Later—only a few minutes, it seemed—she heard a man call to Deveny again, telling him that a lone rider was “fannin’ it” up the valley.
“Looks like that guy, Linton,” said the man.
“Two of you drop back and lay for him!” ordered Deveny. “Make it sure!” he added, after a short pause.
Barbara yielded to a quick horror. She fought with Deveny, trying in vain to free her arms—which he held tightly to her sides with his own. She gave it up at last, and lay, looking up into his face, her eyes blazing with impotent rage and repugnance.
“You mean to kill him?” she charged.
“Sure,” he laughed; “there’s no one interfering with what’s going on now.”
Overcome with nausea over the conviction that Deveny’s order meant death to Red Linton, Barbara lay slack in Deveny’s arms for a long time. A premonitory silence had settled over the valley; she heard the dull thud of hoofs behind her, regular and swift, the creaking of the saddle leather as the animal under her loped forward.
There was no other sound. For the men behind her were strangely silent, and even Deveny seemed to be listening.
After what seemed to be a long interval, she heard a shot, and then almost instantly, another. She shuddered, closing her eyes, for she knew they had killed Linton. And she had blamed Linton for guarding her from—from the very thing that had happened to her. And Linton had given his life for her!
How long she had her eyes closed she did not know. The time could not have been more than a few minutes though, for she heard a voice behind her saying to Deveny: