Zane Grey by Riders of the Purple Sage

had tarried longer than his wont.
    â€œMa’am, I have hunted all over southern Utah and Nevada for— somethin’. An’ through your name I learned where to find it—here in Cottonwoods.”
    â€œMy name! Oh, I remember. You did know my name when you spoke first. Well, tell me where you heard it and from whom?”
    â€œAt the little village—Glaze, I think it’s called—some fifty miles or more west of here. An’ I heard it from a Gentile, a rider who said you’d know where to tell me to find—”
    â€œWhat?” she demanded, imperiously, as Lassiter broke off.
    â€œMilly Erne’s grave,” he answered low, and the words came with a wrench.
    Venters wheeled in his chair to regard Lassiter in amazement, and Jane slowly raised herself in white, still wonder.
    â€œMilly Erne’s grave?” she echoed, in a whisper. “What do you know of Milly Erne, my best-beloved friend—who died in my arms? What were you to her?”
    â€œDid I claim to be anythin’?” he inquired. “I know people—relatives— who have long wanted to know where she’s buried. That’s all.”
    â€œRelatives? She never spoke of relatives, except a brother who was shot in Texas. Lassiter, Milly Erne’s grave is in a secret burying-ground on my property.”
    â€œWill you take me there? . . . You’ll be offendin’ Mormons worse than by breakin’ bread with me.”
    â€œIndeed yes, but I’ll do it. Only we must go unseen. To-morrow, perhaps.”
    â€œThank you, Jane Withersteen,” replied the rider, and he bowed to her and stepped backward out of the court.
    â€œWill you not stay—sleep under my roof ?” she asked.
    â€œNo, ma’am, an’ thanks again. I never sleep indoors. An’ even if I did there’s that gatherin’ storm in the village below. No, no. I’ll go to the sage. I hope you won’t suffer none for your kindness to me.”
    â€œLassiter,” said Venters, with a half-bitter laugh, “my bed, too, is the sage. Perhaps we may meet out there.”
    â€œMebbe so. But the sage is wide an’ I won’t be near. Good night.”
    At Lassiter’s low whistle the black horse whinnied, and carefully picked his blind way out of the grove. The rider did not bridle him, but walked beside him, leading him by touch of hand, and together they passed slowly into the shade of the cottonwoods.
    â€œJane, I must be off soon,” said Venters. “Give me my guns. If I’d had my guns—”
    â€œEither my friend or the Elder of my church would be lying dead,” she interposed.
    â€œTull would be—surely.”
    â€œOh, you fierce-blooded, savage youth! Can’t I teach you forbearance, mercy? Bern, it’s divine to forgive your enemies. ‘Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath.’ ” 6
    â€œHush! Talk to me no more of mercy or religion—after to-day. To-day this strange coming of Lassiter left me still a man, and now I’ll die a man! . . . Give me my guns.”
    Silently she went into the house to return with a heavy cartridge-belt and gun-filled sheath and a long rifle; these she handed to him, and as he buckled on the belt she stood before him in silent eloquence.
    â€œJane,” he said, in gentler voice, “don’t look so. I’m not going out to murder your churchman. I’ll try to avoid him and all his men. But can’t you see I’ve reached the end of my rope? Jane, you’re a wonderful woman. Never was there a woman so unselfish and good. Only you’re blind in one way. . . . Listen!”
    From behind the grove came the clicking sound of horses in a rapid trot.
    â€œSome of your riders,” he continued. “It’s getting time for the night shift. Let us go out to the bench in the grove and talk there.”
    It was still daylight in the open, but under the spreading