BLACK STAR AND NIGHT
pect! I share it with you. I'll think of you—dream of you—pray for you."
"Thank you, Jane," replied Venters, trying to steady his voice. "It does look bright. Oh, if we were only across that wide, open waste of sage!"
"Bern, the trip's as good as made. It 'll be safe—easy. It 'll be a glorious ride," she said, softly.
Venters stared. Had Jane's troubles made her insane? Lassiter, too, acted queerly, all at once beginning to turn his sombrero round with hands that actually shook.
"You are a rider. She is a rider. This will be the ride of your lives," added Jane, in that same soft undertone, almost as if she were musing to herself.
"Jane!" he cried.
"I give you Black Star and Night!"
"Black Star and Night!" he echoed.
"It's done. Lassiter, put our saddle-bags on the burros."
Only when Lassiter moved swiftly to execute her bidding did Venters's clogged brain grasp at literal meanings. He leaped to catch Lassiter's busy hands.
"No, no—What are you doing?" he demanded, in a kind of fury. "I won't take her racers. What do you think I am? It 'd be monstrous. Lassiter! stop it, I say! . . . You've got her to save. You've miles and miles to go. Tull is trailing you. There are rustlers in the Pass. Give me back that saddle-bag!"
"Son—cool down," returned Lassiter, in a voice he might have used to a child. But the grip with which he tore away Venters's grasping hands was that of a giant. "Listen—you fool boy! Jane's sized up the situation. The burros 'll do for us. We'll sneak along an' hide. I'll take your dogs an' your rifle. Why, it's the trick. The blacks are yours, an' sure as I can throw a gun you're goin' to ride safe out of the sage."
"Jane—stop him—please stop him," gasped Venters.
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