She saw him shake his tall form erect, look at her strangely and steadfastly, and then, noiselessly, stealthily slip away amid the rocks and trees. Ring and Whitie, not being bidden to follow, remained with Jane. She felt extreme weariness, yet somehow it did not seem to be of her body. And she sat down in the shade and tried to think. She saw a creeping lizard, cactus flowers, the drooping burros, the resting dogs, an eagle high over a yellow crag. Once the meanest flower, a color, the flight of the bee, or any living thing had given her deepest joy. Lassiter had gone off, yielding to his incurable blood lust, probably to his own death; and she was sorry, but there was no feeling in her sorrow.
Suddenly from the mouth of the canyon just beyond her rang out a clear, sharp report of a rifle. Echoes clapped. Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking. Again echoes clapped, in grim imitation. Dull revolver shots – hoarse yells – pound of hoofs – shrill neighs of horses – commingling of echoes – and again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin. Yes, the border was a bloody place. But life had always been bloody. Men were blood-spillers. Phases of the history of the world flashed through her mind – Greek and Roman wars, dark, mediaeval times, the crimes in the name of religion. On sea, on land, everywhere – shooting, stabbing, cursing, clashing, fighting men! Greed, power, oppression, fanaticism, love, hate, revenge, justice, freedom – for these, men killed one another.
She lay there under the cedars, gazing up through the delicate lacelike foliage at the blue sky, and she thought and wondered and did not care.
More rattling shots disturbed the noonday quiet. She heard a sliding of weathered rock, a hoarse shout of warning, a yell of alarm, again the clear, sharp crack of the rifle, and another cry that was a cry of death. Then rifle reports pierced a dull volley of revolver shots. Bullets whizzed over Jane’s hiding-place; one struck a stone and whined away in the air. After that, for a time, succeeded desultory shots; and then they ceased under long, thundering fire from heavier guns.
Sooner or later, then, Jane heard the cracking of horses’ hoofs on the stones, and the sound came nearer and nearer. Silence intervened until Lassiter’s soft, jingling step assured her of his approach. When he appeared he was covered with blood.
“All right, Jane,” he said. “I come back. An’ don’t worry.”
With water from a canteen he washed the blood from his face and hands.
“Jane, hurry now. Tear my scarf in two, an’ tie up these places. That hole through my hand is some inconvenient, worse ’n this at over my ear. There – you’re doin’ fine! Not a bit nervous – no tremblin’. I reckon I ain’t done your courage justice. I’m glad you’re brave jest now – you’ll need to be. Well, I was hid pretty good, enough to keep them from shootin’ me deep, but they was slingin’ lead close all the time. I used up all the rifle shells, an’ then I went after them. Mebbe you heard. It was then I got hit. Had to use up every shell in my own gun, an’ they did, too, as I seen. Rustlers an’ Mormons, Jane! An’ now I’m packin’ five bullet holes in my carcass, an’ guns without shells. Hurry, now.”
He unstrapped the saddle-bags from the burros, slipped the saddles and let them lie, turned the burros loose, and, calling the dogs, led the way through stones and cedars to an open where two horses stood.
“Jane, are you strong?” he asked.
“I think so. I’m not tired,” Jane replied.
“I don’t mean that way. Can you bear up?”
“I think I can bear anything.”
“I reckon you look a little cold an’ thick. So I’m preparin’ you.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t tell you why I jest had to go after them fellers. I couldn’t tell you. I believe you’d have died. But I can tell you now – if you’ll bear up under a shock?”
“Go on, my friend.”
“I’ve got little Fay! Alive – bad hurt – but she’ll live!”
Jane Withersteen’s dead-locked feeling, rent by Lassiter’s deep, quivering voice, leaped into an agony of sensitive life.
“Here,” he added, and showed her where little Fay lay on the grass.
Unable to speak, unable to stand, Jane dropped on her knees. By that long, beautiful golden hair Jane recognized the beloved Fay. But Fay’s loveliness was gone. Her face was drawn and looked old with grief. But she was not dead – her heart beat – and Jane Withersteen gathered strength and lived again.
“You see I jest had to go after Fay,” Lassiter was saying, as he knelt to bathe her little pale face. “But I reckon I don’t want no more choices like the one I had to make. There was a crippled feller in that bunch, Jane. Mebbe Venters crippled him. Anyway, that’s why they were holding up here. I seen little Fay first thing, an’ was hard put to it to figure out a way to get her. An’ I wanted hosses, too. I had to take chances. So I crawled close to their camp. One feller jumped a hoss with little Fay, an’ when I shot him, of course she dropped. She’s stunned an’ bruised – she fell right on her head. Jane, she’s comin’ to! She ain’t bad hurt!”
Fay’s long lashes fluttered; her eyes opened. At first they seemed glazed over. They looked dazed by pain. Then they quickened, darkened, to shine with intelligence – bewilderment – memory – and sudden wonderful joy.
“Muvver – Jane!” she whispered.
“Oh, little Fay, little Fay!” cried Jane, lifting, clasping the child to her.
“Now, we’ve got to rustle!” said Lassiter, in grim coolness. “Jane, look down the Pass!”
Across the mounds of rock and sage Jane caught sight of a band of riders filing out of the narrow neck of the Pass; and in the lead was a white horse, which, even at a distance of a mile or more, she knew.
“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’ an’ 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-striding, 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.