l friend. I'm always making you out more than
human... only, let me say--I meant that--about riding away. I'm wretched,
sick of this--this--Oh, something bitter and black grows on my heart!"

"Jane, the hell--of it," he replied, with deep intake of breath, "is you
can't ride away. Mebbe realizin' it accounts for my grabbin' you--that
way, as much as the crazy boy's rapture your words gave me. I don't
understand myself.... But the hell of this game is--you can't ride away."

"Lassiter!... What on earth do you mean? I'm an absolutely free woman."

"You ain't absolutely anythin' of the kind.... I reckon I've got to tell
you!"

"Tell me all. It's uncertainty that makes me a coward. It's faith and
hope--blind love, if you will, that makes me miserable. Every day I
awake believing--still believing. The day grows, and with it doubts,
fears, and that black bat hate that bites hotter and hotter into my
heart. Then comes night--I pray--I pray for all, and for myself--I
sleep--and I awake free once more, trustful, faithful, to believe--to
hope! Then, O my God! I grow and live a thousand years till night
again!... But if you want to see me a woman, tell me why I can't ride
away--tell me what more I'm to lose--tell me the worst."

"Jane, you're watched. There's no single move of yours, except when
you're hid in your house, that ain't seen by sharp eyes. The cottonwood
grove's full of creepin', crawlin' men. Like Indians in the grass. When
you rode, which wasn't often lately, the sage was full of sneakin' men.
At night they crawl under your windows into the court, an' I reckon into
the house. Jane Withersteen, you know, never locked a door! This here
grove's a hummin' bee-hive of mysterious happenin's. Jane, it ain't so
much that these soles keep out of my way as me keepin' out of theirs.
They're goin' to try to kill me. That's plain. But mebbe I'm as hard to
shoot in the back as in the face. So far I've seen fit to watch
only. This all means, Jane, that you're a marked woman. You can't get
away--not now. Mebbe later, when you're broken, you might. But that's
sure doubtful. Jane, you're to lose the cattle that's left--your home
en' ranch--en' amber Spring. You can't even hide a sack of gold! For it
couldn't be slipped out of the house, day or night, an' hid or buried,
let alone be rid off with. You may lose all. I'm tellin' you, Jane,
hopin' to prepare you, if the worst does come. I told you once before
about that strange power I