He loped Patches away and made a wide detour of the mesa, making sure that he appeared often on the sky line, so that he would be seen by Ruth. At the end of half an hour he rode back to where the girl was standing, watching him. He dismounted and approached her, standing before her, his expression one of grave worry.
“That outlaw of yours ain’t anywhere in sight, ma’am,” he said. “I reckon he’s stampeded back to the ranchhouse. You sure you ain’t seen him go past here?”
“No,” she said, “unless he went way around, just after it got dark.”
“I reckon that’s what he must have done. Some horses is plumb mean. But you can’t walk, you know,” he added after a silence; “I reckon you’ll have to ride Patches.”
“You would have to walk, then,” she objected. “And that wouldn’t be fair!”
“Walkin’ wouldn’t bother me, ma’am.” He got Patches and led him closer. She looked at the animal, speculatively.
“Don’t you think he could carry both of us?” she asked.
He scrutinized Patches judicially. A light, which she did not see, leaped into his eyes.
“Why, I didn’t think of that. I reckon he could, ma’am. Anyway, we can try it, if you want to.”
He led Patches still closer. Then, with much care, he lifted Ruth and placed her in the saddle, mounting behind her. Patches moved off.