A group of horsemen crossed the dark line of low ground to become more distinct as they climbed the slope.

The silence broke to a clear call from an incoming rider, and, almost like the peal of a hunting-horn, floated back the answer.

The outgoing riders moved swiftly, came sharply into sight as they topped a ridge to show wild and black above the horizon, and then passed down, dimming into the purple of the sage.
"I hope they don't meet Lassiter," said Jane.
"So do I," replied Venters.

"By this time the riders of the night shift know what happened to-day.

But Lassiter will likely keep out of their way." "Bern, who is Lassiter?
He's only a name to me--a terrible name." "Who is he?
I don't know, Jane.