“Lassiter, may we meet again!” said Venters, in a deep voice.
“Son, it ain’t likely—it ain’t likely. Well, Bess Oldrin’—Masked Rider—Elizabeth Erne—now you climb on Black Star. I’ve heard you could ride. Well, every rider loves a good horse. An’, lass, there never was but one that could beat Black Star.”
“Ah, Lassiter, there never was any horse that could beat Black Star,” said Jane, with the old pride.
“I often wondered—mebbe Venters rode out that race when he brought back the blacks. Son, was Wrangle the best hoss?”
“No, Lassiter,” replied Venters. For this lie he had his reward in Jane’s quick smile.
“Well, well, my hoss-sense ain’t always right. An’ here I’m talkin’ a lot, wastin’ time. It ain’t so easy to find an’ lose a pretty niece all in one hour! Elizabeth—good-by!”
“Oh, Uncle Jim!... Good-by!”
“Elizabeth Erne, be happy! Good-by,” said Jane.
“Good-by—oh—good-by!” In lithe, supple action Bess swung up to Black Star’s saddle.
“Jane Withersteen!... Good-by!” called Venters hoarsely.