So, watching and waiting, Venters let the time wear away.  At length he saw a horse rise above a ridge, and he knew it to be Lassiter’s black.  Climbing to the highest rock, so that he would show against the sky-line, he stood and waved his hat.  The almost instant turning of Lassiter’s horse attested to the quickness of that rider’s eye.  Then Venters climbed down, saddled his horse, tied on his pack, and, with a word to his dogs, was about to ride out to meet Lassiter, when he concluded to wait for him there, on higher ground, where the outlook was commanding.

It had been long since Venters had experienced friendly greeting from a man.  Lassiter’s warmed in him something that had grown cold from neglect.  And when he had returned it, with a strong grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends.

“Venters, let’s talk awhile before we go down there,” said Lassiter, slipping his bridle.  “I ain’t in no hurry.  Them’s sure fine dogs you’ve got.”  With a rider’s eye he took in the points of Venter’s horse, but did not speak his thought.  “Well, did anythin’ come off after I left you last night?”

Venters told him about the rustlers.

“I was snug hid in the sage,” replied Lassiter, “an’ didn’t see or hear no one.  Oldrin’s got a high hand here, I reckon.  It’s no news up in Utah how he holes in canyons an’ leaves no track.”  Lassiter was silent a moment.  “Me an’ Oldrin’ wasn’t exactly strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil’s Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin.  But he got harassed there an’ now he drives some place else.”

“Lassiter, you knew him?  Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?”

“I can’t say.  I’ve knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles.”

“No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler” declared Venters.

“Mebbe so.”

“It’s a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles.  Did you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon community?”

“I never did.”

“Well, I want to get out of Utah.  I’ve a mother living in Illinois.  I want to go home.  It’s eight years now.”

The older man’s sympathy moved Venters to tell his story.  He had left Quincy, run off to seek his fortune in the gold fields had never gotten any farther than Salt Lake City, wandered here and there as helper, teamster, shepherd, and drifted southward over the divide and across the barrens and up the rugged plateau through the passes to the last border settlements.  Here he became a rider of the sage, had stock of his own, and for a time prospered, until chance threw him in the employ of Jane Withersteen.

“Lassiter, I needn’t tell you the rest.”