“Read,” she said, briefly, handing the telegram to Link. He scanned it and then looked blankly up at her.
“Link, do you know the roads, the trails—the desert between here and Agua Prieta?” she asked.
“Thet’s sure my old stampin’-ground. An’ I know Sonora, too.”
“We must reach Agua Prieta before sunset—long before, so if Stewart is in some near-by camp we can get to it in—in time.”
“Miss Majesty, it ain’t possible!” he exclaimed. “Stillwell’s crazy to say thet.”
“Link, can an automobile be driven from here into northern Mexico?”
“Sure. But it ’d take time.”
“We must do it in little time,” she went on, in swift eagerness. “Otherwise Stewart may be—probably will be—be shot.”
Link Stevens appeared suddenly to grow lax, shriveled, to lose all his peculiar pert brightness, to weaken and age.
“I’m only a—a cowboy, Miss Majesty.” He almost faltered. It was a singular change in him. “Thet’s an awful ride—down over the border. If by some luck I didn’t smash the car I’d turn your hair gray. You’d never be no good after thet ride!”