“I’m sorry you repeated that,” said Macdonald, touching his hat in what he plainly meant a farewell salute. He turned from her and drew Tom Lassiter aside. In a moment he was riding back again the way that he had come.
Frances looked at the unaccountable proceeding with the eyes of doubt and suspicion. She did not believe any of them, and had no faith in their mysterious trackings and whisperings aside, and mad gallopings off to hidden ends. As for Tom Lassiter and his companions, they ranged themselves preparatory to continuing their journey.
“If you’re goin’ our way, colonel’s daughter,” said Tom, gathering up his bridle-reins, “we’ll be proud to ride along with you.”
Frances was looking at the dust-cloud that rose behind Macdonald. He was no longer in sight.
“Where has he gone?” she inquired, her suspicion growing every moment.
“He’s gone to find that cowman’s child, young lady, and take her home to her mother,” Tom replied, with dignity. He rode on. She followed, presently gaining his side.
“Is there such a man as Mark Thorn?” she asked after a little, looking across at Lassiter with sly innuendo.
“No, there ain’t no man by that name, but there’s a devil in the shape of a human man called that,” he answered.
“Is he—what does he do?” She reined a little 177 nearer to Lassiter, feeling that there was little harm in him apart from the directing hand.
“He hires out to kill off folks that’s in the way of the cattlemen at so much a head, miss; like some hires out to kill off wolves. The Drovers’ Association hires him, and sees that he gits out of jail if anybody ever puts him in, and fixes it up so he walks safe with the blood of no knowin’ how many innocent people on his hands. That’s what Mark Thorn does, ma’am. Chadron brought him in here a couple of weeks ago to do some killin’ off amongst us homesteaders so the rest ’d take a scare and move out. He give that old devil a list of twenty men he wanted shot, and Alan Macdonald’s got that paper. His own name’s at the top of it, too.”