Then Venters pulled Night out of his running stride.  Those few miles had scarcely warmed the black, but Venters wished to save him.  Bess turned, and, though she was far away, Venters caught the white glint of her waving hand.  He held Night to a trot and rode on, seeing Bess and Black Star, and the sloping upward stretch of sage, and from time to time the receding black riders behind.  Soon they disappeared behind a ridge, and he turned no more.  They would go back to Lassiter’s trail and follow it, and follow in vain.  So Venters rode on, with the wind growing sweeter to taste and smell, and the purple sage richer and the sky bluer in his sight; and the song in his ears ringing.  By and by Bess halted to wait for him, and he knew she had come to the trail.  When he reached her it was to smile at sight of her standing with arms round Black Star’s neck.

“Oh, Bern!  I love him!” she cried.  “He’s beautiful; he knows; and how he can run!  I’ve had fast horses.  But Black Star!...Wrangle never beat him!”

“I’m wondering if I didn’t dream that.  Bess, the blacks are grand.  What it must have cost Jane—­ah!—­well, when we get out of this wild country with Star and Night, back to my old home in Illinois, we’ll buy a beautiful farm with meadows and springs and cool shade.  There we’ll turn the horses free—­free to roam and browse and drink—­never to feel a spur again—­never to be ridden!”

“I would like that,” said Bess.

They rested.  Then, mounting, they rode side by side up the white trail.  The sun rose higher behind them.  Far to the left a low fine of green marked the site of Cottonwoods.  Venters looked once and looked no more.  Bess gazed only straight ahead.  They put the blacks to the long, swinging rider’s canter, and at times pulled them to a trot, and occasionally to a walk.  The hours passed, the miles slipped behind, and the wall of rock loomed in the fore.  The Notch opened wide.  It was a rugged, stony pass, but with level and open trail, and Venters and Bess ran the blacks through it.  An old trail led off to the right, taking the line of the wall, and his Venters knew to be the trail mentioned by Lassiter.

The little hamlet, Glaze, a white and green patch in the vast waste of purple, lay miles down a slope much like the Cottonwoods slope, only this descended to the west.  And miles farther west a faint green spot marked the location of Stone Bridge.  All the rest of that world was seemingly smooth, undulating sage, with no ragged lines of canyons to accentuate its wildness.

“Bess, we’re safe—­we’re free!” said Venters.  “We’re alone on the sage.  We’re half way to Sterling.”

“Ah!  I wonder how it is with Lassiter and Miss Withersteen.”

“Never fear, Bess.  He’ll outwit Tull.  He’ll get away and hide her safely.  He might climb into Surprise Valley, but I don’t think he’ll go so far.”

“Bern, will we ever find any place like our beautiful valley?”