“I must go now.  And it hurts, for now I’ll never be sure of seeing you again.  But to-morrow, Bern?”

“To-morrow surely.  I’ll watch for Lassiter and ride in with him.”

“Good night.”

Then she left him and moved away, a white, gliding shape that soon vanished in the shadows.

Venters waited until the faint slam of a door assured him she had reached the house, and then, taking up his rifle, he noiselessly slipped through the bushes, down the knoll, and on under the dark trees to the edge of the grove.  The sky was now turning from gray to blue; stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness; and from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant with the breath of sage.  Keeping close to the edge of the cottonwoods, he went swiftly and silently westward.  The grove was long, and he had not reached the end when he heard something that brought him to a halt.  Low padded thuds told him horses were coming this way.  He sank down in the gloom, waiting, listening.  Much before he had expected, judging from sound, to his amazement he descried horsemen near at hand.  They were riding along the border of the sage, and instantly he knew the hoofs of the horses were muffled.  Then the pale starlight afforded him indistinct sight of the riders.  But his eyes were keen and used to the dark, and by peering closely he recognized the huge bulk and black-bearded visage of Oldring and the lithe, supple form of the rustler’s lieutenant, a masked rider.  They passed on; the darkness swallowed them.  Then, farther out on the sage, a dark, compact body of horsemen went by, almost without sound, almost like specters, and they, too, melted into the night.

CHAPTER III.  AMBER SPRING

No unusual circumstances was it for Oldring and some of his men to visit Cottonwoods in the broad light of day, but for him to prowl about in the dark with the hoofs of his horses muffled meant that mischief was brewing.  Moreover, to Venters the presence of the masked rider with Oldring seemed especially ominous.  For about this man there was mystery, he seldom rode through the village, and when he did ride through it was swiftly; riders seldom met by day on the sage, but wherever he rode there always followed deeds as dark and mysterious as the mask he wore.  Oldring’s band did not confine themselves to the rustling of cattle.

Venters lay low in the shade of the cottonwoods, pondering this chance meeting, and not for many moments did he consider it safe to move on.  Then, with sudden impulse, he turned the other way and went back along the grove.  When he reached the path leading to Jane’s home he decided to go down to the village.  So he hurried onward, with quick soft steps.  Once beyond the grove he entered the one and only street.  It was wide, lined with tall poplars, and under each row of trees, inside the foot-path, were ditches where ran the water from Jane Withersteen’s spring.