It struck Venters, presently, after he had glanced up from time to time, that Bess was drawing away from him as he had expected.  He had, however, only thought of the light weight Black Star was carrying and of his superior speed; he saw now that the black was being ridden as never before, except when Jerry Card lost the race to Wrangle.  How easily, gracefully, naturally, Bess sat her saddle!  She could ride!  Suddenly Venters remembered she had said she could ride.  But he had not dreamed she was capable of such superb horsemanship.  Then all at once, flashing over him, thrilling him, came the recollection that Bess was Oldring’s Masked Rider.

He forgot Tull—­the running riders—­the race.  He let Night have a free rein and felt him lengthen out to suit himself, knowing he would keep to Black Star’s course, knowing that he had been chosen by the best rider now on the upland sage.  For Jerry Card was dead.  And fame had rivaled him with only one rider, and that was the slender girl who now swung so easily with Black Star’s stride.  Venters had abhorred her notoriety, but now he took passionate pride in her skill, her daring, her power over a horse.  And he delved into his memory, recalling famous rides which he had heard related in the villages and round the camp-fires.  Oldring’s Masked Rider!  Many times this strange rider, at once well known and unknown, had escaped pursuers by matchless riding.  He had to run the gantlet of vigilantes down the main street of Stone Bridge, leaving dead horses and dead rustlers behind.  He had jumped his horse over the Gerber Wash, a deep, wide ravine separating the fields of Glaze from the wild sage.  He had been surrounded north of Sterling; and he had broken through the line.  How often had been told the story of day stampedes, of night raids, of pursuit, and then how the Masked Rider, swift as the wind, was gone in the sage!  A fleet, dark horse—­a slender, dark form—­a black mask—­a driving run down the slope—­a dot on the purple sage—­a shadowy, muffled steed disappearing in the night!

And this Masked Rider of the uplands had been Elizabeth Erne!

The sweet sage wind rushed in Venters’s face and sang a song in his ears.  He heard the dull, rapid beat of Night’s hoofs; he saw Black Star drawing away, farther and farther.  He realized both horses were swinging to the west.  Then gunshots in the rear reminded him of Tull.  Venters looked back.  Far to the side, dropping behind, trooped the riders.  They were shooting.  Venters saw no puffs or dust, heard no whistling bullets.  He was out of range.  When he looked back again Tull’s riders had given up pursuit.  The best they could do, no doubt, had been to get near enough to recognize who really rode the blacks.  Venters saw Tull drooping in his saddle.