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.