciousness of death was there, a blended terror and pain, but
no consciousness of sight. She did not see Venters. She stared into the
unknown.

Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a torture of reviving
strength, and in her convulsions she almost tore from Ventner's grasp.
Slowly she relaxed and sank partly back. The ung