A boy rode up the street leading two saddled horses. He stopped in front of the Budd house, from which three persons emerged in answer to his shrill whistle. The lookout in the shadow of Schmidt’s blacksmith shop leaned forward to peer into the failing light. First came a huge, shambling man, hairy and bearded, his hands tied together in front of him. At his heels walked a straight lithe figure recognized instantly by the watcher as McClintock. The deputy carried a revolver. A young woman in riding dress brought up the rear.
McClintock handed his revolver to the lady after he had helped her mount. He adjusted the stirrups of all the saddles. To the watcher up the street it seemed that all his movements were hurried and furtive. Plainly the travellers wanted to be gone.
No sooner had they started into the cañon than the lookout was off to make his report. Inside of five minutes a party of four horsemen swung round the bend of the road into the gorge.
Half a mile up the cañon Hugh stopped to free Budd’s hands. This done, he waited a moment to listen. On the night breeze came faintly the ring of a horse’s hoof on granite.
“Our anxious friends aren’t losin’ any time,” he said, grinning.
“You’re damn whistlin’,” agreed Bud. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I done forgot you was here. I meant to say he was doggoned right.”
From the cañon they emerged into a rough country of basaltic rocks twisted and misshapen. Once a rabbit scurried from almost under the feet of Vicky’s horse. The scent of the sage was strong in her nostrils, and the taste of alkali in her throat.
But the girl was happy. This night ride, with her face against the wind and the eternal stars above, made the blood in her body sing. She vibrated with excitement. The rapid motion, the knowledge of the armed pursuit, the touch of peril in the situation, appealed to all the adventure zest in her heart. As they rode knee to knee through the darkness the movements of the horses occasionally pushed her and Hugh into contact. A new delightful thrill flamed through her. Shyly she looked at him and was glad of the night. Her eyes were too bright and her cheeks too hot to be seen even by old dog Tray.
Old dog Tray! She knew the metaphor was inept. Jim Budd, now, was a good old dog Tray, but not this light-stepping young Apollo who somehow contrived to be the partner of all the dramatic moments in her life. She would never forget him as he had faced Sloan and his gang at the mouth of the pit from which he had come with all the anguish of the night written on his face. There had been something indomitable in his gesture, a spark in the sunken eye struck from the soul of a man quite sure of himself. Vicky knew—and knew it with a strange reluctant dread—that her feelings would insist on a retrial of the case of Hugh McClintock at the bar of her judgment. Vaguely she divined that the true romance is not of outward trappings but straight from the heart of life.
The miles of their journey stole the hours. It was far past midnight when Hugh turned to Vicky with a smile not free from anxiety.