“There are some men on horseback there, aren’t there?” said Polly, straining her eyes.
“On the other side of the arroyo—yes. Hullo, guns! Say, Ed’s in trouble! Shake a leg, Mendoza—we got to look into this. Girlie, you can lie down if they shoot, do you hear?”
“Yes,” breathed Polly, excitedly.
They could see plainly now. They saw two of the mounted men dash off and the other, reeling in his saddle, but holding gamely to his seat, dash after them. Then they saw two men from the automobile spring to support the third who had fallen.
“Gosh, I hope that ain’t Ed!” said Penhallow. “I don’t like the guy much, but Mabel would have my blood if I let him get plugged and me on the spot doing nothing.”
“Not Merriam,” said Mendoza, darkly. “Merriam and Señor Hard carry the man.”
“Hold on!” But Penhallow was too slow. The car was slowing down and Polly was out in the road. Penhallow followed her.
“Is—is he killed?”
Hard looked up from his task of reviving Scott, with the contents of his whiskey flask and saw to his amazement a white-faced Polly Street bending over him.
“Polly!” he gasped. “Then they didn’t get you, after all?”