As he was about to pass out of the street to skirt the grove, he
once more slunk down at the sound of trotting horses. Presently
he descried two mounted men riding toward him. He hugged the
shadow of a tree. Again the starlight, brighter now, aided him,
and he made out Tull's stalwart figure, and beside him the short,
froglike shape of the rider Jerry. They were silent, and they
rode on to disappear.

Venters went his way with busy, gloomy mind, revolving events of
the day, trying to reckon those brooding in the night. His
thoughts overwhelmed him. Up in that dark grove dwelt a woman who
had been his friend. And he skulked about her home, gripping a
gun stealthily as an Indian, a man without place or people or
purpose. Above her hovered the shadow of grim, hidden, secret
power. No queen could have given more royally out of a bounteous
store than Jane Withersteen gave her people, and likewise to
those unfortunates whom her people hated. She asked only the
divine right of all women--freedom; to love and to live as her
heart willed. And yet prayer and her hope were vain.

"For years I've seen a storm clouding over her and the village of
Cottonwoods," muttered Venters, as he strode on. "Soon it'll
burst. I don't like the prospects." That night the villagers
whispered in the street--and night-riding rustlers muffled
horses--and Tull was at work in secret--and out there in the sage
hid a man who meant something terrible--Lassiter!

Venters passed the black cottonwoods, and, entering the sage,
climbed the gradual slope. He kept his direction in line with a
western star. From time to time he stopped to listen and heard