Her eyes, bulging from her head, looked to Whitey to be the size of saucers.
Whitey struggled vainly in her clutch.
"They're going to kill my husband!" she gasped.

"Go, go to your father's ranch.

Get the vigilantes.

Bring them here quick, for God's sake! They'll murder him, they'll murder him!" She dragged Whitey from the bed and, half pulling him behind her, groped her way to the side door of the ranch house and into the blackness of the night.

Tied to a bush, by a hackamore, was an iron-gray colt, the fastest on the ranch.