She held the reins loose, knowing the danger of attempting to guide him where it was impossible to keep the points of the compass in mind.  The way was smooth and even, although there is always danger in going at such speed in the night.  She deemed the stake warranted it, however, and did not check the rapid pace.

Night on every hand and not a shining star overhead.  If she could find the party of stockmen in time, so as to bring them back to her home, their strength would overawe the rustlers, and the whole difficulty could be arranged without the conflict which she looked upon with unspeakable dread.

“It will save him, too,” she added, hesitating to pronounce the name that was in her heart, which would have throbbed more painfully had she known that in a brief while he would be helpless in the power of the men eager for his life.  “I am glad he did not venture out of the house, when his friend could have done him no good.  What will he think of me on learning what I have done?  He will say that I am rash and foolish, and perhaps I am; will he suspect that it was to save him that I undertook this errand, which, after all, is attended with no risk to me worth mentioning?”

These were pleasant musings, but the task before her was too serious and made too close demands on her mental and physical energies for her to indulge in them.  The delightful reverie could be deferred to a more convenient season.

Jennie Whitney had lived long enough in the West to understand that in times like the present it is safer to depend on the instinct of one’s heart than upon one’s reason.  It seemed now and then that Jack was following the wrong direction, but she was wise in not interfering.

The gloom was so deep that she could see barely a few paces beyond the pointed ears in front, but when the ground showed an abrupt rise she recalled the location and knew he had followed the exact course she desired.

She pulled slightly on the reins and he dropped to a walk.  At the same moment something dark moved aside, the pony diverting his own steps to avoid it.  She experienced a slight shock of fright, but recognized the object as one of the cattle probably belonging to their own herd.  Others showed dimly here and there as the horse carefully picked his way forward.

“Halloo, who’s that?” called a gruff voice from the darkness, the hail proving more startling than the first surprise.

“It is I, Jennie Whitney,” replied the young lady, “and I am searching for help.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!  What’s up, Miss Jennie?”

It was Budd Hankinson who came forward on foot, his figure appearing of gigantic proportions in the gloom.  He was more alarmed than she, as he had warrant for being, knowing, as he did, that some extraordinary cause must have brought the girl to this place alone at that hour of the night.

She quickly told her story, explaining that Fred was held a prisoner by the rustlers, else he would have hastened back to secure the assistance for which she was looking.