ck Star
and Night are good for a hundred miles before sundown, if you have to
push them. You can get to Sterlin' by night if you want. But better make
it along about to-morrow mornin'. When you get through the notch on the
Glaze trail, swing to the right. You'll be able to see both Glaze an'
Stone Bridge. Keep away from them villages. You won't run no risk of
meetin' any of Oldrin's rustlers from Sterlin' on. You'll find water in
them deep hollows north of the Notch. There's an old trail there, not
much used, en' it leads to Sterlin'. That's your trail. An' one thing
more. If Tull pushes you--or keeps on persistent-like, for a few
miles--jest let the blacks out an' lose him an' his riders."

"Lassiter, may we meet again!" said Venters, in a deep voice.

"Son, it ain't likely--it ain't likely. Well, Bess Oldrin'--Masked
Rider--Elizabeth Erne--now you climb on Black Star. I've heard you could
ride. Well, every rider loves a good horse. An', lass, there never was
but one that could beat Black Star."

"Ah, Lassiter, there never was any horse that could beat Black Star,"
said Jane, with the old pride.

"I often wondered--mebbe Venters rode out that race when he brought back
the blacks. Son, was Wrangle the best hoss?"

"No, Lassiter," replied Venters. For this lie he had his reward in
Jane's quick smile.

"Well, well, my hoss-sense ain't always right. An' here I'm talkie' a
lot, wastin' time. It ain't so easy to find an' lose a pretty niece all
in one hour! Elizabeth--good-by!"

"Oh, Uncle Jim!... Good-by!"

"Elizabeth Erne, be happy! Good-by," said Jane.

"Good-by--oh--good-by!" In lithe, supple action Bess swung up to Black
Star's saddle.

"Jane Withersteen!... Good-by!" called Venters hoarsely.

"Bern--Bess--riders of the purple sage--good-by!"

CHAPTER XXII. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE

Black Star and Night, answering to spur, swept swiftly westward along
the white, slow-rising, sage-bordered trail. Venters heard a mournful
howl from Ring, but Whitie was silent. The blacks settled into their
fleet, long-striding gallop. The wind sweetly fanned Venters's hot face.
From the summit of the first low-swelling ridge he looked back. Lassiter
waved his hand; Jane waved her scarf. Venters replied by standing in his
stirrups and holding high his sombrero. Then the dip of the ridge hid
them. From the height of the next he turned once more. Lassiter, Jane,
and the burros had disappeared. They had gone down into the