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on. A stranger come to town, anā€™ was seen with the preacher. This stranger was a big man with an eye like blue ice, anā€™ a beard of gold. He had money, anā€™ he ā€™peared a man of mystery, anā€™ the town went to buzzinā€™ when he disappeared about the same time as a young woman known to be mightily interested in the new preacherā€™s religion. Then, presently, along comes a man from somewheres in Illinois, enā€™ he up anā€™ spots this preacher as a famous Mormon proselyter. That riled Frank Erne as nothinā€™ ever before, anā€™ from rivals they come to be bitter enemies. Anā€™ it ended in Frank goinā€™ to the meetinā€™-house where Milly was listeninā€™, enā€™ before her enā€™ everybody else he called that preacherā€”called him, well, almost as hard as Venters called Tull here sometime back. Anā€™ Frank followed up that call with a hosswhippinā€™, enā€™ he drove the proselyter out of town.

ā€œPeople noticed, so ā€™twas said, that Millyā€™s sweet disposition changed. Some said it was because she would soon become a mother, enā€™ others said she was pininā€™ after the new religion. Anā€™ there was women who said right out that she was pininā€™ after the Mormon. Anyway, one morninā€™ Frank rode in from one of his trips, to find Milly gone. He had no real near neighborsā€”livinā€™ a little out of townā€”but those who was nearest said a wagon had gone by in the night, anā€™ they thought it stopped at her door. Well, tracks always tell, anā€™ there was the wagon tracks anā€™ hoss tracks anā€™ man tracks. The news spread like wildfire that Milly had run off from her husband. Everybody but Frank believed it anā€™ wasnā€™t slow in tellinā€™ why she run off. Mother had always hated that strange streak of Millyā€™s, takinā€™ up with the new religion as she had, anā€™ she believed Milly ran off with the Mormon. That hastened motherā€™s death, anā€™ she died unforgivinā€™. Father wasnā€™t the kind to bow down under disgrace or misfortune but he had surpassinā€™ love for Milly, anā€™ the loss of her broke him.

ā€œFrom the minute I heard of Millyā€™s disappearance I never believed she went off of her own free will. I knew Milly, anā€™ I knew she couldnā€™t have done that. I stayed at home awhile, tryinā€™ to make Frank Erne talk. But if he knowed anythinā€™ then he wouldnā€™t tell it. So I set out to find Milly. Anā€™ I tried to get on the trail of that proselyter. I knew if I ever struck a town heā€™d visited that Iā€™d get a trail. I knew, too, that nothinā€™ short of hell would stop his proselytinā€™. Anā€™ I rode from town to town. I had a blind faith that somethinā€™ was guidinā€™ me. Anā€™ as the weeks anā€™ months went by I growed into a strange sort of a man, I guess. Anyway, people were afraid of me. Two years after that, way over in a corner of Texas, I struck a town where my man had been. Heā€™d jest left. People said he came to that town without a woman. I back-trailed my man through Arkansas anā€™ Mississippi, anā€™ the old trail got hot again in Texas. I found the town where he first went after leavinā€™ home. Anā€™ here I got track of Milly. I found a cabin where she had given birth to her baby. There was no way to tell whether sheā€™d been kept a prisoner or not. The feller who owned the place was a mean, silent sort of a skunk, anā€™ as I was leavinā€™ I jest took a chance anā€™ left my mark on him. Then I went home again.

ā€œIt was to find I hadnā€™t any home, no more. Father had been dead a year. Frank Erne still lived in the house where Milly had left him. I stayed with him awhile, anā€™ I grew old watchinā€™ him. His farm had gone to weed, his cattle had strayed or been rustled, his house weathered till it wouldnā€™t keep out rain nor wind. Anā€™ Frank set on the porch and whittled sticks, anā€™ day by day wasted away. There was times when he ranted about like a crazy man, but mostly he was always sittinā€™ anā€™ starinā€™ with eyes that made a man curse. I figured Frank had a secret fear that I needed to know. Anā€™ when I told him Iā€™d trailed Milly for near three years anā€™ had got trace of her, anā€™ saw where sheā€™d had her baby, I thought he would drop dead at my feet. Anā€™ when heā€™d come round more natural-like he begged me to give up the trail. But he wouldnā€™t explain. So I let him alone, anā€™ watched him day enā€™ night.

ā€œAnā€™ I found there was one thing still precious to him, anā€™ it was a little drawer where he kept his papers. This was in the room where he slept. Anā€™ it ā€™peared he seldom slept. But after beinā€™ patient I got the contents of that drawer anā€™ found two letters from Milly. One was a long letter written a few months after her disappearance. She had been bound anā€™ gagged anā€™ dragged away from her home by three men, anā€™ she named themā€”Hurd, Metzger, Slack. They was strangers to her. She was taken to the little town where I found trace of her two years after. But she didnā€™t send the letter from that town. There she was penned in. ā€™Peared that the proselytes, who had, of course, come on the scene, was not runninā€™ any risks of losinā€™ her. She went on to say that for a time she was out of her head, anā€™ when she got right again all that kept her alive was the baby. It was a beautiful baby, she said, anā€™ all she thought anā€™ dreamed of was somehow to get baby back to its father, anā€™ then sheā€™d thankfully lay down and die. Anā€™ the letter ended abrupt, in the middle of a sentence, enā€™ it wasnā€™t signed.

ā€œThe second letter was written more than two years after the first. It was from Salt Lake City. It simply said that Milly had heard her brother was on her trail. She asked Frank to tell her brother to give up the search because if he didnā€™t she would suffer in a way too horrible to tell. She didnā€™t beg. She just stated a fact anā€™ made the simple request. Anā€™ she ended that letter by sayinā€™ she would soon leave Salt Lake City with the man she had come to love, enā€™ would never be heard of again.

ā€œI recognized Millyā€™s handwritinā€™, anā€™ I recognized her way of puttinā€™ things. But that second letter told me of some great change in her. Ponderinā€™ over it, I felt at last sheā€™d either come to love that feller anā€™ his religion, or some terrible fear made her lie anā€™ say so. I couldnā€™t be sure which. But, of course, I meant to find out. Iā€™ll say here, if Iā€™d known Mormons then as I do now Iā€™d left Milly to her fate. For mebbe she was right about what sheā€™d suffer if I kept on her trail. But I was young anā€™ wild them days. First I went to the town where sheā€™d first been taken, anā€™ I went to the place where sheā€™d been kept. I got that skunk who owned the place, anā€™ took him out in the woods, anā€™ made him tell all he knowed. That wasnā€™t much as to length, but it was pure hellā€™s-fire in substance. This time I left him some incapacitated for any more skunk work short of hell. Then I hit the trail for Utah.

ā€œThat was fourteen years ago. I saw the incominā€™ of most of the Mormons. It was a wild country anā€™ a wild time. I rode from town to town, village to village, ranch to ranch, camp to camp. I never stayed long in one place. I never had but one idea. I never rested. Four years went by, anā€™ I knowed every trail in northern Utah. I kept on anā€™ as time went by, anā€™ Iā€™d begun to grow old in my search, I had firmer, blinder faith in whatever was guidinā€™ me. Once I read about a feller who sailed the seven seas anā€™ traveled the world, anā€™ he had a story to tell, anā€™ whenever he seen the man to whom he must tell that story he knowed him on sight. I was like that, only I had a question to ask. Anā€™ always I knew the man of whom I must ask. So I never really lost the trail, though for many years it was the dimmest trail ever followed by any man.

ā€œThen come a change in my luck. Along in Central Utah I rounded up Hurd, anā€™ I whispered somethinā€™ in his ear, anā€™ watched his face, anā€™ then throwed a gun against his bowels. Anā€™ he died with his teeth so tight shut I couldnā€™t have pried them open with a knife. Slack anā€™ Metzger that same year both heard me whisper the same question, anā€™ neither would they speak a word when they lay dyinā€™. Long before Iā€™d learned no man of this breed or classā€”or God knows whatā€”would give up any secrets! I had to see in a manā€™s fear of death the connections with Milly Erneā€™s fate. Anā€™ as the years passed at long intervals I would find such a man.

ā€œSo as I drifted on the long trail down into southern Utah my name preceded me, anā€™ I had to meet a people prepared for me, anā€™ ready with guns. They made me a gun-man. Anā€™ that suited me. In all this time signs of the proselyter anā€™ the giant with the blue-ice eyes anā€™ the gold beard seemed to fade dimmer out of the trail. Only twice in ten years did I find a trace of that mysterious man who had visited the proselyter at my home village. What he had to do with Millyā€™s fate was beyond all hope for me to learn, unless my guidinā€™ spirit led me to him! As for the other man, I knew, as sure as I breathed enā€™ the stars shone enā€™ the wind blew, that Iā€™d meet him some day.

ā€œEighteen years Iā€™ve been on the trail. Anā€™ it led me to the last lonely villages of the Utah border. Eighteen years!... I feel pretty old now. I was only twenty when I hit that trail. Well, as I told you, back here a ways a Gentile said Jane Withersteen could tell me about Milly Erne anā€™ show me her grave!ā€

The low voice ceased, and Lassiter slowly turned his sombrero round and round, and appeared to be counting the silver ornaments on the band. Jane, leaning toward him, sat as if petrified, listening intently, waiting to hear more. She could have shrieked, but power of tongue and lips were denied her. She saw only this sad, gray, passion-worn man, and she heard only the faint rustling of the leaves.

ā€œWell, I came to Cottonwoods,ā€ went on Lassiter, ā€œanā€™ you showed me Millyā€™s grave. Anā€™ though your teeth have been shut tighterā€™n them of all the dead men lyinā€™ back along that trail, jest the same you told me the secret Iā€™ve lived these eighteen years to hear! Jane, I said youā€™d tell me without ever me askinā€™. I didnā€™t need to ask my question here. The day, you remember, when that fat party throwed a gun on me in your court, anā€™ā€”ā€

ā€œOh! Hush!ā€ whispered Jane, blindly holding up her hands.

ā€œI seen in your face that Dyer, now a bishop, was the proselyter who ruined Milly Erne!ā€

For an instant Jane Withersteenā€™s brain was a whirling chaos and she recovered to find herself grasping at Lassiter like one drowning. And as if by a lightning stroke she sprang from her dull apathy into exquisite torture.

ā€œItā€™s a lie! Lassiter! No, no!ā€ she moaned. ā€œI swearā€”youā€™re wrong!ā€

ā€œStop! Youā€™d perjure yourself! But Iā€™ll spare you that. You poor woman! Still blind! Still faithful!... Listen. I know. Let that settle it. Anā€™ I give up my purpose!ā€

ā€œWhat is itā€”you say?ā€

ā€œI give up my purpose. Iā€™ve come to see anā€™ feel differently. I canā€™t help poor Milly. Anā€™ Iā€™ve outgrowed revenge. Iā€™ve come to see I can be no judge for men. I canā€™t kill a man jest for hate. Hate ainā€™t the same with me since I loved you and little Fay.ā€

ā€œLassiter! You mean you wonā€™t kill him?ā€ Jane whispered.

ā€œNo.ā€

ā€œFor my sake?ā€

ā€œI reckon. I canā€™t understand, but Iā€™ll respect your feelinā€™s.ā€

ā€œBecause youā€”oh, because you love me?... Eighteen years! You were that terrible Lassiter! And nowā€”because you love me?ā€

ā€œThatā€™s it, Jane.ā€

ā€œOh, youā€™ll make me love you! How can I help but love you? My heart must be stone. Butā€”oh, Lassiter, wait, wait! Give me

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