Venters rode on and stopped before Tull’s cottage.  Women stared at him with white faces and then flew from the porch.  Tull himself appeared at the door, bent low, craning his neck.  His dark face flashed out of sight; the door banged; a heavy bar dropped with a hollow sound.

Then Venters shook Black Star’s bridle, and, sharply trotting, led the other horses to the center of the village.  Here at the intersecting streets and in front of the stores he halted once more.  The usual lounging atmosphere of that prominent corner was not now in evidence.  Riders and ranchers and villagers broke up what must have been absorbing conversation.  There was a rush of many feet, and then the walk was lined with faces.

Venters’s glance swept down the line of silent stone-faced men.  He recognized many riders and villagers, but none of those he had hoped to meet.  There was no expression in the faces turned toward him.  All of them knew him, most were inimical, but there were few who were not burning with curiosity and wonder in regard to the return of Jane Withersteen’s racers.  Yet all were silent.  Here were the familiar characteristics—­masked feeling—­strange secretiveness—­expressionless expression of mystery and hidden power.

“Has anybody here seen Jerry Card?” queried Venters, in a loud voice.

In reply there came not a word, not a nod or shake of head, not so much as dropping eye or twitching lip—­nothing but a quiet, stony stare.

“Been under the knife?  You’ve a fine knife-wielder here—­one Tull, I believe!...Maybe you’ve all had your tongues cut out?”

This passionate sarcasm of Venters brought no response, and the stony calm was as oil on the fire within him.

“I see some of you pack guns, too!” he added, in biting scorn.  In the long, tense pause, strung keenly as a tight wire, he sat motionless on Black Star.  “All right,” he went on.  “Then let some of you take this message to Tull.  Tell him I’ve seen Jerry Card! ...Tell him Jerry Card will never return!”

Thereupon, in the same dead calm, Venters backed Black Star away from the curb, into the street, and out of range.  He was ready now to ride up to Withersteen House and turn the racers over to Jane.

“Hello, Venters!” a familiar voice cried, hoarsely, and he saw a man running toward him.  It was the rider Judkins who came up and gripped Venters’s hand.  “Venters, I could hev dropped when I seen them hosses.  But thet sight ain’t a marker to the looks of you.  What’s wrong?  Hev you gone crazy?  You must be crazy to ride in here this way—­with them hosses—­talkie’ thet way about Tull en’ Jerry Card.”

“Jud, I’m not crazy—­only mad clean through,” replied Venters.

“Mad, now, Bern, I’m glad to hear some of your old self in your voice.  Fer when you come up you looked like the corpse of a dead rider with fire fer eyes.  You hed thet crowd too stiff fer throwin’ guns.  Come, we’ve got to hev a talk.  Let’s go up the lane.  We ain’t much safe here.”