“Oh!—I’m a coward—a miserable coward! I can’t fight or think or hope or pray! I’m lost! Oh, Lassiter, look back! Is he coming? I’ll not—hold out—”
“Keep your breath, woman, an’ ride not for yourself or for me, but for Fay!”
A last breaking run across the sage brought Lassiter’s horse to a walk.
“He’s done,” said the rider.
“Oh, no—no!” moaned Jane.
“Look back, Jane, look back. Three—four miles we’ve come across this valley, en’ no Tull yet in sight. Only a few more miles!”
Jane looked back over the long stretch of sage, and found the narrow gap in the wall, out of which came a file of dark horses with a white horse in the lead. Sight of the riders acted upon Jane as a stimulant. The weight of cold, horrible terror lessened. And, gazing forward at the dogs, at Lassiter’s limping horse, at the blood on his face, at the rocks growing nearer, last at Fay’s golden hair, the ice left her veins, and slowly, strangely, she gained hold of strength that she believed would see her to the safety Lassiter promised. And, as she gazed, Lassiter’s horse stumbled and fell.
He swung his leg and slipped from the saddle.
“Jane, take the child,” he said, and lifted Fay up. Jane clasped her arms suddenly strong. “They’re gainin’,” went on Lassiter, as he watched the pursuing riders. “But we’ll beat ’em yet.”
Turning with Jane’s bridle in his hand, he was about to start when he saw the saddle-bag on the fallen horse.