The cowponies, used to the heavy going in the hills, took the slope in short, quick plunges.  Neither of the young men used the spur, for the chase might develop into a long one with stamina the deciding factor.  The mesquite was heavy and the hill steep, but presently they struck a cattle run which led to the divide.

Two of the Apaches stopped at the summit for a shot at their pursuers, but neither of the young men wasted powder in answer.  They knew that close-range work would prove far more deadly and that only a chance hit could serve them now.

From Billie, who had reached the crest first, came a cry of dismay.  His partner, a moment later, knew the reason for it.  One of the Apaches, racing across the valley below, was almost at the heels of the girl.

The cowpunchers flung their ponies down the sharp incline recklessly.  The animals were sure-footed as mountain goats.  Otherwise they could never have reached the valley right side up.  It was a stretch of broken shale with much loose rubble.  The soft sandstone farther along had eroded and there was a great deal of slack debris down which the horses slipped and slid, now on their haunches and again on all fours.

The valley stretched for a mile before them and terminated at a rock wall into which, no doubt, one or more canons cut like sword clefts.  The cowpunchers had picked mounts, but it was plain they could not overhaul the Apaches before the Indians captured the girl.

Billie, even while galloping at full speed, began a long-distance fire upon the enemy.  One of the Mescaleros had caught the bridle of the young woman’s horse and was stopping the animal.  It looked for a moment as if the raiders were going to make a stand, but presently their purpose became clear to those in pursuit.  The one that Billie had picked for a renegade white dropped from the horse upon which he was riding double and swung up behind the captive.  The huddle of men and ponies opened up and was in motion again toward the head of the valley.

But though the transfer had been rapid, it had taken time.  The pursuers, thundering across the valley, had gained fast.  Rifles barked back and forth angrily.

The Indians swerved sharply to the left for the mouth of a canon.  Here they pulled up to check the cowboys, who slid from their saddles to use their ponies for protection.

“That gorge to the right is called Escondido Canon,” explained Prince.  “We combed it for cattle last year.  About three miles up it runs into the one where the ’Paches are!  Don’t remember the name of that one.”

“I’ll give it a new name,” answered the boy.  He raised his rifle, rested it across the back of his pony, and took careful aim.  An Indian plunged from his horse.  “Shoot-a-Buck Canon—­how’ll that do for a name?” inquired Thursday with a grin.

Prince let out a whoop.  “You got him right.  He’ll never smile again.  Shoot-a-Buck Canon goes.”