“I jest am weak where a hoss’s concerned,” said Lassiter.  “I’ll take him, an’ I’ll take your orders, ma’am.”

“Well, I’m glad, but never mind the ma’am.  Let it still be Jane.”

From that hour, it seemed, Lassiter was always in the saddle, riding early and late, and coincident with his part in Jane’s affairs the days assumed their old tranquillity.  Her intelligence told her this was only the lull before the storm, but her faith would not have it so.

She resumed her visits to the village, and upon one of these she encountered Tull.  He greeted her as he had before any trouble came between them, and she, responsive to peace if not quick to forget, met him halfway with manner almost cheerful.  He regretted the loss of her cattle; he assured her that the vigilantes which had been organized would soon rout the rustlers; when that had been accomplished her riders would likely return to her.

“You’ve done a headstrong thing to hire this man Lassiter,” Tull went on, severely.  “He came to Cottonwoods with evil intent.”

“I had to have somebody.  And perhaps making him my rider may turn out best in the end for the Mormons of Cottonwoods.”

“You mean to stay his hand?”

“I do—­if I can.”

“A woman like you can do anything with a man.  That would be well, and would atone in some measure for the errors you have made.”

He bowed and passed on.  Jane resumed her walk with conflicting thoughts.  She resented Elder Tull’s cold, impassive manner that looked down upon her as one who had incurred his just displeasure.  Otherwise he would have been the same calm, dark-browed, impenetrable man she had known for ten years.  In fact, except when he had revealed his passion in the matter of the seizing of Venters, she had never dreamed he could be other than the grave, reproving preacher.  He stood out now a strange, secretive man.  She would have thought better of him if he had picked up the threads of their quarrel where they had parted.  Was Tull what he appeared to be?  The question flung itself in-voluntarily over Jane Withersteen’s inhibitive habit of faith without question.  And she refused to answer it.  Tull could not fight in the open Venters had said, Lassiter had said, that her Elder shirked fight and worked in the dark.  Just now in this meeting Tull had ignored the fact that he had sued, exhorted, demanded that she marry him.  He made no mention of Venters.  His manner was that of the minister who had been outraged, but who overlooked the frailties of a woman.  Beyond question he seemed unutterably aloof from all knowledge of pressure being brought to bear upon her, absolutely guiltless of any connection with secret power over riders, with night journeys, with rustlers and stampedes of cattle.  And that convinced her again of unjust suspicions.  But it was convincement through an obstinate faith.  She shuddered as she accepted it, and that shudder was the nucleus of a terrible revolt.