“My horses!  My horses!  What’s become of them?”

“Dorn said the riders report another drive by Oldring....And I trailed the horses miles down the slope toward Deception Pass.”

“My red herd’s gone!  My horses gone!  The white herd will go next.  I can stand that.  But if I lost Black Star and Night, it would be like parting with my own flesh and blood.  Lassiter—­Blake—­am I in danger of losing my racers?”

“A rustler—­or—­or anybody stealin’ hosses of yours would most of all want the blacks,” said Lassiter.  His evasive reply was affirmative enough.  The other rider nodded gloomy acquiescence.

“Oh!  Oh!” Jane Withersteen choked, with violent utterance.

“Let me take charge of the blacks?” asked Blake.  “One more rider won’t be any great help to Judkins.  But I might hold Black Star and Night, if you put such store on their value.”

“Value!  Blake, I love my racers.  Besides, there’s another reason why I mustn’t lose them.  You go to the stables.  Go with Jerd every day when he runs the horses, and don’t let them out of your sight.  If you would please me—­win my gratitude, guard my black racers.”

When Blake had mounted and ridden out of the court Lassiter regarded Jane with the smile that was becoming rarer as the days sped by.

“’Pears to me, as Blake says, you do put some store on them hosses.  Now I ain’t gainsayin’ that the Arabians are the handsomest hosses I ever seen.  But Bells can beat Night, an’ run neck en’ neck with Black Star.”

“Lassiter, don’t tease me now.  I’m miserable—­sick.  Bells is fast, but he can’t stay with the blacks, and you know it.  Only Wrangle can do that.”

“I’ll bet that big raw-boned brute can more’n show his heels to your black racers.  Jane, out there in the sage, on a long chase, Wrangle could kill your favorites.”

“No, no,” replied Jane, impatiently.  “Lassiter, why do you say that so often?  I know you’ve teased me at times, and I believe it’s only kindness.  You’re always trying to keep my mind off worry.  But you mean more by this repeated mention of my racers?”

“I reckon so.”  Lassiter paused, and for the thousandth time in her presence moved his black sombrero round and round, as if counting the silver pieces on the band.  “Well, Jane, I’ve sort of read a little that’s passin’ in your mind.”

“You think I might fly from my home—­from Cottonwoods—­from the Utah border?”

“I reckon.  An’ if you ever do an’ get away with the blacks I wouldn’t like to see Wrangle left here on the sage.  Wrangle could catch you.  I know Venters had him.  But you can never tell.  Mebbe he hasn’t got him now....Besides—­things are happenin’, an’ somethin’ of the same queer nature might have happened to Venters.”