"Do you think," asked Sybil, uneasily, "it is one of our people come to look for us?"
"No," returned Orissa, positively. "That man is a fugitive. He has escaped over the rock hills and is trying to find some hiding place."
"Then I wonder he dares come in our direction."
"It is strange," agreed Orissa, with a shudder as she remembered how helpless they were.
Then, with fascinated gaze, the two girls fell silent and watched the approaching fugitive. As he neared that part of the valley where the oil seeped up he proceeded more cautiously, leaping from one point of rock—or hummock—to another. Once, when forced to step on the level ground, the oil tripped him. He slipped and fell, but was instantly up again and bounding on his way. It seemed no easy task to make speed over such a rough and trackless way, yet here it was easier to proceed than back in those almost impassable hills. It was wonderful that he had succeeded in crossing them at all.
"I think," said Orissa, as she sat cold and staring, "it is Ramon Ganza."
"The outlaw? But he wears white flannels."
"Not now. He probably changed them for the night attack; but I can see the rings glitter on his fingers, and—none of the other Mexicans is so big."
Sybil nestled a little closer to her friend.
"Have you a revolver, Ris?"