Just so had those forgotten Allisons drawn down upon their enemies in the Kentucky hills.
Her finger touched the trigger.
And here the hand of destiny reached down—or was it the hand of God?—and ordered the puppets playing out their little tragedy in the heart of Rainbow Cliff.
As Kate Cathrew flung up her gun the furious rage that fired her stiffened body in the saddle, shot her bolt upright, standing in her stirrups.
Perhaps some unaccustomed pressure of her posture angered him—perhaps the excitement of the moment loosed something wild in his hybrid heart—perhaps it was something else.
The bearded man from the Upper Country said afterwards it was.
At any rate, with the woman’s spectacular and dramatic action, Bluefire, the stallion, who hated her but obeyed her, gave one scream and rose with her.
It was a magnificent leap, high spread-eagling, with the flowing silver cloud of his mane tossing in the rosy light.
From the peak of its arc the woman, good rider though she was, but taken by surprise, fell loose from her stirrups, cascading in a flare of booted feet straight down his hips and tail.
At the same moment two shots rang out—her own and Nance’s both gone wild with Bluefire’s interference.