In riding-skirt and blouse
she seemed to have lost some of her statuesque proportions, and
looked more like a girl rider than the mistress of Withersteen.
She was brightly smiling, and her greeting was warmly cordial.
"Good news," she announced. "I've been to the village. All is
quiet. I expected--I don't know what. But there's no excitement.
And Tull has ridden out on his way to Glaze."
"Tull gone?" inquired Venters, with surprise. He was wondering
what could have taken Tull away. Was it to avoid another meeting
with Lassiter that he went? Could it have any connection with the
probable nearness of Oldring and his gang?
"Gone, yes, thank goodness," replied Jane. "Now I'll have peace
for a while. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You are a
rider, and you must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of mine have
Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in Nevada from
Indians who claimed their horses were bred down from the original
stock left by the Spaniards."
"Well, ma'am, the one you've been ridin' takes my eye," said
Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, and
fine-pointed roan.
"Where are the boys?" she asked, looking about. "Jerd, Paul,
where are you? Here, bring out the horses."
The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the
horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp.
Then they came pounding out of the door, a file of thoroughbreds,
to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails up, manes flying.
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