“Where’s Blake—and—and Jerb?” she asked, haltingly.
“I don’t know where Jerb is. Bolted, most likely,” replied Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door. “But Blake—poor Blake! He’s gone forever!... Be prepared, Jane.”
With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near.
Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white—dead—one hand clutching a gun and the other twisted in his bloody blouse.
“Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers—Blake killed some of them!” said Lassiter.
“Thieves?” whispered Jane.
“I reckon. Hoss-thieves!... Look!” Lassiter waved his hand toward the stalls.
The first stall—Bells’s stall—was empty. All the stalls were empty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone! Black Star was gone!
CHAPTER XVI.
GOLD
As Lassiter had reported to Jane, Venters “went through” safely, and after a toilsome journey reached the peaceful shelter of Surprise Valley. When finally he lay wearily down under the silver spruces, resting from the strain of dragging packs and burros up the slope and through the entrance to Surprise Valley, he had leisure to think, and a great deal of the time went in regretting that he had not been frank with his loyal friend, Jane Withersteen.