The darkness lightened, turned to slow-drifting haze, and lifted.  Through a thin film of blue smoke she saw the rough-hewn timbers of the court roof.  A cool, damp touch moved across her brow.  She smelled powder, and it was that which galvanized her suspended thought.  She moved, to see that she lay prone upon the stone flags with her head on Lassiter’s knee, and he was bathing her brow with water from the stream.  The same swift glance, shifting low, brought into range of her sight a smoking gun and splashes of blood.

“Ah-h!” she moaned, and was drifting, sinking again into darkness, when Lassiter’s voice arrested her.

“It’s all right, Jane.  It’s all right.”

“Did—­you—­kill—­him?” she whispered.

“Who?  That fat party who was here?  No.  I didn’t kill him.”

“Oh!...Lassiter!”

“Say!  It was queer for you to faint.  I thought you were such a strong woman, not faintish like that.  You’re all right now—­only some pale.  I thought you’d never come to.  But I’m awkward round women folks.  I couldn’t think of anythin’.”

“Lassiter!...the gun there!...the blood!”

“So that’s troublin’ you.  I reckon it needn’t.  You see it was this way.  I come round the house an’ seen that fat party an’ heard him talkin’ loud.  Then he seen me, an’ very impolite goes straight for his gun.  He oughtn’t have tried to throw a gun on me—­whatever his reason was.  For that’s meetin’ me on my own grounds.  I’ve seen runnin’ molasses that was quicker ’n him.  Now I didn’t know who he was, visitor or friend or relation of yours, though I seen he was a Mormon all over, an’ I couldn’t get serious about shootin’.  So I winged him—­put a bullet through his arm as he was pullin’ at his gun.  An’ he dropped the gun there, an’ a little blood.  I told him he’d introduced himself sufficient, an’ to please move out of my vicinity.  An’ he went.”

Lassiter spoke with slow, cool, soothing voice, in which there was a hint of levity, and his touch, as he continued to bathe her brow, was gentle and steady.  His impassive face, and the kind gray eyes, further stilled her agitation.

“He drew on you first, and you deliberately shot to cripple him—­you wouldn’t kill him—­you—­Lassiter?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Jane kissed his hand.

All that was calm and cool about Lassiter instantly vanished.

“Don’t do that!  I won’t stand it!  An’ I don’t care a damn who that fat party was.”

He helped Jane to her feet and to a chair.  Then with the wet scarf he had used to bathe her face he wiped the blood from the stone flags and, picking up the gun, he threw it upon a couch.  With that he began to pace the court, and his silver spurs jangled musically, and the great gun-sheaths softly brushed against his leather chaps.

“So—­it’s true—­what I heard him say?” Lassiter asked, presently halting before her.  “You made love to me—­to bind my hands?”