“I’ll catch you yet!” yelled Pete. “And when I do—”
The threat was left incomplete; but the man ran for his own horse.
If Frances had only thought to drive Molly that way and slip the hobbles of Pete’s nag, much of what afterward occurred in this hollow by the river bank would never have taken place. She and Pratt would have been immediately free.
It was hours afterward–indeed, almost sunset–that old Captain Rugley, sitting on the broad veranda of the Bar-T ranch-house and expecting Frances to appear at any moment, raised his eyes to see, instead, Victorino Reposa slouching up the steps.
“Hello, Vic!” said the Captain. “What do you want?”
“Letter, Capitan,” said the Mexican, impassively, removing his big hat and drawing a soiled envelope from within.
“Seen anything of Miss Frances?” asked the ranchman, reaching lazily for the missive.
“No, Capitan,” responded the boy, and turned away.
The superscription on the envelope puzzled Captain Dan Rugley. “Here, Vic!” he cried after the departing youth. “Where’d you get this? ’Tisn’t a mailed letter.”
“It was give to me on the trail, Capitan,” said Victorino, softly. “As I came back from the horse pasture.”