She might have set forth running almost at once, and so escaped. But she could not leave Pratt to the heavy hand of Pete. Nor could she abandon Molly.
Frances, therefore, began encircling the opening where the fire burned; but she kept well out of Pete’s sight.
She heard him utter a bellow which would have done credit to a mad steer. That came when he saw Pratt was about to escape, too.
The young fellow was creeping away, stooping and on tiptoe. Pete uttered a frightful imprecation and sprang after him with his rifle clubbed and raised above his head.
“Stand where you are!” he commanded, “or I’ll bat your foolish head in!”
And he looked enraged enough to do it. Pratt dared not move farther; he crouched in terror, expecting the blow.
He had bravely assailed Pete with his tongue when Frances seemed in danger; but the girl had escaped now and Pratt hoped she was each minute putting rods between this place and herself.
Pete suddenly dropped his rifle and sprang at the young man. Pratt’s throat was in the vicelike grip of Pete on the instant. Both his wrists were seized by the man’s other hand.
Such feeble struggles as Pratt made were abortive. His breath was shut off and he felt his senses leaving him.
But as his eyes rolled up there was a crash in the brush and a pony dashed into the open. It was Molly and her mistress was astride her.