The clank of iron hoofs upon the stone courtyard drew her hurriedly from her retirement.  There, beside his horse, stood Lassiter, his dark apparel and the great black gun-sheaths contrasting singularly with his gentle smile.  Jane’s active mind took up her interest in him and her half-determined desire to use what charm she had to foil his evident design in visiting Cottonwoods.  If she could mitigate his hatred of Mormons, or at least keep him from killing more of them, not only would she be saving her people, but also be leading back this bloodspiller to some semblance of the human.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, black sombrero in hand.

“Lassiter I’m not an old woman, or even a madam,” she replied, with her bright smile.  “If you can’t say Miss Withersteen—­call me Jane.”

“I reckon Jane would be easier.  First names are always handy for me.”

“Well, use mine, then.  Lassiter, I’m glad to see you.  I’m in trouble.”

Then she told him of Judkins’s return, of the driving of the red herd, of Venters’s departure on Wrangle, and the calling-in of her riders.

“‘Pears to me you’re some smilin’ an’ pretty for a woman with so much trouble,” he remarked.

“Lassiter!  Are you paying me compliments?  But, seriously I’ve made up my mind not to be miserable.  I’ve lost much, and I’ll lose more.  Nevertheless, I won’t be sour, and I hope I’ll never be unhappy—­again.”

Lassiter twisted his hat round and round, as was his way, and took his time in replying.

“Women are strange to me.  I got to back-trailin’ myself from them long ago.  But I’d like a game woman.  Might I ask, seein’ as how you take this trouble, if you’re goin’ to fight?”

“Fight!  How?  Even if I would, I haven’t a friend except that boy who doesn’t dare stay in the village.”

“I make bold to say, ma’am—­Jane—­that there’s another, if you want him.”

“Lassiter!...Thank you.  But how can I accept you as a friend?  Think!  Why, you’d ride down into the village with those terrible guns and kill my enemies—­who are also my churchmen.”

“I reckon I might be riled up to jest about that,” he replied, dryly.

She held out both hands to him.

“Lassiter!  I’ll accept your friendship—­be proud of it—­return it—­if I may keep you from killing another Mormon.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, bluntly, as the gray lightning formed in his eyes.  “You’re too good a woman to be sacrificed as you’re goin’ to be....No, I reckon you an’ me can’t be friends on such terms.”

In her earnestness she stepped closer to him, repelled yet fascinated by the sudden transition of his moods.  That he would fight for her was at once horrible and wonderful.

“You came here to kill a man—­the man whom Milly Erne—­”

“The man who dragged Milly Erne to hell—­put it that way!...Jane Withersteen, yes, that’s why I came here.  I’d tell so much to no other livin’ soul....There’re things such a woman as you’d never dream of—­ so don’t mention her again.  Not till you tell me the name of the man!”