At the home of Jane Withersteen Little Fay was climbing Lassiter's knee.
"Does oo love me?" she asked.
Lassiter, who was as serious with Fay as he was gentle and loving, assured her in earnest and elaborate speech that he was her devoted subject. Fay looked thoughtful and appeared to be debating the duplicity of men or searching for a supreme test to prove this cavalier.
"Does oo love my new mower?" she asked, with bewildering suddenness.
Jane Withersteen laughed, and for the first time in many a day she felt a stir of her pulse and warmth in her cheek.
It was a still drowsy summer of afternoon, and the three were sitting in the shade of the wooded knoll that faced the sage-slope Little Fay's brief spell of unhappy longing for her mother--the childish, mystic gloom--had passed, and now where Fay was there were prattle and laughter and glee. She had emerged Iron sorrow to be the incarnation of joy and loveliness. She had growl supernaturally sweet and beautiful. For Jane Withersteen the child was an answer to prayer, a blessing, a possession infinitely more precious than all she had lost. For Lassiter, Jane divined that little Fay had become a religion.
"Does oo love my new mower?" repeated Fay.
Lassiter's answer to this was a modest and sincere affirmative.
"Why don't oo marry my new mower an' be my favver?"
Of the thousands of questions put by little Fay to Lassiter the was the first he had been unable to answer.
"Fay--Fay, don't ask questions like that," said Jane.
"Why?"
"Because," replied Jane. And she found it strangely embarrassing to meet the child's gaze. It seemed to her that Fay's violet eyes looked through her with piercing wisdom.
"Oo love him, don't oo?"
"Dear child--run and play," said Jane, "but don't go too far.
Don't go from this little hill."
Fay pranced off wildly, joyous over freedom that had not been granted her for weeks.
"Jane, why are children more sincere than grown-up persons?" asked Lassiter.
"Are they?"
"I reckon so. Little Fay there--she sees things as they appear on the face. An Indian does that. So does a dog. An' an Indian an' a dog are most of the time right in what they see. Mebbe a child is always right."
"Well, what does Fay see?" asked Jane.
"I reckon you know. I wonder what goes on in Fay's mind when she sees part of the truth with the wise eyes of a child, an' wantin' to know more, meets with strange falseness from you? Wait! You are false in a way, though you're the best woman I ever knew.
What I want to say is this. Fay has taken you're pretendin' to--to care for me for the thing it looks on the face. An' her little formin' mind asks questions. An' the answers she gets are different from the looks of things. So she'll grow up gradually takin' on that falseness, an' be like the rest of the women, an' men, too. An' the truth of this falseness to life is proved by your appearin' to love me when you don't. Things aren't what they seem."
"Lassiter, you're right. A child should be told the absolute truth. But--is that possible? I haven't been able to do it, and all my life I've loved the truth, and I've prided myself upon being truthful. Maybe that was only egotism. I'm learning much, my friend. Some of those blinding scales have fallen from my eyes. And--and as to caring for you, I think I care a great deal.
How much, how little, I couldn't say. My heart is almost broken.
Lassiter. So now is not a good time to judge of affection. I can still play and be merry with Fay. I can still dream. But when I attempt serious thought I'm dazed. I don't think. I don't care any more. I don't pray!...Think of that, my friend! But in spite of my numb feeling I believe I'll rise out of all this dark agony a better woman, with greater love of man and God. I'm on the rack now; I'm senseless to all but pain, and growing dead to that.
Sooner or later I shall rise out of this stupor. I'm waiting the hour."
"It'll soon come, Jane," replied Lassiter, soberly. "Then I'm afraid for you. Years are terrible things, an' for years you've been bound. Habit of years is strong as life itself. Somehow, though, I believe as you--that you'll come out of it all a finer woman. I'm waitin', too. An' I'm wonderin'--I reckon, Jane, that marriage between us is out of all human reason?"
"Lassiter!...My dear friend!...It's impossible for us to marry!"
"Why--as Fay says?" inquired Lassiter, with gentle persistence.
"Why! I never thought why. But it's not possible. I am Jane, daughter of Withersteen. My father would rise out of his grave.
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. The hosses an' the child are all you have left. Come!"
