"Well, say a bunch of rurales."
He turned still farther to the north as he spoke and spurred his jaded horse on. Gracia kept her roan beside him, but he took no notice, except as he scanned the line with his bloodshot eyes. He was a hard-looking man now, with a rough stubble of beard on his face and a sullen set to his jaw. As two horsemen rode out from distant Agua Negra he turned and glanced at Gracia.
"Seems like we been on the run ever since we left Fortuna," he said with a rueful smile. "Are you good for just one more?"
"What is it now?" she inquired, pulling herself together with an effort. "Are those two men coming out to meet us? Do you think they'd stop us?"
"That's about our luck," returned Hooker. "But when we dip out of sight in this swale here we'll turn north and hit for the line."
"All right," she agreed. "My horse is tired, but I'll do whatever you say, Bud."
She tried to catch his eyes at this, but he seemed lost in contemplation of the horsemen.
"Them's rurales," he said at last, "and heading straight for us—but we've come too far to get caught now. Come on!" he added bruskly, and went galloping up the swale.
For two miles they rode up the wash, their heads below the level of the plain, but as Bud emerged at the mouth of the gulch and looked warily over the cut bank he suddenly reached for his rifle and measured the distance to the line.
"They was too foxy for me," he muttered, as Gracia looked over at the approaching rurales. "But I can stand 'em off," he added, "so you go ahead."