“I must!” His voice was tense with pain. Outside, he knew, death lurked for him—just when life had grown so precious! But more precious still was this slim, white girl. For her sake he must draw the evil crew away from the casa. She must not know!
“Kick in the door! The patron’s away! The coward’s hiding there with—yah!”
A fleeing figure burst from the shelter of the cottonwoods, Gard’s horse still stood at the rail, the bridle reins on the ground. The drunken horsemen turned their own mounts and blundered confusedly against one another as their quarry, with a defiant shout that left them no doubt as to his identity, threw himself upon his horse and dashed away into the gloom. In an instant they rallied from their confusion, and wheeling, were after him.
Gard made for the great rancho gate. He knew the horse he bestrode; knew that it was not in the mongrel brute’s poor power to carry him far, at any speed; but at least he had a start, and was leading his pursuers away from the Palo Verde.
“Head ’im off there!”
“Shoot him!”
“Damn it! Don’t shoot! Catch the damned sneaking dog an’ we’ll string ’im up!” It was Broome’s voice.
The words were borne to Wing Chang’s horrified ears and he raised his own high, falsetto tones, in a cry of warning to Gard. Helen, hovering beside the door, heard also, and rushed out.
“Chang! Chang!” she called, gathering her skirts as she made for the corrals; “come and help me saddle Dickens!”
She seized him by the arm and literally pushed him before her. “Quick!” she cried. “You catch the horse. I’ll get the saddle.”