“Yes—if I had—but I haven’t. Get out now, Bob; you mustn’t be caught with me.”
“Jack,” Somers almost screamed, “the roan isn’t a hundred yards away—up that ravine—saddled and bridled, and fresh as a rose!”
He had seized Haines by the collar, and was tugging to help him to his feet.
“Hurry, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, as Haines raced madly toward the ravine, and the echoes of galloping hoofs rang sharply up the pass.
Slowly he staggered downward to the trail as Fielding, grim, grimy and perspiring, dashed up at the head of a dozen cowboys.
“Glad to see you again, old boy,” shouted Fielding, as he sprang from the saddle. “You’re in time; we’ve got him treed. Which way did he go?”
“Who?” asked Somers drowsily, rubbing his eyes.
“Who? Why, th’ fellow that rode that mustang! Didn’t you see⸺”
He stopped short, stared, wide-eyed, up the pass, and ripped out an oath. On a distant ledge, where the trail wound around the face of a cliff, a tall man on a galloping roan was jauntily waving a sombrero toward them.
“Sonora Jack—and my roan!” roared Fielding.