"Jane Withersteen!...Good-by!" called Venters hoarsely.
"Bern--Bess--riders of the purple sage--good-by!"
CHAPTER XXII. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward
along the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard
a mournful howl from Ring, but Whitie was silent. The blacks
settled into their fleet, long-striding gallop. The wind sweetly
fanned Venters's hot face. From the summit of the first
low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiter waved his hand; Jane
waved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in his stirrups and
holding high his sombrero. Then the dip of the ridge hid them.
From the height of the next he turned once more. Lassiter, Jane,
and the burros had disappeared. They had gone down into the Pass.
Venters felt a sensation of irreparable loss.
"Bern--look!" called Bess, pointing up the long slope.
A small, dark, moving dot split the line where purple sage met
blue sky. That dot was a band of riders.
"Pull the black, Bess."
They slowed from gallop to canter, then to trot. The fresh and
eager horses did not like the check.
"Bern, Black Star has great eyesight."
"I wonder if they're Tull's riders. They might be rustlers. But
it's all the same to us."
The black dot grew to a dark patch moving under low dust clouds.
It grew all the time, though very slowly.
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