"Why the name?
I understand Oldring made you ride.

But the black mask--the mystery--the things laid to your hands--the threats in your infamous name--the night-riding credited to you--the evil deeds deliberately blamed on you and acknowledged by rustlers--even Oldring himself! Why?
Tell me why ?" "I never knew that," she answered low.

Her drooping head straightened, and the large eyes, larger now and darker, met Venters's with a clear, steadfast gaze in which he read truth.

It verified his own conviction.
"Never knew?
That's strange! Are you a Mormon ?" "No." "Is Oldring a Mormon ?" "No." "Do you--care for him ?" "Yes.

I hate his men--his life--sometimes I almost hate him!" Venters paused in his rapid-fire questioning, as if to brace him self to ask for a truth that would be abhorrent for him to confirm, but which he seemed driven to hear.
"What are--what were you to Oldring ?" Like some delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept the red of shame.
Venters would have given anything to recall that question.