“See! Tull! The riders!”
“Yes—they’ll get us—now.”
“Why? Haven’t you strength left to roll the stone?”
“Jane—it ain’t that—I’ve lost my nerve!”
“You!... Lassiter!”
“I wanted to roll it—meant to—but I—can’t. Venters’s valley is down behind here. We could—live there. But if I roll the stone—we’re shut in for always. I don’t dare. I’m thinkin’ of you!”
“Lassiter! Roll the stone!” she cried.
He arose, tottering, but with set face, and again he placed the bloody hand on the Balancing Rock. Jane Withersteen gazed from him down the passageway. Tull was climbing. Almost, she thought, she saw his dark, relentless face. Behind him more riders climbed. What did they mean for Fay—for Lassiter—for herself?
“Roll the stone!... Lassiter, I love you!”
Under all his deathly pallor, and the blood, and the iron of seared cheek and lined brow, worked a great change. He placed both hands on the rock and then leaned his shoulder there and braced his powerful body.