SHADOWS ON THE SAGE-SLOPE
Up the stone-flag drive, nicked with the marks made by the iron-shod hoofs of her racers, Lassiter led her, his grasp ever growing firmer.
"Where's Blake—and—and Jerd?" she asked, haltingly.
"I don't know where Jerd is. Bolted, most likely," replied Lassiter, as he took her through the stone door. "But Blake—poor Blake! He's gone forever! . . . Be prepared, Jane."
With a cold prickling of her skin, with a queer thrumming in her ears, with fixed and staring eyes, Jane saw a gun lying at her feet with chamber swung and empty, and discharged shells scattered near.
Outstretched upon the stable floor lay Blake, ghastly white—dead—one hand clutching a gun, and the other twisted in his bloody blouse.
"Whoever the thieves were, whether your people or rustlers—Blake killed some of them!" said Lassiter.
"Thieves?" whispered Jane.
"I reckon. Hoss-thieves! . . . Look!" Lassiter waved his hand toward the stalls.
The first stall—Bells's stall—was empty. All the stalls were empty. No racer whinnied and stamped greeting to her. Night was gone! Black Star was gone!
