3
Joan ran on, stumbling over rocks and brush, with a darkness before her eyes, the terror in her soul. She was out in the cedars when someone grasped her from behind. She felt the hands as the coils of a snake. Then she was ready to faint, but she must not faint. She struggled away, stood free. It was the man Bill who had caught her. He said something that was unintelligible. She reached for the snag of a dead cedar and, leaning there, fought her weakness, that cold black horror which seemed a physical thing in her mind, her blood, her muscles.
When she recovered enough for the thickness to leave her sight she saw Kells coming, leading her horse and his own. At sight of him a strange, swift heat shot through her. Then she was confounded with the thought of Roberts.
“Ro—Roberts?” she faltered.
Kells gave her a piercing glance. “Miss Randle, I had to take the fight out of your friend,” he said.
“You—you—Is he—dead?”
“I just crippled his gun arm. If I hadn't he would have hurt somebody. He'll ride back to Hoadley and tell your folks about it. So they'll know you're safe.”
“Safe!” she whispered.
“That's what I said, Miss Randle. If you're going to ride out into the border—if it's possible to be safe out there you'll be so with me.”
“But I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”