I must have little Fay. I want only her. I
give up. I'll go and tell Bishop Dyer--I'm broken. I'll tell him I'm
ready for the yoke--only give me back Fay--and--and I'll marry Tull!"

"Never!" hissed Lassiter.

His long arm leaped at her. Almost running, he dragged her under the
cottonwoods, across the court, into the huge hall of Withersteen House,
and he shut the door with a force that jarred the heavy walls. Black
Star and Night and Bells, since their return, had been locked in this
hall, and now they stamped on the stone floor.

Lassiter released Jane and like a dizzy man swayed from her with a
hoarse cry and leaned shaking against a table where he kept his rider's
accoutrements. He began to fumble in his saddlebags. His action brought
a clinking, metallic sound--the rattling of gun-cartridges. His fingers
trembled as he slipped cartridges into an extra belt. But as he buckled
it over the one he habitually wore his hands became steady. This second
belt contained two guns, smaller than the black ones swinging low, and
he slipped them round so that his coat hid them. Then he fell to swift
action. Jane Withersteen watched him, fascinated but uncomprehending and
she saw him rapidly saddle Black Star and Night. Then he drew her into
the light of the huge windows, standing over her, gripping her arm with
fingers like cold steel.

"Yes, Jane, it's ended--but you're not goin' to Dyer!... I'm goin'
instead!"

Looking at him--he was so terrible of aspect--she could not comprehend
his words. Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyes
that would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange,
ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the gentle Lassiter? What was this
presence in the hall, about him, about her--this cold, invisible
presence?

"Yes, it's ended, Jane," he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool and
implacable, "an' I'm goin' to make a little call. I'll lock you in here,
an' when I get back have the saddle-bags full of meat an bread. An' be
ready to ride!"

"Lassiter!" cried Jane.

Desperately she tried to meet his gray eyes, in vain, desperately she
tried again, fought herself as feeling and thought resurged in torment,
and she succeeded, and then she knew.

"No--no--no!" she wailed. "You said you'd foregone your vengeance. You
promised not to kill Bishop Dyer."

"If you want to talk to me about him--leave off the Bishop. I don't
understand that name, or its use."

"Oh, hadn't you fo