ped to gaze at him and the
horses. All knew him; all knew the blacks and the bay. As well as if it
had been spoken, Venters read in the faces of men the intelligence that
Jane Withersteen's Arabians had been known to have been stolen. Venters
reined in and halted before Dyer's residence. It was a low, long, stone
structure resembling Withersteen House. The spacious front yard was
green and luxuriant with grass and flowers; gravel walks led to the huge
porch; a well-trimmed hedge of purple sage separated the yard from the
church grounds; birds sang in the trees; water flowed musically along
the walks; and there were glad, careless shouts of children. For Venters
the beauty of this home, and the serenity and its apparent happiness,
all turned red and black. For Venters a shade overspread the lawn, the
flowers, the old vine-clad stone house. In the music of the singing
birds, in the murmur of the running water, he heard an ominous sound.
Quiet beauty--sweet music--innocent laughter! By what monstrous abortion
of fate did these abide in the shadow of Dyer?

Venters rode on and stopped before Tull's cottage. Women stared at him
with white faces and then flew from the porch. Tull himself appeared
at the door, bent low, craning his neck. His dark face flashed out of
sight; the door banged; a heavy bar dropped with a hollow sound.

Then Venters shook Black Star's bridle, and, sharply trotting, led the
other horses to the center of the village. Here at the intersecting
streets and in front of the stores he halted once more. The usual
lounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was not now in evidence.
Riders and ranchers and villagers broke up what must have been absorbing
conversation. There was a rush of many feet, and then the walk was lined
with faces.

Venters's glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced men. He
recognized many riders and villagers, but none of those he had hoped
to meet. There was no expression in the faces turned toward him. All
of them knew him, most were inimical, but there were few who were
not burning with curiosity and wonder in regard to the return of Jane
Withersteen's racers. Yet all were silent. Here were the familiar
characteristics--masked feeling--strange secretiveness--expressionless
expression of mystery and hidden power.

"Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?" queried Venters, in a loud voice.

In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, not so much
as dropping eye