“JACK! the saddle's slipping!” cried Mescal, clinging closer to him. “What luck!” Hare muttered through clinched teeth, and pulled hard on the bridle. But the mouth of the stallion was iron; regardless of the sawing bit, he galloped on. Hare called steadily: “Whoa there, Silver! Whoa—slow now—whoa—easy!” and finally halted him. Hare swung down, and as he lifted Mescal off, the saddle slipped to the ground.
“Lucky not to get a spill! The girth snapped. It was wet, and dried out.” Hare hurriedly began to repair the break with buckskin thongs that he found in a saddle-bag.
“Listen! Hear the yells! Oh! hurry!” cried Mescal.
“I've never ridden bareback. Suppose you go ahead with Silver, and I'll hide in the cedars till dark, then walk home!”
“No—No. There's time, but hurry.”
“It's got to be strong,” muttered Hare, holding the strap over his knee and pulling the laced knot with all his strength, “for we'll have to ride some. If it comes loose—Good-bye!”
Silvermane's broad chest muscles rippled and he stamped restlessly. The dog whined and looked back. Mescal had the blanket smooth on the gray when Hare threw the saddle over him. The yells had ceased, but clattering hoofs on the stony trail were a greater menace. While Hare's brown hands worked swiftly over buckle and strap Mescal climbed to a seat behind the saddle.
“Get into the saddle,” said Hare, leaping astride and pressing forward over the pommel. “Slip down—there! and hold to me. Go! Silver!”
The rapid pounding of the stallion's hoofs drowned the clatter coming up the trail. A backward glance relieved Hare, for dust-clouds some few hundred yards in the rear showed the position of the pursuing horsemen. He held in Silvermane to a steady gallop. The trail was up-hill, and steep enough to wind even a desert racer, if put to his limit.
“Look back!” cried Mescal. “Can you see them? Is Snap with them?”