CHAPTER XII
The all-night ride of the Killer's three captors in from the remote foothills by the Spout to Two Moons had been a grinding ordeal for the girl at least. She had not tasted food since the morning before; many miles on the back of the scrubby Christian had taken their toll of her strength. It was Zang who had insisted they dismount a few miles outside of town when the dawn was first beginning to spread her jewels in the east so that the girl might snatch a few hours of sleep. This she did, her head pillowed on her saddle; nor had she thought to inquire of Zang's wound, which now consumed his whole arm with a slow and torturing fire. The Killer, grumbling against his bonds, had fallen into noisy slumber under Whistler's watchful eye.
The sun was an hour high when Zang roused the sleepers and directed the saddling of the
