A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford.  In the soft light her eyes seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful.

Clip-clop! clip-clop!

The horse stopped outside.  Then followed a metallic clink of spur against stirrup—­thud of boots on hard ground—­heavy footsteps upon the porch.

A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford.  His only thought was that he could not think.

“Ho—­Mary!”

A voice liberated both Shefford’s muscle and mind—­a voice of strange, vibrant power.  Authority of religion and cruelty of will—­these Mormon attributes constituted that power.  And Shefford suffered a transformation which must have been ordered by demons.  That sudden flame seemed to curl and twine and shoot along his veins with blasting force.  A rancorous and terrible cry leaped to his lips.

“Ho—­Mary!” Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer room.

Shefford dared not look at Fay.  Yet, dimly, from the corner of his eye, he saw her, a pale shadow, turned to stone, with her arms out.  If he looked, if he made sure of that, he was lost.  When had he drawn his gun?  It was there, a dark and glinting thing in his hand.  He must fly—­not through cowardice and fear, but because in one more moment he would kill a man.  Swift as the thought he dove through the open window.  And, leaping up, he ran under the dark pinyons toward camp.

Joe Lake had been out late himself.  He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe.  He must have seen or heard Shefford coming, for he rose with unwonted alacrity, and he kicked the smoldering logs into a flickering blaze.

Shefford, realizing his deliverance, came panting, staggering into the light.  The Mormon uttered an exclamation.  Then he spoke, anxiously, but what he said was not clear in Shefford’s thick and throbbing ears.  He dropped his pipe, a sign of perturbation, and he stared.

But Shefford, without a word, lunged swiftly away into the shadow of the cedars.  He found relief in action.  He began a steep ascent of the east wall, a dangerous slant he had never dared even in daylight, and he climbed it without a slip.  Danger, steep walls, perilous heights, night, and black canyon the same—­these he never thought of.  But something drove him to desperate effort, that the hours might seem short.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The red sun was tipping the eastern wall when he returned to camp, and he was neither calm nor sure of himself nor ready for sleep or food.  Only he had put the night behind him.

The Indian showed no surprise.  But Joe Lake’s jaw dropped and his eyes rolled.  Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature of which did not at once dawn upon Shefford.

“By God! you’ve got nerve—­or you’re crazy!” he ejaculated, hoarsely.

Then it was Shefford’s turn to stare.  The Mormon was haggard, grieved, frightened, and utterly amazed.  He appeared to be trying to make certain of Shefford’s being there in the flesh and then to find reason for it.