"You didn't overlook any bets—thought of everything, even to saddle-blankets and water-bags already full," contributed Farrar, digging up these supplies from the alfalfa.
Steve cinched the saddles himself, though Farrar was a fair horseman. If it came to a pinch the turning of a saddle might spoil everything, and so far as he could the range-rider was forestalling any accidents that might be due to carelessness.
"How long am I to wait for you?" asked Threewit.
"We'd ought to be back inside of an hour and a half—if luck's with us. But we may be delayed by some one hanging around. Give us two hours or even two and a half—unless hell begins to pop." Steve looked at his watch in the moonlight. "Say till twelve o'clock. Of course, when you go, you'll leave the other horses here on the chance that we come later. You'd better ride that round-bellied bay."
"Am I to follow the star right up the hill?"
"No. Better take the draw. The sentinels will be on the hill. Likely they'll see you and shoot at you. But don't stop, even if they're close. Keep a-going. They can't hit a barn door."
"Neither can I," lamented the director.
"Then you'll all be safe." Yeager turned to Farrar. "Come on, Frank."
The two crossed the pasture to the river and waded through the shallow stream to the other side. They remained in the shadows of the bank, following the bend of the river as it circled the village. Through the cottonwoods they crept toward the rear of the two-story house where Pasquale lived and Ruth was held prisoner.
From a sandy spot at the foot of a cotton wood tree Yeager dug a rope ladder.