She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely and steadfastly, and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocks and trees.  Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, remained with Jane.  She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of her body.  And she sat down in the shade and tried to think.  She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag.  Once the meanest flower, a color, the flight of the bee, or any living thing had given her deepest joy.  Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust, probably to his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her sorrow.

Suddenly from the mouth of the canyon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp report of a rifle.  Echoes clapped.  Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking.  Again echoes clapped, in grim imitation.  Dull revolver shots—­hoarse yells—­pound of hoofs—­shrill neighs of horses—­commingling of echoes—­and again silence!  Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin.  Yes, the border was a bloody place.  But life had always been bloody.  Men were blood-spillers.  Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mind—­Greek and Roman wars, dark, mediaeval times, the crimes in the name of religion.  On sea, on land, everywhere—­shooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men!  Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom—­for these, men killed one another.

She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelike foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care.

More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet.  She heard a sliding of weathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again the clear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry of death.  Then rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots.  Bullets whizzed over Jane’s hiding-place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air.  After that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased under long, thundering fire from heavier guns.

Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer.  Silence intervened until Lassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her of his approach.  When he appeared he was covered with blood.

“All right, Jane,” he said.  “I come back.  An’ don’t worry.”

With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.

“Jane, hurry now.  Tear my scarf in two, en’ tie up these places.  That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse ’n this at over my ear.  There—­you’re doin’ fine!  Not a bit nervous—­no tremblin’.  I reckon I ain’t done your courage justice.  I’m glad you’re brave jest now—­you’ll need to be.  Well, I was hid pretty good, enough