But Scott had burst out of the room, followed by Hard. Clara, pale and frightened, watched them from the window. Scott’s blood was boiling. At first, stung with a sense of injury at Polly’s treatment of him, he had leaped to the jealous conclusion that she had seen and communicated with Pachuca. Scott was not a model lover. He was not of the type which believes always until convinced by proof. He was a hot-blooded, jealous, none too good tempered man, who lost his head very easily when he believed himself ill-treated. Now that he was beginning to realize that the affair might have a different complexion—that the girl had perhaps been overpowered and carried off—he was furious in another way, this time against Pachuca and against himself.
Mendoza had left his car outside his favorite saloon but the car was gone and so was Mendoza.
“I thought I could trust that old greaser but I guess I was wrong,” groaned Scott. “We’ll get horses from the stable, Hard, and perhaps they’ll know something about it there.”
Investigation revealed the fact that Mendoza had succeeded in getting his car out of town without attracting the attention of anyone but his dish-washing compatriot. When it leaked out that there was a kidnapping involved, the chivalrous instincts of Chula Vista were aroused. Horses were eagerly offered and a posse was to be formed as soon as Sam Penhallow could be located. Unfortunately, the only machine in town, owned by the sheriff, had been loaned that morning to Ed Merriam who had driven it over to the railroad junction. In an incredibly short time, Scott and Hard were clattering down the road which the three Mexicans had taken half an hour before.
“It’s useless, of course,” grunted Scott “They’ll meet the car and shake the horses before we can get to them; but, by God, Hard, I’ll get that boy if I have to comb New Mexico for him.”
Hard was trying to be optimistic, but on a strange horse and with a lame knee, optimism came with difficulty. “I may be wrong, Scott,” he said, between jolts; “but Pachuca doesn’t seem to me to be just that kind of a scamp. He’d elope with your wife in a second if she gave him an opportunity, but I can’t seem to see him carrying off your sweetheart against her will. There is such a thing as type, you know.”
“In Boston, maybe. Out here a man’s decent or he ain’t,” growled the other.
Hard relapsed into reflection. The road they were traveling forked at about a mile out of town. Ahead of them, it continued on the flat; to their left it became narrower and wound toward the foothills, remaining, however, a road possible for a car or a wagon.
“Which?” queried Hard, looking ahead as the fork became visible.
“The left,” replied Scott. “They’ll hit out for the hills. The other road goes along the railroad tracks.”