Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.
“Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?”
“Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name.”
“Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with increasing emotion.
“No.”
“Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named—Jane Withersteen?”
“No.”
Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam—he had caught a fleeting glimpse of it.
“Did you ever hear of a child—a girl—a woman—called Fay Larkin?”
Withers rose slowly with a paling face.