“Blake,” interrupted Jane, nervously anxious to terminate a colloquy that she perceived was an ordeal for him. “Go at once and fetch me a report of my horses.”
“Miss Withersteen!... You mean the big drove—down in the sage-cleared fields?”
“Of course,” replied Jane. “My horses are all there, except the blooded stock I keep here.”
“Haven’t you heard—then?”
“Heard? No! What’s happened to them?”
“They’re gone, Miss Withersteen, gone these ten days past. Dorn told me, and I rode down to see for myself.”
“Lassiter—did you know?” asked Jane, whirling to him.
“I reckon so.... But what was the use to tell you?”
It was Lassiter turning away his face and Blake studying the stone flags at his feet that brought Jane to the understanding of what she betrayed. She strove desperately, but she could not rise immediately from such a blow.
“My horses! My horses! What’s become of them?”