out. Suppose you bane lying I take you an' I bane break every bone in your body, slow, one at a time, like this."
A quirt hung from the horn of the Mexican saddle, its handle of hardwood, seasoned palo verde, stout as steel, covered with woven horsehair. Thora took the whip and broke the grip between her fingers as easily as if it had been a brittle stick of candy. Juanita's face paled.
"I tell you the truth," she faltered. "Mujer a la mujer. Woman to woman, I say I tell you the truth."
"Then we go. You bane hear what she say, to find her before it bane dark?"
"Thora," said Sheridan. "You're tired. Your horse is played out. He couldn't carry you another five miles. You can't ride Juanita's bronco, you're too heavy. You go to the ranch and take Juanita with you, if you want to. I'll give you a note to Quong." He started to scribble as he talked, tearing out a page from his notebook. "He is not to let our men follow us. Jackson and I can handle it."
"No. I bane go along."
"You can't, Thora. We can't spare time to go to the ranch or I'd gladly get fresh horses for Red and myself. You've got to trust to us, Thora, I'm sorry."
He spoke quickly but gently, genuinely sorry for the despairing face.
"You love her. Mister Sheridan. You will ride and fight for her." Thora turned to Jackson. "Red, if you come back without her, do not bane come back to me. And Hollister a . . . !"
