“I’ll not go!” She said it finally and emphatically.
Macdonald checked his horse; she held back her animal to the slow pace of his. Now he offered his hand, as in farewell.
“You can assure them at the post that we’ll not fire on the soldiers—they can come in peace. Good-bye.”
“I’m not going!” she persisted.
“They’ll not consider you, Frances—they’ll not hold their fire on your account. You’re a rustler now, you’re one of us.”
“You said—there—was—only—one—road,” she told him, her face turned away.
“It’s that way, then, to the left—up that dry bed of Horsethief Cañon.” He spoke with a lift of exultation, of pride, and more than pride. “Ride low—they’re coming!”