And yet––she waited on his word, somehow––held her hand from her sworn duty for a while, waiting––for what?
Ah, she knew! Deep in the soul of her she knew, vaguely and dimly to be sure, but she knew that it was for the time when the die should be cast––that he might prove himself for what he was.
For some vague reason she knew she would not kill Courtrey until this man stood by.
She wondered what Courtrey meant by this strange quiet following the tragic moment at the Stronghold steps when the Vigilantes had challenged him and ridden away.
And then, all suddenly, into her dreaming there came the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the sounding-board without––slow hoofs, uncertain. For one swift second that sound, coming out of the dusk with its uncertainty, sent a chill of memory down her nerves. So had come El Rey that night in spring when he brought Jim Last home to die!
She rose swiftly and silently and stepped to the western door.
There, in the shadows and the softness of coming night, a horse loomed along the green stretch, came plodding up to stop and stand before her, a 223 brown horse, with the stirrups of his saddle hung on the pommel, his rein tied short up––Captain, the good, common friend of Kenset––of the––foothills!
Tharon felt the blood pour back upon her heart and stay there for an awful moment. She put up a hand and touched her throat, and to save her life she did not know why this sudden sickening fear should come upon her.
She had seen men killed, had known tragedy and loss and heartache, but never before had she seen the crest of the distant Wall to dance upon the pale skyline so. Then she whirled into the house and her young voice pealed out a call––Billy, Conford, Bent––she drew them to her running through the deep house––to point to the silent messenger and question them with wide blue eyes where fear rose up like a living thing.
Billy at her shoulder, looked not at Captain, but at her.