loved hand sought the
wound, and pressed so hard that her wrist half buried itself in her
bosom. Blood trickled between her spread fingers. And she looked at
Venters with eyes that saw him.

He cursed himself and the unerring aim of which he had been so proud. He
had seen that look in the eyes of a crippled antelope which he was
about to finish with his knife. But in her it had infinitely more--a
revelation of mortal spirit. The instinctive bringing to life was
there, and the divining helplessness and the terrible accusation of the
stricken.

"Forgive me! I didn't know!" burst out Venters.

"You shot me--you've killed me!" she whispered, in panting gasps. Upon
her lips appeared a fluttering, bloody froth. By that Venters knew
the air in her lungs was mixing with blood. "Oh, I knew--it
would--come--some day!... Oh, the burn!... Hold me--I'm sinking--it's all
dark.... Ah, God!... Mercy--"

Her rigidity loosened in one long quiver and she lay back limp, still,
white as snow, with closed eyes.

Venters thought then that she died. But the faint pulsation of her
breast assured him that life yet lingered. Death seemed only a matter
of moments, for the bullet had gone clear through her. Nevertheless, he
tore sageleaves from a bush, and, pressing them tightly over her wounds,
he bound the black scarf round her shoulder, tying it securely under
her arm. Then he closed the blouse, hiding from his sight that
blood-stained, accusing breast.

"What--now?" he questioned, with flying mind. "I must get out of here.
She's dying--but I can't leave her."

He rapidly surveyed the sage to the north and made out no animate
object. Then he picked up the girl's sombrero and the mask. This time
the mask gave him as great a shock as when he first removed it from
her face. For in the woman he had forgotten the rustler, and this black
strip of felt-cloth established the identity of Oldring's Masked Rider.
Venters had solved the mystery. He slipped his rifle under her, and,
lifting her carefully upon it, he began to retrace his steps. The
dog trailed in his shadow. And the horse, that had stood drooping by,
followed without a call. Venters chose the deepest tufts of grass and
clumps of sage on his return. From time to time he glanced over his
shoulder. He did not rest. His concern was to avoid jarring the girl and
to hide his trail. Gaining the narrow canyon, he turned and held close
to the wall till he reached his hiding-place. When he ent