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.