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Updated: June 27, 2025
Drake, who owned some half-breed Ironwoods, rode the best one down the Wall. Kenset had cautioned him not to talk before he left he feared Drake's propensity for speech. But he was the only man in Lost Valley whom he felt he could approach. With the courier's departure he rode back to the Holding and told Tharon and Conford what he had done.
The Rockface at the west was black with shadow for all its rugged miles, the eastern uplands were bathed and aglow with purplish crimson light. In Corvan lights twinkled all up and down the one main street. Horses were tied at the hitch-racks and among them were the Ironwoods from Courtrey's Stronghold, beautiful big creatures, blood-bay, black-pointed, noticeable in any bunch.
Pale as a new moon Ellen rode in across the rolling stretches on one of the Ironwoods, with Cleve beside her. She was spiritless, silent. Cleve was silent, too, though for a far different reason. There was a frown between his brows, a glitter in his narrowed eyes.
He set the long red horse out there on the green plain before him like a beacon and put the mighty machinery of his massive body into motion. Bolt was a rival worthy of his best Bolt, the king of the Ironwoods, huge, spirited, fast as the wind and wild as fire.
A horseman was coming in from the west, making for the Silver Hollow, but Tharon smiled and her fingers relaxed on the gun. This man rode straight like a lance, she thought and his mount was brown, a good-enough common horse, but no steed of Lost Valley. Captain lacked the fire, the ramping keenness of the Ironwoods, the spirit and dash of the Finger Marks.
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