"Great! Great!" floated back the voice of the horse-hunter, who, turning in his saddle, had observed Tad's leaping, flying descent of the mountain.
Tad admitted to himself that this was riding, and he compared it with the day he first rode his own pony up the main street in Chillicothe, Missouri. That ride, at the time, seemed a very exciting one. Since then he had acquired more skill, else he never would have been able to shoot down the rugged mountain at almost express train speed.
They were now out on the desert prairie. Bud was trying to point the leaders in to send them to the southward. Now that Tad was on level ground he was able to put on more speed. Very slowly, indeed, his pony straightening out to its full length, he drew up on the racing herd.
"Guess I'd better not yell any more till I get abreast of them," he decided, which was good judgment, as Bud Stevens said to him afterwards.
"Lay back a little!" shouted Bud when the boy got too close. "They're liable to dodge behind me at any second and break through our line."
Tad slackened his speed, at which the wild band drew away from him almost as if he were standing still. Then, he put spurs to his mount again, and drew up abreast of the trailers.
At the head of the line the horse-hunter was fighting with the leaders, trying to turn them toward the place where the great corral was hidden.
Suddenly that which Bud Stevens had feared occurred. The white stallion's forefeet plowed the earth. Cowboy and pony shot by him, and the wily stallion slipped behind them. Followed by his band, the Angel headed off across the desert in the very direction that the hunters did not want him to go.
"Nail him!" bellowed Bud.
Tad needed no further command. Already his keen eyes had noted the move. Putting spurs to his pony he raced to the white stallion's side, leaving Bud far to their rear.