Jane glanced down, and again, and upon steadier vision made out splotches of blood on the stones, and broad, smooth marks in the dust, leading out toward the sage.

“What made these?” she asked.

“I reckon somebody has dragged dead or wounded men out to where there was hosses in the sage.”

“Dead—­or—­wounded—­men!”

“I reckon—­Jane, are you strong?  Can you bear up?”

His hands were gently holding hers, and his eyes—­suddenly she could no longer look into them.  “Strong?” she echoed, trembling.  “I—­I will be.”

Up on the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shod hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer.

“Where’s Blake—­and—­and Jerb?” she asked, haltingly.

“I don’t know where Jerb is.  Bolted, most likely,” replied Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door.  “But Blake—­poor Blake!  He’s gone forever!...Be prepared, Jane.”

With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near.

Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white—­dead—­one hand clutching a gun and the other twisted in his bloody blouse.

“Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers—­Blake killed some of them!” said Lassiter.

“Thieves?” whispered Jane.

“I reckon.  Hoss-thieves!...Look!” Lassiter waved his hand toward the stalls.

The first stall—­Bells’s stall—­was empty.  All the stalls were empty.  No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her.  Night was gone!  Black Star was gone!

CHAPTER XVI.  GOLD

As Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters “went through” safely, and after a toilsome journey reached the peaceful shelter of Surprise Valley.  When finally he lay wearily down under the silver spruces, resting from the strain of dragging packs and burros up the slope and through the entrance to Surprise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time went in regretting that he had not been frank with his loyal friend, Jane Withersteen.

But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more face to face with her and had been shocked at the change in her and had heard the details of her adversity, he had not had the heart to tell her of the closer interest which had entered his life.  He had not lied; yet he had kept silence.

Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the outfit he had packed from Cottonwoods.  He had certainly brought a hundred times more than he had gone for; enough, surely, for years, perhaps to make permanent home in the valley.  He saw no reason why he need ever leave there again.

After a day of rest he recovered his strength and shared Bess’s pleasure in rummaging over the endless packs, and began to plan for the future.  And in this planning, his trip to Cottonwoods, with its revived hate of Tull and consequent unleashing of fierce passions, soon faded out of mind.  By slower degrees his friendship for Jane Withersteen and his contrition drifted from the active preoccupation of his present thought to a place in memory, with more and more infrequent recalls.