"Gone, yes, thank goodness," replied Jane. "Now I'll have peace
for a while. Lassiter, I want you to see my horses. You are a
rider, and you must be a judge of horseflesh. Some of mine have
Arabian blood. My father got his best strain in Nevada from
Indians who claimed their horses were bred down from the original
stock left by the Spaniards."

"Well, ma'am, the one you've been ridin' takes my eye," said
Lassiter, as he walked round the racy, clean-limbed, and
fine-pointed roan.

"Where are the boys?" she asked, looking about. "Jerd, Paul,
where are you? Here, bring out the horses."

The sound of dropping bars inside the barn was the signal for the
horses to jerk their heads in the windows, to snort and stamp.
Then they came pounding out of the door, a file of thoroughbreds,
to plunge about the barnyard, heads and tails up, manes flying.
They halted afar off, squared away to look, came slowly forward
with whinnies for their mistress, and doubtful snorts for the
strangers and their horses.

"Come--come--come," called Jane, holding out her hands. "Why,
Bells-- Wrangle, where are your manners? Come, Black Star--come,
Night. Ah, you beauties! My racers of the sage!"

Only two came up to her; those she called Night and Black Star.
Venters never looked at them without delight. The first was soft
dead black, the other glittering black, and they were perfectly
matched in size, both being high and long-bodied, wide through