And when he had returned it, with a strong
grip of the iron hand that held his, and met the gray eyes, he
knew that Lassiter and he were to be friends.
"Venters, let's talk awhile before we go down there," said
Lassiter, slipping his bridle. "I ain't in no hurry. Them's sure
fine dogs you've got." With a rider's eye he took in the points
of Venter's horse, but did not speak his thought. "Well, did
anythin' come off after I left you last night?"
Venters told him about the rustlers.
"I was snug hid in the sage," replied Lassiter, "an' didn't see
or hear no one. Oldrin's got a high hand here, I reckon. It's no
news up in Utah how he holes in canyons an' leaves no track."
Lassiter was silent a moment. "Me an' Oldrin' wasn't exactly
strangers some years back when he drove cattle into Bostil's
Ford, at the head of the Rio Virgin. But he got harassed there
an' now he drives some place else."
"Lassiter, you knew him? Tell me, is he Mormon or Gentile?"
"I can't say. I've knowed Mormons who pretended to be Gentiles."
"No Mormon ever pretended that unless he was a rustler" declared
Venters.
"Mebbe so."
"It's a hard country for any one, but hardest for Gentiles. Did
you ever know or hear of a Gentile prospering in a Mormon
community?"
"I never did."
"Well, I want to get out of Utah. I've a mother living in
Illinois. I want to go home.
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