The rustlers'
canyon isn't more than three miles up the Pass. Now you've
tracked me here, I'll never feel safe again."
In his descent to the valley, Venters's emotion, roused to
stirring pitch by the recital of his love story, quieted
gradually, and in its place came a sober, thoughtful mood. All at
once he saw that he was serious, because he would never more
regain his sense of security while in the valley. What Lassiter
could do another skilful tracker might duplicate. Among the many
riders with whom Venters had ridden he recalled no one who could
have taken his trail at Cottonwoods and have followed it to the
edge of the bare slope in the pass, let alone up that glistening
smooth stone. Lassiter, however, was not an ordinary rider.
Instead of hunting cattle tracks he had likely spent a goodly
portion of his life tracking men. It was not improbable that
among Oldring's rustlers there was one who shared Lassiter's gift
for trailing. And the more Venters dwelt on this possibility the
more perturbed he grew.
Lassiter's visit, moreover, had a disquieting effect upon Bess,
and Venters fancied that she entertained the same thought as to
future seclusion. The breaking of their solitude, though by a
well-meaning friend, had not only dispelled all its dream and
much of its charm, but had instilled a canker of fear. Both had
seen the footprint in the sand.
Venters did no more work that day.
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