“To ride my mare? No; what do you mean?”
Before he could answer Wilder sprang forward demanding, “Is she gone?” and Conrad started for the door.
“A man has just ridden her away on the run,” the Mexican said excitedly, and every one in the room rushed for the street.
“She’s gone!” shouted Conrad.
“Did you see him? What was he like?” demanded the Sheriff.
“A pock-marked greaser with a bad eye?” yelled Wilder, towering threateningly above the bearer of the news.
Gonzalez threw back his head, folded his arms across his breast, and answered deliberately, “He was a Mexican, señor, he was pock-marked, and he was blind in one eye.”
“Melgares! He’s done it at last! Hooray!” shouted Wilder.
Far down the street, beyond the last cottonwood, against the gray, sun-flooded road, they could see a dark object, distorted by the heat haze, but still showing the form of a man on a galloping horse.
Tillinghurst’s smile became an eager grin as he started up the street on a run. “Everybody come that wants to,” he called over his shoulder. Wilder and Conrad were already half a block ahead of him, and several others quickly followed.