“Have you a rope?” he shouted. “If you have I’ll noose him.”
“No. I haven’t a rope, though Ann is always telling me never to ride without one in this country.”
“I think she’s right—whoever Ann is,” said the young man, with that humorous twist to his features that Ruth so liked. “A rope out here is handier than a little red wagon. Come on, quick! I only creased that stallion. He may not have had the fight all taken out of him—the ferocious beast!”
The black and white horse was already trying to struggle to his feet. Perhaps he was not badly hurt. Ruth controlled her pony, and he was headed down the arroyo.
“Where is your horse, Mr. Royal?” she asked the lame young man.
He started and looked a little oddly at her when she called him that; but he replied:
“My horse is down at the cabin. I was just trying my legs a little. Glory! I almost turned my ankle again that time.”
He was hobbling pretty badly now, for he had been too excited while shooting the mad stallion to be careful of his lame ankle. Ruth was out of the saddle in a moment.
“Get right up here,” she commanded. “We’ll get to your cabin and be safe. I can go back to camp by another way.”
“Not alone,” he declared, firmly, as he scrambled into her place on the pony. “I’ll ride with you. That beast is not done for yet.”