I swore to her--as she lay dying--that if ever any one came here to avenge her--I swore I would stay his hand.

Perhaps I--I alone can save the--the man who--who--Oh, Lassiter!...

I feel that I can't change you--then soon you'll be out to kill--and you'll kill by instinct--and among the Mormons you kill will be the one--who...

Lassiter, if you care a little for me--let me--for my sake--let me take your guns!" As if her hands had been those of a child, he unclasped their clinging grip from the handles of his guns, and, pushing her away, he turned his gray face to her in one look of terrible realization and then strode off into the shadows of the cottonwoods.
When the first shock of her futile appeal to Lassiter had passed, Jane took his cold, silent condemnation and abrupt departure not so much as a refusal to her entreaty as a hurt and stunned bitterness for her attempt at his betrayal.

Upon further thought and slow consideration of Lassiter's past actions, she believed he would return and forgive her.
The man could not be hard to a woman, and she doubted that he could stay away from her.