Joe Lake drew up the blanket and shut from Shefford’s fascinated gaze that spare form, that accusing knife, that face of strange, cruel power.

“Anybody been sent for?” asked Lake of Beal.

“Yes.  An Indian boy went for the Piute.  We’ll send him to Stonebridge,” replied the Mormon.

“How soon do you expect any one here from Stonebridge?”

“To-morrow, mebbe by noon.”

“Meantime what’s to be done with—­this?”

“Elder Smith thinks the body should stay right here where it fell till they come from Stonebridge.”

“Waggoner was found here, then?”

“Right here.”

“Who found him?”

“Mother Smith.  She came over early.  An’ the sight made her scream.  The women all came runnin’.  Mother Smith had to be put to bed.”

“Who found—­Mary?”

“See here, Joe, I told you all I knowed once before,” replied the Mormon, testily.

“I’ve forgotten.  Was sort of bewildered.  Tell me again. . . .  Who found—­her?”

“The women folks.  She laid right inside the door, in a dead faint.  She hadn’t undressed.  There was blood on her hands an’ a cut or scratch.  The women fetched her to.  But she wouldn’t talk.  Then Elder Smith come an’ took her.  They’ve got her locked up.”

Then Joe led Shefford away from the cabin farther on into the village.  When they were halted by the somber, grieving women it was Joe who did the talking.  They passed the school-house, and here Shefford quickened his step.  He could scarcely bear the feeling that rushed over him.  And the Mormon gripped his arm as if he understood.

“Shefford, which one of these younger women do you reckon your best friend?  Ruth?” asked Lake, earnestly.

“Ruth, by all means.  Just lately I haven’t seen her often.  But we’ve been close friends.  I think she’d do much for me.”

“Maybe there’ll be a chance to find out.  Maybe we’ll need Ruth.  Let’s have a word with her.  I haven’t seen her out among the women.”

They stopped at the door of Ruth’s cabin.  It was closed.  When Joe knocked there came a sound of footsteps inside, a hand drew aside the window-blind, and presently the door opened.  Ruth stood there, dressed in somber hue.  She was a pretty, slender, blue-eyed, brown-haired young woman.

Shefford imagined from her pallor and the set look of shock upon her face, that the tragedy had affected her more powerfully than it had the other women.  When he remembered that she had been more friendly with Fay Larkin than any other neighbor, he made sure he was right in his conjecture.

“Come in,” was Ruth’s greeting.

“No.  We just wanted to say a word.  I noticed you’ve not been out.  Do you know—­all about it?”

She gave them a strange glance.

“Any of the women folks been in?” added Joe.

“Hester ran over.  She told me through the window.  Then I barred my door to keep the other women out.”