Had the men who hounded her hidden in her grove, taken
to the rifle to rid her of Lassiter, her last friend? It was
probable--it was likely. And she did not share his cool
assumption that his death would never come at the hands of a
Mormon. Long had she expected it. His constancy to her, his
singular reluctance to use the fatal skill for which he was
famed-- both now plain to all Mormons--laid him open to
inevitable assassination. Yet what charm against ambush and aim
and enemy he seemed to bear about him! No, Jane reflected, it was
not charm; only a wonderful training of eye and ear, and sense of
impending peril. Nevertheless that could not forever avail
against secret attack.
That moment a rustling of leaves attracted her attention; then
the familiar clinking accompaniment of a slow, soft, measured
step, and Lassiter walked into the court.
"Jane, there's a fellow out there with a long gun," he said, and,
removing his sombrero, showed his head bound in a bloody scarf.
"I heard the shot; I knew it was meant for you. Let me see--you
can't be badly injured?"
"I reckon not. But mebbe it wasn't a close call!...I'll sit here
in this corner where nobody can see me from the grove." He untied
the scarf and removed it to show a long, bleeding furrow above
his left temple.
"It's only a cut," said Jane. "But how it bleeds! Hold your scarf
over it just a moment till I come back.
Pages:
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264