Almost running, he dragged her under
the cottonwoods, across the court, into the huge hall of
Withersteen House, and he shut the door with a force that jarred
the heavy walls. Black Star and Night and Bells, since their
return, had been locked in this hall, and now they stamped on the
stone floor.
Lassiter released Jane and like a dizzy man swayed from her with
a hoarse cry and leaned shaking against a table where he kept his
rider's accoutrements. He began to fumble in his saddlebags. His
action brought a clinking, metallic sound--the rattling of
gun-cartridges. His fingers trembled as he slipped cartridges
into an extra belt. But as he buckled it over the one he
habitually wore his hands became steady. This second belt
contained two guns, smaller than the black ones swinging low, and
he slipped them round so that his coat hid them. Then he fell to
swift action. Jane Withersteen watched him, fascinated but
uncomprehending and she saw him rapidly saddle Black Star and
Night. Then he drew her into the light of the huge windows,
standing over her, gripping her arm with fingers like cold steel.
"Yes, Jane, it's ended--but you're not goin' to Dyer!...I'm goin'
instead!"
Looking at him--he was so terrible of aspect--she could not
comprehend his words. Who was this man with the face gray as
death, with eyes that would have made her shriek had she the
strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips? Where was the
gentle Lassiter? What was this presence in the hall, about him,
about her--this cold, invisible presence?
"Yes, it's ended, Jane," he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool
and implacable, "an' I'm goin' to make a little call.
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