“Stop!” cried the girl, loudly. “It’s Mr. Scott!”
The car stopped, the horse was drawn to his haunches, and Scott stared at the couple over his gun.
“Game’s up, Pachuca,” he said, shortly. “You’re my prisoner.”
“Oh!” cried Polly, jumping out of the car and running to Scott. “I knew he hadn’t killed you—but I wouldn’t ask him for fear he’d say he had! I knew——” She clutched his stirrup desperately.
Scott stared. “Well. I’m——!” he said, and reaching down he caught the swaying girl by the arm.
“I’m not going to faint—I never do,” she cried, clinging to his arm. “Don’t let him get away.”
“Keep him covered. He’s not going to get away.” Scott swung himself out of the saddle, wound the bridle reins around the pommel and gave the horse a clap which started him toward home. “Well, old man, I’ll take the gun, I reckon. Thanks. What’s up? Getting up a revolution?”
“He doesn’t have to; it’s already got up,” said Polly, as she climbed into her place again. “I hid in the car and made him come back,” she added. “But I was afraid we were off the road.”
“You were,” said Scott, briefly. “I saw your lights from the hilltop and came over this way. He was putting one over on you all right.” He tossed into the back of the car some of the stuff which was in his way and took the seat beside Pachuca who preserved a sullen silence. “Well, I guess we’ve had enough of this. Home, James!”
There was not much conversation. Pachuca was in a bad humor and confined his attention to the wheel, a precaution which the increasing darkness rendered highly prudent; Scott was intent upon watching the young Mexican, determined to have no tricks played upon him; while Polly, exhausted by the excitement of the past hour, crouched quietly in the crowded tonneau. A long way in the rear the patient pony trotted on his homeward way, wondering, no doubt, why things that moved on wheels could go so much faster than those traveling on plain, old-fashioned legs.