The hunters felt only curiosity, for they knew that only one horseman approached. Then a simultaneous cry broke from their lips. For a moment they appeared awe-stricken.
Sitting a noble looking mustang beneath the leafy canopy, with form perfectly outlined against the still glowing sky in the west, was none other than the strange being who had formed the subject of conversation for the past half-hour. Her features were indistinctly visible, but there could be no mistake.
She sat her horse in true savage style: astride, and, with a dress fashioned for that purpose, as was hers, the effect was far from displeasing. Her dress flashed back the firelight in a thousand scintillations, from the beads and silver ornaments that thickly studded its folds. The long black hair, slightly curling at the extremities, floated in wild profusion around her form. A light rifle was carelessly balanced across the deep-seated Mexican saddle. Other weapons gleamed from the belt that encircled her round, compact waist.
“Who and what are you, anyhow?” cried Campbell, breaking the spell with an effort.
The only reply was a low, clear laugh, melodious as the notes of a silver bell. Hawksley had not exaggerated in the least. The most skeptical now acknowledged this, mentally, if not aloud.
“Keep her in sight, Ned,” muttered Fred, as he arose. “If Mott can do it, I’ll answer that question before I’m an hour older!”
At his movement, the strange rider wheeled her mustang and seemed ready for flight, her face turned, glancing back over her shoulder.
“I can drop the piebald without hurting her,” muttered Campbell, half inquiringly.
“No—that would never do. We have no right. Keep her in sight—I think I can overhaul her,” and Hawksley uttered a low whistle, at the same time gliding toward where his saddle and bridle hung.
With another clear laugh, the strange rider turned and, bending low along the spotted mustang’s neck, dashed around the timber. Campbell rushed to the arch, then paused, muttering eagerly: