Jane Withersteen watched him, fascinated but uncomprehending and she saw him rapidly saddle Black Star and Night.

Then he drew her into the light of the huge windows, standing over her, gripping her arm with fingers like cold steel.
"Yes, Jane, it's ended--but you're not goin' to Dyer!...

I'm goin' instead!" Looking at him--he was so terrible of aspect--she could not comprehend his words.

Who was this man with the face gray as death, with eyes that would have made her shriek had she the strength, with the strange, ruthlessly bitter lips?
Where was the gentle Lassiter?
What was this presence in the hall, about him, about her--this cold, invisible presence?
"Yes, it's ended, Jane," he was saying, so awfully quiet and cool and implacable, "an' I'm goin' to make a little call.

I'll lock you in here, an' when I get back have the saddle-bags full of meat an bread.