“Venters, I reckon this beats me.  I’ve seen some queer things in my time, too.  This girl—­who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know!  What is she, then?”

“I don’t know that, either.  Oh, it’s the strangest story you ever heard.  I must tell you.  But you’ll never believe.”

“Venters, women were always puzzles to me.  But for all that, if this girl ain’t a child, an’ as innocent, I’m no fit person to think of virtue an’ goodness in anybody.  Are you goin’ to be square with her?”

“I am—­so help me God!”

“I reckoned so.  Mebbe my temper oughtn’t led me to make sure.  But, man, she’s a woman in all but years.  She’s sweeter ’n the sage.”

“Lassiter, I know, I know.  And the hell of it is that in spite of her innocence and charm she’s—­she’s not what she seems!”

“I wouldn’t want to—­of course, I couldn’t call you a liar, Venters,” said the older man.

“What’s more, she was Oldring’s Masked Rider!”

Venters expected to floor his friend with that statement, but he was not in any way prepared for the shock his words gave.  For an instant he was astounded to see Lassiter stunned; then his own passionate eagerness to unbosom himself, to tell the wonderful story, precluded any other thought.

“Son, tell me all about this,” presently said Lassiter as he seated himself on a stone and wiped his moist brow.

Thereupon Venters began his narrative at the point where he had shot the rustler and Oldring’s Masked Rider, and he rushed through it, telling all, not holding back even Bess’s unreserved avowal of her love or his deepest emotions.

“That’s the story,” he said, concluding.  “I love her, though I’ve never told her.  If I did tell her I’d be ready to marry her, and that seems impossible in this country.  I’d be afraid to risk taking her anywhere.  So I intend to do the best I can for her here.”

“The longer I live the stranger life is,” mused Lassiter, with downcast eyes.  “I’m reminded of somethin’ you once said to Jane about hands in her game of life.  There’s that unseen hand of power, an’ Tull’s black hand, an’ my red one, an’ your indifferent one, an’ the girl’s little brown, helpless one.  An’, Venters there’s another one that’s all-wise an’ all-wonderful.  That’s the hand guidin’ Jane Withersteen’s game of life!...Your story’s one to daze a far clearer head than mine.  I can’t offer no advice, even if you asked for it.  Mebbe I can help you.  Anyway, I’ll hold Oldrin’ up when he comes to the village an’ find out about this girl.  I knew the rustler years ago.  He’ll remember me.”

“Lassiter, if I ever meet Oldring I’ll kill him!” cried Venters, with sudden intensity.

“I reckon that’d be perfectly natural,” replied the rider.

“Make him think Bess is dead—­as she is to him and that old life.”

“Sure, sure, son.  Cool down now.  If you’re goin’ to begin pullin’ guns on Tull an’ Oldin’ you want to be cool.  I reckon, though, you’d better keep hid here.  Well, I must be leavin’.”