"Afraid? A Douglas not as game as a Lorrigan?" He shook her, lifted his eyebrows at her, pursed his lips at her, shook her again and kissed her. "I can't love a girl who's afraid of thunder. Your mother's all right, you know. We saw where that bolt struck--fifty yards, almost, from where she was. She got a shock, that's all. But we'll have a doctor here and make him take the responsibility. And I'll be back in three hours, and you're going to be game--just as game as you've always been." He pulled his hat down over his eyes, buttoned his wet coat to the chin, laid his hand for a minute over the faintly pulsating heart of Mother Douglas, swept Mary Hope up in his arms and kissed her again, pulled open the door and was gone. Through a rain-blurred window Mary Hope saw him run to the stable, lead out Coaley who had taken refuge there, vault into the saddle without troubling about the stirrup, and come thundering back past the house and out of the gate, his head bent to the storm. She looked at the clock. Three hours? He could never do it in three hours! She went back and knelt beside the bed, and prayed as her mother had taught her to pray. And not all of her petition was for her mother. Every lightning flash, every crack, every distant boom of the thunder made her cringe. Lance--Lance was out in the storm, at the mercy of its terrible sword-thrusts that seemed to smite even the innocent. Her mother--even her own mother, who had held unswervingly to her faith--even she had been struck down! A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from rocks. Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblooded attention to certain rough miles in the journey, just how swiftly Coaley could cover ground and live. He knew horses. He knew Coaley, and he knew that never yet had Coaley been pushed to the actual limit of his endurance. But the girl Lance loved--ah, it was a Lorrigan who loved!--was back there alone, and she would be counting the minutes. It might be that he might return to find her weeping over her dead. So Lance counted miles and a horse's strength, and bent to the storm and rode. Ten minutes past the hour, and he was snapping orders to the telegraph operator. The storm, happily, had swept on down the canyon and had given Jumpoff little more than a wetting and a few lightning flashes. "And order out a special engine and coach,--what do I care what it will cost? I'll pay. Wire your Lava chief that the money is here. Send the doctor on ahead of the regular train--can't wait for that."