“I knew it,” the girl said triumphantly. “I knew the horseback people would take to the trail as soon as they could, and the automobile can’t, of course. I’ve scored one point——”
The car stopped. Polly’s breathing apparatus stopped simultaneously. What was it? Had he seen her? Or was he about to pull the loot to pieces and discover her? She listened with her whole body, but heard nothing from the driver. Instead, came the detonation of the dynamited tracks. The ground beneath the car trembled. Then she heard the man laugh as he started the car again.
“They’ve blown up something! That sounds like Don Juan’s voice, too. If I could only see!”
The car soon moved at its former speed. On and on it went. Sometimes the road would be smooth, the driver having found wagon ruts and stayed in them. Again, it would be full of bumps and jars. It was very uncomfortable, her position being wretchedly cramped. Once she was startled to hear the driver break into song. It sounded like a Spanish love song and his voice was a lyric tenor and very musical. It was Pachuca! She determined to know what was going on.
Pushing aside a corner of the blanket she saw that it was beginning to grow dusky. Cautiously she raised herself until she could see. Pachuca was bent over the wheel. Looking back she saw the road empty of riders.
She looked ahead again. They were in the foothills already. Polly drew a long breath, then leaning over the back of the seat said desperately:
“Señor Pachuca, would you mind turning round a moment?”
If she had exploded the revolver in his ear, Pachuca could not have given a greater start.
“Madre di Dios!” he gasped, as the machine swerved.
“Please, do mind the wheel—that was an awful curve!”