r put Bells in the stable with
the other racers, and directed his efforts to a closer attendance upon
Jane. She welcomed the change. He was always at hand to help, and it was
her fortune to learn that his boast of being awkward around women had
its root in humility and was not true.

His great, brown hands were skilled in a multiplicity of ways which a
woman might have envied. He shared Jane's work, and was of especial help
to her in nursing Mrs. Larkin. The woman suffered most at night, and
this often broke Jane's rest. So it came about that Lassiter would stay
by Mrs. Larkin during the day, when she needed care, and Jane would make
up the sleep she lost in night-watches. Mrs. Larkin at once took kindly
to the gentle Lassiter, and, without ever asking who or what he was,
praised him to Jane. "He's a good man and loves children," she said. How
sad to hear this truth spoken of a man whom Jane thought lost beyond all
redemption! Yet ever and ever Lassiter towered above her, and behind
or through his black, sinister figure shone something luminous that
strangely affected Jane. Good and evil began to seem incomprehensibly
blended in her judgment. It was her belief that evil could not come
forth from good; yet here was a murderer who dwarfed in gentleness,
patience, and love any man she had ever known.

She had almost lost track of her more outside concerns when early one
morning Judkins presented himself before her in the courtyard.

Thin, hard, burnt, bearded, with the dust and sage thick on him, with
his leather wrist-bands shining from use, and his boots worn through on
the stirrup side, he looked the rider of riders. He wore two guns and
carried a Winchester.

Jane greeted him with surprise and warmth, set meat and bread and
drink before him; and called Lassiter out to see him. The men exchanged
glances, and the meaning of Lassiter's keen inquiry and Judkins's bold
reply, both unspoken, was not lost upon Jane.

"Where's your hoss?" asked Lassiter, aloud.

"Left him down the slope," answered Judkins. "I footed it in a ways, an'
slept last night in the sage. I went to the place you told me you 'moss
always slept, but didn't strike you."

"I moved up some, near the spring, an' now I go there nights."

"Judkins--the white herd?" queried Jane, hurriedly.

"Miss Withersteen, I make proud to say I've not lost a steer. Fer a good
while after thet stampede Lassiter milled we hed no trouble. Why, even
the sage dogs left