Ambrose put Christine on a horse and rode away through the pines; Frankie Slade did likewise with Helen.  Stewart led Madeline’s horse up to her, helped her to mount, and spoke one stern word, “Wait!” Then as fast as one of the women reached the level she was put upon a horse and taken away by a cowboy escort.  Few words were spoken.  Haste seemed to be the great essential.  The horses were urged, and, once in the trail, spurred and led into a swift trot.  One cowboy drove up four pack-horses, and these were hurriedly loaded with the party’s baggage.  Castleton and his companions mounted, and galloped off to catch the others in the lead.  This left Madeline behind with Stewart and Nels and Monty.

“They’re goin’ to switch off at the holler thet heads near the trail a few miles down,” Nels was saying, as he tightened his saddle-girth.  “Thet holler heads into a big canyon.  Once in thet, it’ll be every man fer hisself.  I reckon there won’t be anythin’ wuss than a rough ride.”

Nels smiled reassuringly at Madeline, but he did not speak to her.  Monty took her canteen and filled it at the spring and hung it over the pommel of her saddle.  He put a couple of biscuits in the saddle-bag.

“Don’t fergit to take a drink an’ a bite as you’re ridin’ along,” he said.  “An’ don’t worry, Miss Majesty.  Stewart’ll be with you, an’ me an’ Nels hangin’ on the back-trail.”

His somber and sullen face did not change in its strange intensity, but the look in his eyes Madeline felt she would never forget.  Left alone with these three men, now stripped of all pretense, she realized how fortune had favored her and what peril still hung in the balance.  Stewart swung astride his big black, spurred him, and whistled.  At the whistle Majesty jumped, and with swift canter followed Stewart.  Madeline looked back to see Nels already up and Monty handing him a rifle.  Then the pines hid her view.

Once in the trail, Stewart’s horse broke into a gallop.  Majesty changed his gait and kept at the black’s heels.  Stewart called back a warning.  The low, wide-spreading branches of trees might brush Madeline out of the saddle.  Fast riding through the forest along a crooked, obstructed trail called forth all her alertness.  Likewise the stirring of her blood, always susceptible to the spirit and motion of a ride, let alone one of peril, now began to throb and burn away the worry, the dread, the coldness that had weighted her down.

Before long Stewart wheeled at right angles off the trail and entered a hollow between two low bluffs.  Madeline saw tracks in the open patches of ground.  Here Stewart’s horse took to a brisk walk.  The hollow deepened, narrowed, became rocky, full of logs and brush.  Madeline exerted all her keenness, and needed it, to keep close to Stewart.  She did not think of him, nor her own safety, but of keeping Majesty close in the tracks of the black, of eluding the sharp spikes in the dead brush, of avoiding the treacherous loose stones.