I'm of Mormon birth. I'm being broken. But I'm still a Mormon
woman. And you--you are Lassiter!"
"Mebbe I'm not so much Lassiter as I used to be."
"What was it you said? Habit of years is strong as life itself!
You can't change the one habit--the purpose of your life. For you
still pack those black guns! You still nurse your passion for
blood."
A smile, like a shadow, flickered across his face.
"No."
"Lassiter, I lied to you. But I beg of you--don't you lie to me.
I've great respect for you. I believe you're softened toward
most, perhaps all, my people except--But when I speak of your
purpose, your hate, your guns, I have only him in mind. I don't
believe you've changed."
For answer he unbuckled the heavy cartridge-belt, and laid it
with the heavy, swing gun-sheaths in her lap.
"Lassiter!" Jane whispered, as she gazed from him to the black,
cold guns. Without them he appeared shorn of strength,
defenseless, a smaller man. Was she Delilah? Swiftly, conscious
of only one motive--refusal to see this man called craven by his
enemies--she rose, and with blundering fingers buckled the belt
round his waist where it belonged.
"Lassiter, I am a coward."
"Come with me out of Utah--where I can put away my guns an' be a
man," he said. "I reckon I'll prove it to you then! Come! You've
got Black Star back, an' Night an' Bells. Let's take the racers
an' little Fay, en' race out of Utah.
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