When Polkadot had cleared the stone wall with inches to spare, landed lightly and gone on without losing a stride, Pape turned to wave orders for the transplanted cowboy to spread out. Not until another day did he understand the disappearance of his aide—that he lay stunned at the base of the wall where he had been thrown. Instead, he saw Irene Sturgis coming over the top.
A thrill caught him as she closed up with all the recklessness of a cow-girl—a thrill that forced forgiveness for all the heart-wrenching wrongs she had done him. A flashed thought of Jane brought both relief and regret. If only she, too, had leaped to saddle and followed him—had yielded to the impulse of interest regained or never lost! Deeds, not words told the heart. He tried to be glad that she had thought first of herself, yet was sorry that he did not rank before the first in action’s hour.
Polkadot’s pace, however, soon outran vain regrets; caught up with hopes ahead. Through the scattered trees that fringe the park and across the bridle path led the steer. Down the asphalted roadway he pounded with such disregard of entitled traffic that drivers reached for their emergency brakes. A congestion of cars which forced Pape to pull up momentarily gave the runaway a gain upon his owner-pursuer. By the time egress was effected the big red had crossed the Mall and entered the meadow beyond.
As acre after acre of turf unrolled ahead, the too-live-stock loosened to the going. Pape put the pinto to an emulative gallop. Only a glance to one side did he spare when the shrill of a whistle located the fat figure of Pudge O’Shay, both hands and feet animated by a frenzy of outraged authority.
“No Queer Questioner stops for a quail—quit your tooting at us!” Pape shouted as, far from keeping “off the grass,” he urged his mount to deeper digs and an appreciable increase of speed.
At sound of hoof-beats behind, he turned, thinking to reinstruct the puncher. Instead, he saw that Irene, luckier than he in crossing the road and Mall, was closing up. The red roses still clutched in her waving hand bespoke excitement’s forgetfulness.
The steer changed his direction, although not at order of the jumping-jack in police blue. From the traverse road and out over the meadow directly toward the outlaw a second woman rider had dashed. A shout from behind her announced a male escort who followed, but could not detain her. Straight on she came, a slim streak of black and white that blent in the color of courage. And as she came, a single-syllabled cry from before greeted her—a salute from one man’s heart of fear-full gratitude.
“Jane!”
Deeds, then, did speak for his self-selected one! The climacteric impulse of woman to follow her man, to do and dare for him, if need be to die with him had conquered her tutored calm in this emergency. The repose of her face was a mask. Her spirit now dared his own. Why? Why not? Thank God, why not?
The rider behind her was Mills Harford. That Pape had seen at second glance. But any hope of him as an active aide in recapturing the run-amuck was gainsaid by his efforts to get the girl out of the chase. He caught up with her, argued with her, tried himself to turn about her mount by force. Only at threat of her crop did he drop the grasped bridle rein.