“I’ve no nerve and I am crazy,” replied Shefford.  “But, Joe—­what do you mean?  Why do you look at me like that?”

“I reckon if I get your horse that’ll square us.  Did you come back for him?  You’d better hit the trail quick.”

“It’s you now who’re crazy,” burst out Shefford.

“Wish to God I was,” replied Joe.

It was then Shefford realized catastrophe, and cold fear gnawed at his vitals, so that he was sick.

“Joe, what has happened?” he asked, with the blood thick in his heart.

“Hadn’t you better tell me?” demanded the Mormon, and a red wave blotted out the haggard shade of his face.

“You talk like a fool,” said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up to Joe.

“See here, Shefford, we’ve been pards.  You’re making it hard for me.  Reckon you ain’t square.”

Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon’s burly shoulder.

“Why am I not square?  What do you mean?”

Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake.  Then he eyed his comrade steadily.

“I was afraid you’d kill him.  I reckon I can’t blame you.  I’ll help you get away.  And I’m a Mormon!  Do you take the hunch? . . .  But don’t deny you killed him!”

“Killed whom?” gasped Shefford.

“Her husband!”

Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror.  The Mormon’s changing face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight.  He was clutched and shaken in Joe’s rude hands, yet scarcely felt them.  Joe seemed to be bellowing at him, but the voice was far off.  Then Shefford began to see, to hear through some cold and terrible deadness that had come between him and everything.

“Say you killed him!” hoarsely supplicated the Mormon.

Shefford had not yet control of speech.  Something in his gaze appeared to drive Joe frantic.

“Damn you!  Tell me quick.  Say you killed him! . . .  If you want to know my stand, why, I’m glad! . . .  Shefford, don’t look so stony! . . .  For her sake, say you killed him!”

Shefford stood with a face as gray and still as stone.  With a groan the Mormon drew away from him and sank upon a log.  He bowed his head; his broad shoulders heaved; husky sounds came from him.  Then with a violent wrench he plunged to his feet and shook himself like a huge, savage dog.

“Reckon it’s no time to weaken,” he said, huskily, and with the words a dark, hard, somber bitterness came to his face.

“Where—­is—­she?” whispered Shefford.

“Shut up in the school-house,” he replied.

“Did she—­did she—­”

“She neither denied nor confessed.”

“Have you—­seen her?”

“Yes.”

“How did—­she look?”

“Cool and quiet as the Indian there. . . .  Game as hell!  She always had stuff in her.”

“Oh, Joe! . . .  It’s unbelievable!” cried Shefford.  “That lovely, innocent girl!  She couldn’t—­she couldn’t.”