"Dunno. There's the canal yonder. It's a twenty-foot drop."
The cowboy pointed dead ahead to where a dark, purplish streak cut across the dun expanse of desert.
"We've got to beat him to it!" said Jack, gritting his teeth.
[CHAPTER III.]
A RACE FOR LIFE.
Fast as they raced on, Jack and the cow-puncher seemed to gain on the flying Petticoats with aggravating slowness.
"Consarn that mare, she's plumb locoed, I reckon!" growled Bud, as they rocketed along, flogging their ponies to renewed efforts with their heavy quirts.
"She runs like a quarter horse!" gasped Jack, his mouth full of alkali dust; for he had no neck handkerchief to pull up over his mouth, vaquero style.