And he started for his animal, tethered but a short distance away.
“But the camp”—began the stout youth.
“Must take care of itself. There is no one about to rob us, anyway. Come.”
Gus needed no second urging. Indeed, he would not have remained behind alone under any consideration.
It took some time to put their animals in proper condition for use. By the time they had mounted, the crowd ahead were just disappearing over the brow of a low hill.
Side by side, the two boys urged their animals along at top speed. Oliver had his weapons ready for use, but trusted he would not be called upon to use them.
Crack! The sharp sound of a rifle broke the stillness. They rightfully guessed that the sheriff had fired on the fugitive, but whether he had reached his mark or not they could not tell. They continued to move forward with eyes and ears painfully on the alert.
The top of the hill gained, they could see Mr. Whyland and the others climbing a rocky slope over to the westward. Near the top of the slope, among some scanty brush, the boys could see Colonel Mendix, astride of his horse, urging the animal along with hand and spur.
Oliver could have fired at the man with ease, but the thought of bloodshed held him back. He wished to capture the Spaniard as much as did any of the others, but he would not run the risk of having the rascal’s blood on his conscience.