Sheridan had been standing like a man turned to stone, only his brain racing madly over problems of rescue. Trailing would be an almost impossible feat. At the foot of the range beyond the tunnel the gramma grass grew in places like a mat. They would be lucky if they guessed whether the gang had ridden east or west. Not towards Pioche, he was sure of that. Nor to Metzal. But to some hideout known to Hollister. And they had a tremendous start. Two hours at the least. It might be six or twelve before they could pick up a trace.
He moved at the touch of sarcasm he fancied in Thora's words and she started at the look on his face. It was set in harsh lines, unmoving, save for the flaring of his nostrils. His eyes were cold as sea-ice behind which burned a flame of purpose and hate.
"As soon as Jackson finds your horse and saddles it," he said, and his voice was deep and low in his throat, "we shall ride fast. Are you going to wear that skirt?"
She stripped it from her with a swift gesture of self-disapproval and stood in overalls, thewed like a giantess, her own face rigid, her own eyes with the same icy quality as his. Jackson came round the house with the horse, a white charger, bony enough, but seeming fairly up to her weight. Sheridan surveyed it critically but said nothing. But he decided there and then that Thora could not be in the chase. They would ride far faster than her mount could go.
