He hurried to the top of the low hill on his left, and stared in the direction from which the hoofbeats were coming. To the south, perhaps a hundred feet away, was a long ridge. Well to the east of the point where he was making his observations, he could see the head of a horseman bobbing up and down as the animal he rode lifted and dropped in a slow gallop. The rider was heading west, following the other side of the ridge.
A quick survey of the ground showed Frank that the valley which he and Bleeker were following pierced the ridge, and, if they made good time, they could get to that part of the ridge ahead of the rider. Thus, if the rider did not change his course, they might be able to intercept him. Frank bounded down the hillside and started southward at a run.
“Hustle, Bleek,” he called. “There’s a fellow coming on a horse, and if we hurry we can head him off.”
“That’s the stuff!” answered Bleeker, getting into motion. “What sort of a looking fellow is he?”
“I couldn’t see anything but the top of his hat. There’s a ridge in the way, and he’s galloping along on the other side.”
The valley crooked in a half circle around the base of another hill, and Merry and Bleeker raced through it and came to the point where the ridge was broken. The thump of hoofs was growing louder and louder.
“He’s pretty near,” whispered Bleeker.
“He’s right on us,” Merriwell flung back, and jumped out from among the rocks.
He came within one of being trampled by the galloping hoofs, for he leaped almost under the horse’s nose. The animal snorted and reared back, while an exclamation of surprise came from its rider.
As soon as Frank could get his bearings, he gave a yell of surprise himself. The rider, as it proved, was none other than Barzy Blunt!