“Quiet as a church,” she gloomily reported. “Can’t see a moving thing—not even a cat. But that big car is there again. Wait a minute! There go a bunch of men riding toward the ranch. Say, they’re riding, too! Look at ’em go! What’s up?”
Falcon the Flunky took the glasses.
Sure enough, perhaps a dozen horsemen were galloping swiftly toward the old adobe. They raced up to the corrals, and one of them threw himself from the saddle and ran toward the house.
“Something’s up,” he decided, his hand shaking just a little. “I wouldn’t wonder if—— Here, you take the glasses. This is your war.”
She squirmed to one knee and placed her elbow on the other, steadying the binoculars on the ranch.
“They’re holding a conference,” she detailed. “Now they’re all trooping into the house.”
For five minutes then she was silent, and he sat gazing in admiration at her trim, tense little figure.
“They’re coming out!” finally. Then suddenly she burst forth:
“Tom! Tom! There’s a man climbing the cottonwood! The others are all at the foot of it, looking up. Oh, I believe—I almost know! Tom, there’s something red! It’s tied to the fellow that’s climbing. Now—he’s up! Out on a branch! There! Look! See it? The red blanket again—and—— Oh! Oh! Oh! There goes the podhead on the gray colt. It’s all right! All right! The double signal. Good old Rattle-pod! Look at that gray cold buck! He’s tying himself in a bow knot! The corkscrew! And look at the old kid ride ’im! Hi-yi! Ride ’im, cowboy! Stay with ’im, old kid!” She was on her feet now, jumping up and down, till her companion reached for her, fearing she might tumble off the rock in her excitement. She doubled up with laughter and slapped her chaps; then she glued her eyes to the glasses once more, but could not keep her feet still.
“Ride ’im, Mart!” she screamed piercingly. “Ride ’im, boy! Don’t pull leather! Ride ’im, hermano! Fan ’im, Rattle-pod!”