“That’s not true, Sassoon,” said his relentless questioner. Her tone and the expression of her face boded no friendliness for either of the two she had intercepted.
De Spain had recovered his wits. “You’re right,” he interposed without an instant’s hesitation. “It isn’t true. But that’s not his fault; he is under arrest, and is telling you what I told him to tell you. I came in here this morning to take Sassoon to Sleepy Cat. He is a prisoner, wanted for cutting up one of our stage-guards.”
Nan, coldly sceptical, eyed de Spain. “And do you try to tell me”––she pointed to Sassoon’s unbound hands––“that he is riding out of here, a free man, to go to jail?”
“I do tell you exactly that. He is my prisoner–––”
“I don’t believe either of you,” declared Nan 77 scornfully. “You are planning something underhand together.”
De Spain laughed coolly. “We’ve planned that much together, but not, I assure you, with his consent.”
“I don’t believe your stories at all,” she declared firmly.
De Spain flushed. The irritation and the serious danger bore in on him. “If you don’t believe me it’s not my fault,” he retorted. “I’ve told you the truth. Ride on, Sassoon.”
He spoke angrily, but this in no wise daunted Nan. She wheeled her horse directly in front of them. “Don’t you stir, Sassoon,” she commanded, “until I call Uncle Duke.”
De Spain spurred straight at her; their horses collided, and his knee touched hers in the saddle. “I’m going to take this man out of here,” he announced in a tone she never had heard before from a man. “I’ve no time to talk. Go call your uncle if you like. We must pass.”