Love remained. All that she had loved she now
loved the more. She seemed to feel that she was defiantly
flinging the wealth of her love in the face of misfortune and of
hate. No day passed but she prayed for all--and most fervently
for her enemies. It troubled her that she had lost, or had never
gained, the whole control of her mind. In some measure reason and
wisdom and decision were locked in a chamber of her brain,
awaiting a key. Power to think of some things was taken from her.
Meanwhile, abiding a day of judgment, she fought ceaselessly to
deny the bitter drops in her cup, to tear back the slow, the
intangibly slow growth of a hot, corrosive lichen eating into her
heart.
On the morning of August 10th, Jane, while waiting in the court
for Lassiter, heard a clear, ringing report of a rifle. It came
from the grove, somewhere toward the corrals. Jane glanced out in
alarm. The day was dull, windless, soundless. The leaves of the
cottonwoods drooped, as if they had foretold the doom of
Withersteen House and were now ready to die and drop and decay.
Never had Jane seen such shade. She pondered on the meaning of
the report. Revolver shots had of late cracked from different
parts of the grove--spies taking snap-shots at Lassiter from a
cowardly distance! But a rifle report meant more. Riders seldom
used rifles. Judkins and Venters were the exceptions she called
to mind.
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