It'll be safe--easy. It'll be
a glorious ride," she said, softly.
Venters stared. Had Jane's troubles made her insane? Lassiter,
too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero
round in hands that actually shook.
"You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of your
lives," added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she
were musing to herself.
"Jane!" he cried.
"I give you Black Star and Night!"
"Black Star and Night!" he echoed.
"It's done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros."
Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did
Venters's clogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to
catch Lassiter's busy hands.
"No, no! What are you doing?" he demanded, in a kind of fury. "I
won't take her racers. What do you think I am? It'd be monstrous.
Lassiter! stop it, I say!...You've got her to save. You've miles
and miles to go. Tull is trailing you. There are rustlers in the
Pass. Give me back that saddle-bag!"
"Son--cool down," returned Lassiter, in a voice he might have
used to a child. But the grip with which he tore away Venters's
grasping hands was that of a giant. "Listen--you fool boyl Jane's
sized up the situation. The burros'll do for us. Well sneak along
an' hide. I'll take your dogs an' your rifle. Why, it's the
trick. The blacks are yours, an' sure as I can throw a gun you're
goin' to ride safe out of the sage.
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