He was about to dismount and quench his own thirst when a sound of voices and the splash of paddles pulled him up short, froze the blood in his veins. Panic-stricken, he gazed frantically out from the small bower of brush in which he was encased. As the splash of paddles grew nearer, The Pup’s heart kept time with their beat, almost choking him with its fierce throbbing. Men! On his trail! He must move—must force his muscles to act! Yet he sat there, his face a sickly grey, his breath coming in short gasps.
Now the bow of the canoe slid into his line of vision. In another second—a fifth of a second—those in the craft would see him. Who were they? Did they know him? Could they be—
His lips pressed together suddenly, forcing back the cry of fear that strove for utterance. They were! Roy and Teddy Manley! And two others! The men he had robbed! There, before him, looking at him!
With a sob he threw off the coils of terror that held him rooted to the spot and jerked his pony around desperately, sinking spurs deep into the animal’s sides. A single, frantic bound took him through the brush and out of sight of those on the river. Then, trembling violently, he gave the pain-maddened brute his head and clung fiercely to the saddle as the horse bore him swiftly over the uneven ground—back, far back from that dangerous stream.
Gradually his mind resumed more normal action, realizing that, for the present at least, he was safe from pursuit. Teddy and Roy were in a boat. He was on horseback, and miles from them now. Safe—he was safe! The Pup drew a wavering sigh of relief.
Slowly, stolidly, he continued his onward ride, once more parallel with the river, but at some distance from it. He had not gotten his drink after all, and thirst clutched his throat with hot, feverish fingers. Would he dare to return to the stream, to brave his pursuers, to shout—“Come an’ take me! But I’m thirsty, I tell you—thirsty!”
The very thought set him to trembling again. He must not think of such things. Of what use now was the roll of bills in his pocket? The whole sum could not buy him a single drink. He took them out and gazed at the greenbacks dully. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he replaced them and ran his tongue over his parched lips. Part of the money was gone—spent for whiskey that had proved a traitor, that burned him now, as it had soothed before.
He had to go on—always on. Mexico was ahead—Mexico and safety, Mexico and long, cooling drinks in tall glasses. The Pup grinned to himself. Togas, the town of his birth, lay just across the Border. They had thought his name was Marino! Well, that name was as good as any other. If he had given his real name, old Manley would never have hired him, for it was a name that still lingered in the minds of some of the vaqueros of the South. Marino—or, to give him his right name, Jules Kolto—was born a Mexican, although early in life he had recognized the value of concealing the place of his birth from his companions. A Mexican was not respected in his line of business—a business carried on at the muzzle of a revolver or at the point of a knife. For Jules Kolto had been a highwayman.
It was seven years since he had robbed any one. There was a girl in Togas—his sister—who had decided the matter for him. He had supported her and his mother out of the fruits of his profession, and neither of them knew what that profession was until one day his sister met him at the door of their home and led him gently within. His mother lay on a couch, her face waxen. In her hand she grasped a paper—a paper with his picture on it and “Five Hundred Dollars Reward” printed below. He had killed his own mother.
Then his sister made him promise to go straight. He had, too—until now. But the temptation had been too great. Rimor’s, with its whiskey, had been too convenient, and riding cattle was dusty work. So he had fallen into the old ways again, after seven years of peacefulness. And what was more natural than that the whiskey should remind him of those other days when money was to be had for the taking!