He was off, following the plain trail of the running horses, Dalhart at his side. They rode hard for a mile. The horses had struck timber, slowed up and scattered.
“I see her!” called out the boy at last. “That’s her zebry horse anyway.”
The white-banded son of Blancocito was not to be mistaken. But the saddle was empty! At the foot of a near-by tree lay the object which they sought.
She was alive, was sitting up, propped against a tree trunk; indeed, was on the point of mounting. So much they saw with sudden joy as they flung down and ran to her.
The man pushed the boy away roughly. Kneeling, Dalhart caught the girl in his arms, uttering impetuous words. What he saw filled Cinquo with shame and horror. This man had touched the divinity of Del Sol! He was holding her in his arms! He was going to kiss her! Sacrilege!
Cinquo saw flame points. He sprang forward, his long revolver in his hand.
“Say, you! You let go of her, mister! Stop now, or I’ll stop you for shore!”
The boy was blubbering in his excitement, but as Dalhart turned he saw that the aim of the weapon was true. Taisie beat at him with her hands, weakly, pushing him away.
“I’ll wring your neck!” began Dalhart, starting toward the boy. Only the girl’s voice saved them one or both.
“No! No!” she called. “He means well! Cinquo, come here!”