Once again she yelled as she came back in her saddle.
And El Rey was closing––closing up the gap between.
Once again Tharon raised her guns to shoot––both, this time, as her daddy had taught her. This was the pinnacle of her life, her skill, her training.
Never again would she live a moment like it. She laughed and crouched for the final act.
But a sudden coldness went over her from head to foot, sent the hot blood shaking down her spine.
What was Courtrey doing?
He rode straight up at last, like an Indian showing, and his bleeding left hand swung at his side. With the other he had swept off his wide 292 hat, so that his handsome iron-grey head was bare to the summer sun. His keen hawk face was lifted. He made a spectacular figure––like a warrior, unarmed, waiting his end with courage.
Unarmed!
That it was which struck Tharon like a hand across her face. The gun he had used with his left hand was his only one! He had carried but one since that night at the Stronghold when she had first marked him.
She should have known! Word of this had been about Corvan and the Valley.