“Tull!” she almost screamed.

“I reckon.  But, Jane, we’ve still got the game in our hands.  They’re ridin’ tired hosses.  Venters likely give them a chase.  He wouldn’t forget that.  An’ we’ve fresh hosses.”

Hurriedly he strapped on the saddle-bags, gave quick glance to girths and cinches and stirrups, then leaped astride.

“Lift little Fay up,” he said.

With shaking arms Jane complied.

“Get back your nerve, woman!  This’s life or death now.  Mind that.  Climb up!  Keep your wits.  Stick close to me.  Watch where your hoss’s goin’ en’ ride!”

Somehow Jane mounted; somehow found strength to hold the reins, to spur, to cling on, to ride.  A horrible quaking, craven fear possessed her soul.  Lassiter led the swift flight across the wide space, over washes, through sage, into a narrow canyon where the rapid clatter of hoofs rapped sharply from the walls.  The wind roared in her ears; the gleaming cliffs swept by; trail and sage and grass moved under her.  Lassiter’s bandaged, blood-stained face turned to her; he shouted encouragement; he looked back down the Pass; he spurred his horse.  Jane clung on, spurring likewise.  And the horses settled from hard, furious gallop into a long-stridng, driving run.  She had never ridden at anything like that pace; desperately she tried to get the swing of the horse, to be of some help to him in that race, to see the best of the ground and guide him into it.  But she failed of everything except to keep her seat the saddle, and to spur and spur.  At times she closed her eyes unable to bear sight of Fay’s golden curls streaming in the wind.  She could not pray; she could not rail; she no longer cared for herself.  All of life, of good, of use in the world, of hope in heaven entered in Lassiter’s ride with little Fay to safety.  She would have tried to turn the iron-jawed brute she rode, she would have given herself to that relentless, dark-browed Tull.  But she knew Lassiter would turn with her, so she rode on and on.

Whether that run was of moments or hours Jane Withersteen could not tell.  Lassiter’s horse covered her with froth that blew back in white streams.  Both horses ran their limit, were allowed slow down in time to save them, and went on dripping, heaving, staggering.

“Oh, Lassiter, we must run—­we must run!”

He looked back, saying nothing.  The bandage had blown from his head, and blood trickled down his face.  He was bowing under the strain of injuries, of the ride, of his burden.  Yet how cool and gay he looked—­how intrepid!

The horses walked, trotted, galloped, ran, to fall again to walk.  Hours sped or dragged.  Time was an instant—­an eternity.  Jane Withersteen felt hell pursuing her, and dared not look back for fear she would fall from her horse.

“Oh, Lassiter!  Is he coming?”