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-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.

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?"

The grim rider looked over his shoulder, but said no word. Fay's golden
hai