A MAN IS HANGED Sanderson and Streak grew dim in the distance until, to the watchers at the ranchhouse, horse and rider merged into a mere blot that crawled up the long slope leading to the mesa.

The watchers saw the blot yet a little longer, as it traveled with swift, regular leaps along the edge of the mesa; then it grew fainter and fainter, and at last they saw it no more.
Dale's men, their backs to Owen and Mary, seemed to have accepted their defeat in a spirit of resignation, for they made no attempt to turn their heads.
Mary, white and shaking, though with a calmness that came from the knowledge that in this crisis she must do what she could, went inside and stood behind Owen, ready to respond to any call he might make upon her.
Owen, his rage somewhat abated, though he still watched Dale and his men with sullen, malevolent eyes, had changed his position.

Mary had brought a chair, and Owen sat on it, the rifle still resting on the window-sill, menacing the men.
The minutes, it seemed to the girl, passed with exceeding slowness.
She watched the hands of a clock on a shelf in the room drag themselves across the face of the dial, and twice she walked in front of the shelf and peered intently at the clock, to be certain it was going.
Williams and the other men had been gone for something more than an hour.

But, as Owen had said, they would travel slowly, having no incentive for haste.

Sanderson, on the other hand, would make Streak run his best--and she knew Streak could run.
So she began to estimate the time that would elapse before Sanderson and Williams returned.