er little hands and feet, her
hair, her big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something that
Venters felt as a subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her
sex.

She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the spruce
that overspread the camp-fire.

"Now tell me--everything," she said.

He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of the
rustlers in the canyon up to the present moment.

"You shot me--and now you've saved my life?"

"Yes. After almost killing you I've pulled you through."

"Are you glad?"

"I should say so!"

Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily; she
was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions and they shone with
gratefulness and interest and wonder and sadness.

"Tell me--about yourself?" she asked.

He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his
various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the Mormons had
practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast.

Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he
questioned her in turn.

"Are you Oldring's Masked Rider?"

"Yes," she replied, and dropped her eyes.

"I knew it--I recognized your figure--and mask, for I saw you once.
Yet I can't believe it!... But you never were really that rustler, as we
riders knew him? A thief--a marauder--a kidnapper of women--a murderer
of sleeping riders!"

"No! I never stole--or harmed any one--in all my life. I only rode and
rode--"

"But why--why?" he burst out. "Why the name? I understand Oldring made
you ride. But the black mask--the mystery--the things laid to your
hands--the threats in your infamous name--the night-riding credited
to you--the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you and acknowledged by
rustlers--even Oldring himself! Why? Tell me why?"

"I never knew that," she answered low. Her drooping head straightened,
and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters's with a clear,
steadfast gaze in which he read truth. It verified his own conviction.

"Never knew? That's strange! Are you a Mormon?"

"No."

"Is Oldring a Mormon?"

"No."

"Do you--care for him?"

"Yes. I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hate him!"

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self to
ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which he
seemed driven to hear.

"What are--what were you to Oldring?"

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