“There’s only one way to go—towards the rustlers’ settlement,” Mrs. Chadron grimly returned.
She was over her hysterical passion now, and 161 steadied down into a state of desperate determination to set out after the thieves and bring Nola back. She did not know how it was to be accomplished, but she felt her strength equal to any demand in the pressure of her despair. She was lifting her foot to the stirrup, thinly dressed as she was, her head bare, the rifle in her hand, when Frances took her by the arm.
“You can’t go alone with Alvino, Mrs. Chadron.”
“I’ve got to go, I tell you—let loose of me!”
She shook off Frances’ restraining hand and turned to her horse again. With her hand on the pommel of the saddle she stopped, and turned to Alvino.
“Go and fetch me Chance’s guns out of the bunkhouse,” she ordered.
Alvino hitched away, swinging his stiff leg, with laborious, slow gait.
“You couldn’t do anything against a crowd of desperate men—they might kill you!” Frances said.
“Let ’em kill me, then!” She lifted her hand, as if taking an oath. “They’ll pay for this trick—every man, woman, and child of them’ll bleed for what they’ve done to me tonight!”
“Let Alvino go to the camp up the river where Mr. Chadron left the men, and tell them; they can do more than you.”