‘Yes, one of ’em got me. I’ve—been—hit—before—but not so close in—’
Elbert’s hand tightened; his eyes still held to the north star. ‘Can you ride a ways?’
‘Sure. Long as you do—’
‘Don’t forget to give me a warning, if you’re going to—’
‘I’m not going to fall, amigo mio! They’ll never get us now, but our three behind—we’re ridin’ too fast for their ponies!’
Elbert did not look back; nor did he check Mamie’s speed. This was the instant he realized he was in command of affairs, if anybody was. His momentary concern wasn’t with the three bandits, whipping their ponies to hold the pace, but with the one who called him “amigo mio” and bent forward now as if pushing the saddle from him.
The sorrel galloped at Mamie’s side with great easy leaps. To keep going with Bart was Elbert’s game, not with this remnant of Vallejo’s band; to keep going north with Bart at any price; to turn loose the horses faster and faster, their heads to the north—if only Bart could stay in his seat! The river road running north assumed clearer outline—wheel-tracks, a hardening pebbled way. Again from his companion:
‘We’re ridin’ too fast for the others, Mister—’
‘I think we’d better not wait for anybody now, Bart. This is a running match right now, while you’re in the saddle. Who’s got the stuff—that’s what we’re going to find out—Mamie here or your Mallet-head!’
A chuckle in answer. ‘You’re the doctor!’