"Oh, he's wild, but he knows me! Bern, can he
run as fast as ever?"
"Run? Jane, he's done sixty miles since last night at dark, and I
could make him kill Black Star right now in a ten-mile race."
"He never could," protested Jane. "He couldn't even if he was
fresh."
"I reckon mebbe the best hoss'll prove himself yet," said
Lassiter, "an', Jane, if it ever comes to that race I'd like you
to be on Wrangle."
"I'd like that, too," rejoined Venters. "But, Jane, maybe
Lassiter's hint is extreme. Bad as your prospects are, you'll
surely never come to the running point."
"Who knows!" she replied, with mournful smile.
"No, no, Jane, it can't be so bad as all that. Soon as I see Tull
there'll be a change in your fortunes. I'll hurry down to the
village....Now don't worry."
Jane retired to the seclusion of her room. Lassiter's subtle
forecasting of disaster, Venters's forced optimism, neither
remained in mind. Material loss weighed nothing in the balance
with other losses she was sustaining. She wondered dully at her
sitting there, hands folded listlessly, with a kind of numb
deadness to the passing of time and the passing of her riches.
She thought of Venters's friendship. She had not lost that, but
she had lost him. Lassiter's friendship--that was more than
love--it would endure, but soon he, too, would be gone. Little
Fay slept dreamlessly upon the bed, her golden curls streaming
over the pillow.
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