Nance rose to her feet.
A pink flush came slowly up along her throat to dye her cheeks and chin. The slow heave inside her which she knew for the dangerous “stirrings” seemed to slow the beating of her heart to a ponderous stroke.
“Then you’ll have to take me,” she said curtly, “for I’ll not ride a step with any one from Sky Line.”
She swung into her saddle and struck her heels to Buckskin’s sides in a forlorn hope of escape—little Buckskin, stocky, slow and faithful.
Provine laughed again and dashed forward with a leap of his grey Silvertip that put him alongside in a second.
“Ain’t no use, purty,” he said and caught her rein.
He turned the little horse up the slope, Caldwell fell in close behind and in a matter of two minutes Nance Allison was a prisoner headed for Sky Line Ranch.
The pink flush was gone entirely from her face, leaving it pale as wax. Her lips were faintly ashen.
“You needn’t be so scared,” said the irrepressible Provine, “we won’t hurt you.”
The girl turned her eyes upon him and they were black with the dilation of the pupils which always accompanied extreme emotion in her.