Scott, chuckling, went back after the horses. Polly, left alone, sat down on a stone and gave a little sigh of contentment.
“To think,” she said, incredulously, “that once I thought I was in love with Joyce Henderson!”
“Polly!” Scott’s voice was sharp. He came around the turn on a trot. “Those cussed horses have cleared out and left us high and dry. I’ve got to go after them.”
“But—I thought horses always went home when they ran off!”
“I think they’ve gone down into the canyon—there may be water down there. Will you sit here while I go after them?”
“I suppose so,” forlornly. “You won’t stay long?”
“Be back in half an hour.” Scott disappeared down the trail. Polly watched him a moment or two and then returned to her resting place. Something of the happiness was gone from her eyes. The accident was ill-timed. It brought a feeling of foreboding most disagreeable in its contrast with her former exaltation. She jumped to her feet determined to do something to take her mind off the ugly thought.
“I’ll climb up and see if that really is a cave up there,” she thought. Fired by this ambition, she started to work her way up the cliff; no easy task and ruinous to riding boots of soft leather. By the time she had discovered this last fact she had covered about one-third of the distance and was crouching beside a protruding rock to get her breath. “It’s rather foolish to tear up a perfectly good pair of riding boots just at the psychological moment when leather is villainously high and I’m on the verge of marrying a poor man. I guess I’ll give up the cave.”
If the view had been remarkable from the trail, it was marvelous from the little eminence which she had reached. She looked and looked, her eyes full of wonder. Away in the distance, a tiny stream fluttered its way over the brown side of the mountain, which the sun seemed to polish until it shone; while on the shadowed side, the pines took on a dark, heavy green, both sombre and beautiful. Below her, on the trail—but what was that? Coming over the top of a hilly rise, a little way below, was a man on a horse—then a second and a third, and finally a line of riders, so long a line that it suggested a regiment!
Polly’s mind worked quickly. There was but one explanation; Angel Gonzales was in the neighborhood, was on his way to rendezvous with Juan Pachuca, and without doubt this was Angel Gonzales, and these were his men. What should she do? They were coming very rapidly, and whatever was done would have to be done instantly. Her first thought was for Scott. He would be taken unaware. If she could only get to him—warn him—so that he could hide in the brush till the men had passed! Breathlessly, she began to climb down the cliff. She was badly frightened, her nerve was shaken and her strength seemed to be leaving her. She found herself slipping and sliding on the rock.