“If he didn’t hear our horses coming down we’re a little bit of all right,” said Jeff, as he rejoined his rescuer on the level. “Even if he does, he may think we’ve gone to hobble ’em—only he’d think we ought to water ’em first. Now for the way of the transgressor, to Old Mexico. This little desert’ll be one busy place to-morrow!”
They circled Double Mountain, making a wide détour to avoid rough going, and riding at a hard gallop until, behind and to their right, a red spark of fire came into view from behind a hitherto intervening shoulder, marking where Stone and Harlow held the southward pass.
Jeff drew rein and bore off obliquely toward the road at an easy trot.
“They’re there yet. So that’s all right!” he said. “They’ve just put on fresh wood. I saw it flame up just then.” He was in high feather. He began to laugh, or, more accurately, he resumed his laughter, for he had been too mirthful for much speech. “That poor devil Griffith will wait and fidget and stew! He’ll think I’m in the tent, reading the newspapers—reading about the Arcadian bank robbery, likely. He’ll wait a while, then he’ll yell at me. Then he’ll think we’ve gone to hobble the horses. He won’t want to leave the gap unguarded. He won’t know what to think. Finally he’ll go up to the mine and see that pack piled off any which way, and no saddles. Then he’ll know, but he won’t know what to do. He’ll think we’re for Old Mexico, but he won’t know it for sure. And it’s too dark to track us. Oh, my stars, but I bet he’ll be mad!”
Which shows that we all make mistakes. Mr. Griffith, though young, was of firm character, as has been lightly intimated. He waited a reasonable time to allow for paper-reading, then he waited a little longer and shouted; but when there was no answer he knew at once precisely what had happened: he had not been a fool at all, whatever Steele and Bransford had assured him, and he was a bigger fool to have allowed himself to be persuaded that he had been. It is true that he didn’t know what was best to do, but he knew exactly what he was going to do—and did it promptly. Seriously annoyed, he spurred through Double Mountain, gathered up Stone and Harlow, and followed the southward road. Bransford had been on the way to Old Mexico—he was on that road still; Griffith put everything on the one bold cast. While the others saddled he threw fresh fuel on the fire, with a rankling memory of the candle in the deserted tent and Hannibal at Saint Jo. For the first time Griffith had the better of the long battle of wits. That armful of fuel slowed Jeff from gallop to trot, turned assured victory into a doubtful contest; when the fugitives regained the El Paso road Griffith’s vindictive little band was not five miles behind them.
The night was lightly clouded—not so dark but that the pursuers noticed—or thought they noticed—the fresh tracks in the road when they came to them. They stopped, struck matches and confirmed their hopes: two shod horses going south at a smart gait; the dirt was torn up too much for travelers on their lawful occasions. From that moment Griffith urged the chase unmercifully; the fleeing couple, in fancied security, lost ground with every mile.
“How on earth did you manage it? Didn’t they know you?” demanded Gibson as the pace slackened.
“It wasn’t me! It was Tobe Long! ‘You may not have lived much under the sea, and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster,’” quoted Jeff. Rocking in the saddle, he gave a mirthful résumé of his little evanishment. “And, oh, just think of that candle burning away in that quiet, empty tent! If I could have seen Griffith’s face!” he gloated. “Oh me! Oh my!... And he was so sure!... Say, Gibson, how do you come in this galley?” As a lone prospector his speech had been fittingly coarse; now, with every mile, he shook off the debasing influence of Mr. Long. “Kettle-washing makes black hands. Aren’t you afraid you’ll get into trouble?”