Then followed a piercingly high yell of anguish, quickly breaking.

Again echoes clapped, in grim imitation.

Dull revolver shots--hoarse yells--pound of hoofs--shrill neighs of horses--commingling of echoes--and again silence! Lassiter must be busily engaged, thought Jane, and no chill trembled over her, no blanching tightened her skin.

Yes, the border was a bloody place.
But life had always been bloody.

Men were blood-spillers.