“Reckon he got it,” added Joe.

So indeed it turned out; one of the men, a well-known rustler named Harker, had been killed, by whom no one seemed to know.  He had brazenly tried to force his way into one of the houses, and the act had cost him his life.  Naturally Shefford, never free from his civilized habit of thought, remarked apprehensively that he hoped this affair would not cause the poor women to be arrested again and haled before some rude court.

“Law!” grunted Joe.  “There ain’t any.  The nearest sheriff is in Durango.  That’s Colorado.  And he’d give us a medal for killing Harker.  It was a good job, for it’ll teach these rowdies a lesson.”

Next day the old order of life was resumed in the village.  And the arrival of a heavily laden pack-train, under the guidance of Withers, attested to the fact that the Mormons meant not only to continue to live in the valley, but also to build and plant and enlarge.  This was good news to Shefford.  At least the village could be made less lonely.  And there was plenty of work to give him excuse for staying there.  Furthermore, Withers brought a message form Bishop Kane to the effect that the young man was offered a place as teacher in the school, in co-operation with the Mormon teachers.  Shefford experienced no twinge of conscience when he accepted.

It was the fourth evening after the never-to-be-forgotten moonlight ride to the valley that Shefford passed under the dark pinyon-trees on his way to Fay Larkin’s cottage.  He paused in the gloom and memory beset him.  The six months were annihilated, and it was the night he had fled.  But now all was silent.  He seemed to be trying to drag himself back.  A beginning must be made.  Only how to meet her—­what to say—­what to conceal!

He tapped on the door and she came out.  After all, it was a meeting vastly different from what his feeling made him imagine it might have been.  She was nervous, frightened, as were all the other women, for that matter.  She was alone in the cottage.  He made haste to reassure her about the improbability of any further trouble such as had befallen the last week.  As he had always done on those former visits to her, he talked rapidly, using all his wit, and here his emotion made him eloquent; he avoided personalities, except to tell about his prospects of work in the village, and he sought above all to lead her mind from thought of herself and her condition.  Before he left her he had the gladness of knowing he had succeeded.

When he said good night he felt the strange falsity of his position.  He did not expect to be able to keep up the deception for long.  That roused him, and half the night he lay awake, thinking.  Next day he was the life of the work and study and play in that village.  Kindness and good-will did not need inspiration, but it was keen, deep passion that made him a plotter for influence and friendship.  Was there a woman in the village whom he might trust,