"Glendon's broke jail at Tombstone with the rest of the bunch. There's a posse, comin' from Willcox. I was comin' out to let you know; but they can't cross the Creek now. It's runnin' from bank to bank. Peanut just made it by a scratch."
The light from the lamp fell across the cut and bruised face, and Limber's eyes turned to Powell.
"Do you think she done that fallin' in the road?" he asked significantly.
"No," was the positive reply, as Powell studied her face. "It looks like a blow; besides, those are finger marks on her throat. I saw her two hours ago—she was all right then—Juan is away—I left her there alone."
Limber rose from the side of the couch and looked into Powell's eyes. "Nobody would lay a hand on her exceptin' Glendon."
Powell uttered no sound, but his face was pale with emotion as the cowboy went on speaking in low, tense voice.
"They got away at six o'clock, and if Glendon had a good mountain pony and took the old Indian trail, he could've got to the Circle Cross before now. If I knowed he'd hit her, I'd kill him on sight! She's the nerviest woman I have ever seen—and the finest."
Doctor Powell held out his hand and gripped Limber's.
"You've been a loyal friend to her, Limber."
"Thar ain't nothin' I wouldn't do for her," said the cowpuncher, simply. "Thar's lines that is drawed between humans, jest as in animals. Glendon wasn't meant for her, noway."