The pursuers had not lost hope. The trail over the plateau was twisted, but almost level. Their horses seemed quite as willing as when they had started from the ranch-house.
They dashed up the little rise beside the noisy rapids and then the prospect opened before them for some two miles. Philo Marsh and his crowd were just ahead. The pursuers could see them quite plainly.
Lance began to yell and beat his pony with his hat. The Mexicans’ yelps were as shrill as a dog’s howl. The boys and Tavia were caught up by the excitement, and they shouted, too, but Dorothy remained silent.
She searched the cavalcade ahead for a glimpse of her aunt’s figure. There was a female in the crowd; but, was it Aunt Winnie?
Surely, that good lady could never have ridden with such abandon—not even if she had been lashed to her saddle! And this person ahead wore garments of much more brilliant color than Aunt Winnie had ever been known to put on.
“That never in the world is Auntie!” cried Dorothy, at last.
Tavia heard her, and flashed her chum a broad smile. Then Tavia urged her horse on, shouting as the boys shouted.
“You knew it all the time, Tavia Travers!” screamed Dorothy, in anger.
She crowded her own pony close to Tavia’s mount and shook that irrepressible young person by the arm. Tavia would pay no attention to her. The end of the race promised to be exciting, and Tavia’s attention would not be coaxed aside.
They were in sight of the head of the gorge. The men in the lead began to yell. Evidently they expected to find some of their own kind here.