her. She remarked it, but it was the same to her as if he
had spoken with his old gentle warmth. "But I reckon I won't. Only, I'll
say that mercy an' goodness, such as is in you, though they're the grand
things in human nature, can't be lived up to on this Utah border. Life's
hell out here. You think--or you used to think--that your religion made
this life heaven. Mebbe them scales on your eyes has dropped now. Jane,
I wouldn't have you no different, an' that's why I'm going to try to
hide you somewhere in this Pass. I'd like to hide many more women, for
I've come to see there are more like you among your people. An' I'd like
you to see jest how hard an' cruel this border life is. It's bloody.
You'd think churches an' churchmen would make it better. They make it
worse. You give names to things--bishops, elders, ministers, Mormonism,
duty, faith, glory. You dream--or you're driven mad. I'm a man, an'
I know. I name fanatics, followers, blind women, oppressors, thieves,
ranchers, rustlers, riders. An' we have--what you've lived through these
last months. It can't be helped. But it can't last always. An' remember
his--some day the border'll be better, cleaner, for the ways of ten like
Lassiter!"

She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely and
steadfastly, and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocks
and trees. Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, remained with
Jane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of
her body. And she sat down in the shade and tried to think. She saw a
creeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burros, the resting dogs,
an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once the meanest flower, a color,
the flight of the bee, or any living thing had given her deepest joy.
Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust, probably
to his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her
sorrow.

Suddenly from the mouth of the canyon just beyond her rang out a clear,
sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly
high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped, in grim
imitation. Dull revolver shots--hoarse yells--pound of hoofs--shrill
neighs of horses--commingling of echoes--and again silence! Lassiter
must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her,
no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place.
But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers