Even as he spoke, the swift-rolling curtain of mist overhead blotted the sun out of the sky.
De Spain sprang from his saddle with a ringing order to McAlpin. “Get up a fresh saddle-horse!”
“A horse!” cried the startled barn boss, whirling on the hostler. “The strongest legs in the stable, and don’t lose a second! Lady Jane; up with her!” he yelled, bellowing his orders into the echoing barn with his hands to his mouth. “Up with her for Mr. de Spain in a second! Marmon! Becker! Lanzon! What in hell are you all 400 doing?” he roared, rushing back with a fusillade of oaths. “Look alive, everybody!”
“Coming!” yelled one voice after another from the depths of the distant stalls.
De Spain ran into the office. Page caught his horse, stripped the rifle from its holster, and hurriedly began uncinching. Hostlers running through the barn called shrilly back and forth, and de Spain springing up the stairs to his room provided what he wanted for his hurried flight. When he dashed down with coats on his arm the hoofs of Lady Jane were clattering down the long gangway. A stable-boy slid from her back on one side as Bull Page threw the saddle across her from the other; hostlers caught at the cinches, while others hurriedly rubbed the legs of the quivering mare. De Spain, his hand on McAlpin’s shoulder, was giving his parting injunctions, and the barn boss, head cocked down, and eyes cast furtively on the scattering snowflakes outside, was listening with an attention that recorded indelibly every uttered syllable.
Once only, he interrupted: “Henry, you’re ridin’ out into this thing alone––don’t do it.”
“I can’t help it,” snapped de Spain impatiently,
“It’s a man killer.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Bob Scott, if he w’s here, ’ud never let you do 401 it. I’ll ride wi’ ye myself, Henry. I worked for your father–––”