THE MASKED RIDER
over a slight, dark figure. The rustler wore the black mask that had given him his name, but he had no weapons. Venters glanced at the drooping horse; there were no gun-sheaths on the saddle.
"A rustler who didn't pack guns!" muttered Venters. "He wears no belt. He couldn't pack guns in that rig. . . . Strange!"
A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told Venters the rider still lived.
"He's alive! . . . I've got to stand here and watch him die. And I shot an unarmed man."
Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider's wide sombrero and the black cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun.
"Oh, he's only a boy! . . . What! Can he be Oldring's Masked Rider?"
The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lips moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse.
Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had entered the rider's right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands that shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet blouse.
First he saw a gaping hole, dark red against a whiteness of skin, from which welled a slender red stream. Then, the graceful, beautiful swell of a woman's breast!
"A woman!" he cried. "A girl! . . . I've killed a girl!"
She suddenly opened eyes that transfixed Venters. They were fathomless blue. Consciousness of death was there, a blended terror and pain, but no consciousness of sight. She did not see Venters. She stared into the unknown.
Then came a spasm of vitality. She writhed in a
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