Pauline, left alone, fell upon her knees and prayed.
Harry met Haines and two of his posse on the road to the mountains.
They were on their way back to a general rendezvous ordered by the
Sheriff, but Harry continued on his way up the mountain.
Mile after mile the little mustang put behind him while the sun was still high. On the slope of a hill they came to a crossroads, and Harry, riding almost blindly, reined to the right.
The pony swerved wildly to the left.
Instinctively Harry gave the frightened horse its head.
A half mile farther on the animal stopped and sniffed the wind. At the same instant Harry heard a feeble shout from the road. A weirdly garbed little half breed lay on the ground holding the bridle of the horse that had thrown him.
"Ankle gone," he explained. "Riding for help, I help was. You ride now. White girl—they're killing her up there now."
"White girl? Where? Talk fast, man."
"Two miles over the mountain and down to the valley straight ahead.
You go to the bottom of the valley, not to the top—not where the
Indians are. Climb tree; take my rope; it's the only chance now."