“Muvver—Jane!” she whispered.
“Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her.
“Now, we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grim coolness. “Jane, look down the Pass!”
Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.
“Tull!” she almost screamed.
“I reckon. But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands. They’re ridin’ tired hosses. Venters likely give them a chase. He wouldn’t forget that. An’ we’ve fresh hosses.”
Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.
“Lift little Fay up,” he said.
With shaking arms Jane complied.
“Get back your nerve, woman! This’s life or death now. Mind that. Climb up! Keep your wits. Stick close to me. Watch where your hoss’s goin’ en’ ride!”