“No. Knives and six-shooters are enough,” said Brent, as cool as if our ride were an ornamental promenade à cheval. “We cannot carry weight or clumsy weapons on this journey.”
We mounted and were off, with a cheer from Jake Shamberlain and his boys.
All this time, we had not noticed Armstrong. As we struck off southward upon the trackless prairie, that ghastly figure upon the gaunt white horse was beside us.
“We’re bound on the same arrant,” whispered he. “Only the savin’s yourn and the killin’s mine.”
Did my hope awake, now that the lady I had chosen for my sister was snatched from that monstrous ogre of Mormonism?
Yes; for now instant, urgent action was possible. We could do something. Gallop, gallop,—that we could do.
God speed us!—and the caitiffs should only have baffled the ogre, and the lady should be saved.
If not saved, avenged!