And up on the slope Judkins rode into sight with his
troop of boys. For the present, at least, the white herd would be
looked after.
When Lassiter reached her and laid his hand on Black Star's mane,
Jane could not find speech.
"Killed--my--hoss," he panted.
"Oh! I'm sorry," cried Jane. "Lassiter! I know you can't replace
him, but I'll give you any one of my racers--Bells, or Night,
even Black Star."
"I'll take a fast hoss, Jane, but not one of your favorites," he
replied. "Only--will you let me have Black Star now an' ride him
over there an' head off them fellers who stampeded the herd?"
He pointed to several moving specks of black and puffs of dust in
the purple sage.
"I can head them off with this hoss, an' then--"
"Then, Lassiter?"
"They'll never stampede no more cattle."
"Oh! No! No!...Lassiter, I won't let you go!"
But a flush of fire flamed in her cheeks, and her trembling hands
shook Black Star's bridle, and her eyes fell before Lassiter's.
CHAPTER VII. THE DAUGHTER OF WITHERSTEEN
"Lassiter, will you be my rider?" Jane had asked him.
"I reckon so," he had replied.
Few as the words were, Jane knew how infinitely much they
implied. She wanted him to take charge of her cattle and horse
and ranges, and save them if that were possible. Yet, though she
could not have spoken aloud all she meant, she was perfectly
honest with herself.
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