Then, if there were anything that a good woman could do to win a man and still preserve her self-respect, it was something which escaped the natural subtlety of a woman determined to allure.  Jane’s vanity, that after all was not great, was soon satisfied with Lassiter’s silent admiration.  And her honest desire to lead him from his dark, blood-stained path would never have blinded her to what she owed herself.  But the driving passion of her religion, and its call to save Mormons’ lives, one life in particular, bore Jane Withersteen close to an infringement of her womanhood.  In the beginning she had reasoned that her appeal to Lassiter must be through the senses.  With whatever means she possessed in the way of adornment she enhanced her beauty.  And she stooped to artifices that she knew were unworthy of her, but which she deliberately chose to employ.  She made of herself a girl in every variable mood wherein a girl might be desirable.  In those moods she was not above the methods of an inexperienced though natural flirt.  She kept close to him whenever opportunity afforded; and she was forever playfully, yet passionately underneath the surface, fighting him for possession of the great black guns.  These he would never yield to her.  And so in that manner their hands were often and long in contact.  The more of simplicity that she sensed in him the greater the advantage she took.

She had a trick of changing—­and it was not altogether voluntary—­from this gay, thoughtless, girlish coquettishness to the silence and the brooding, burning mystery of a woman’s mood.  The strength and passion and fire of her were in her eyes, and she so used them that Lassiter had to see this depth in her, this haunting promise more fitted to her years than to the flaunting guise of a wilful girl.

The July days flew by.  Jane reasoned that if it were possible for her to be happy during such a time, then she was happy.  Little Fay completely filled a long aching void in her heart.  In fettering the hands of this Lassiter she was accomplishing the greatest good of her life, and to do good even in a small way rendered happiness to Jane Withersteen.  She had attended the regular Sunday services of her church; otherwise she had not gone to the village for weeks.  It was unusual that none of her churchmen or friends had called upon her of late; but it was neglect for which she was glad.  Judkins and his boy riders had experienced no difficulty in driving the white herd.  So these warm July days were free of worry, and soon Jane hoped she had passed the crisis; and for her to hope was presently to trust, and then to believe.  She thought often of Venters, but in a dreamy, abstract way.  She spent hours teaching and playing with little Fay.  And the activity of her mind centered around Lassiter.  The direction she had given her will seemed to blunt any branching off of thought from that straight line.  The mood came to obsess her.