“Yes.  After almost killing you I’ve pulled you through.”

“Are you glad?”

“I should say so!”

Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and sadness.

“Tell me—­about yourself?” she asked.

He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast.

Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he questioned her in turn.

“Are you Oldring’s Masked Rider?”

“Yes,” she replied, and dropped her eyes.

“I knew it—­I recognized your figure—­and mask, for I saw you once.  Yet I can’t believe it!...But you never were really that rustler, as we riders knew him?  A thief—­a marauder—­a kidnapper of women—­a murderer of sleeping riders!”

“No!  I never stole—­or harmed any one—­in all my life.  I only rode and rode—­”

“But why—­why?” he burst out.  “Why the name?  I understand Oldring made you ride.  But the black mask—­the mystery—­the things laid to your hands—­the threats in your infamous name—­the night-riding credited to you—­the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you and acknowledged by rustlers—­even Oldring himself!  Why?  Tell me why?”

“I never knew that,” she answered low.  Her drooping head straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters’s with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth.  It verified his own conviction.

“Never knew?  That’s strange!  Are you a Mormon?”

“No.”

“Is Oldring a Mormon?”

“No.”

“Do you—­care for him?”

“Yes.  I hate his men—­his life—­sometimes I almost hate him!”

Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear.

“What are—­what were you to Oldring?”

Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept the red of shame.

Venters would have given anything to recall that question.  It seemed so different—­his thought when spoken.  Yet her shame established in his mind something akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering to feel for her.

“D—­n that question!—­forget it!” he cried, in a passion of pain for her and anger at himself.  “But once and for all—­tell me—­I know it, yet I want to hear you say so—­you couldn’t help yourself?”

“Oh no.”