I dropped flat and dragged the girl down with me.  But there remained that ridiculous, plainly visible rope; and anyway a shout relieved me of any doubt as to whether we had been seen.  Brower came tumbling down on us, and with one accord we three doubled to the right around the walls of the ranch.  A revolver shot sang by us, but we were not immediately pursued.  Our antagonists were too few and too uncertain of our numbers and arms.

It was up to us to utilize the few minutes before the ranch should be aroused.  We doubled back through the willows and across the mesquite flat toward the lone Joshua-tree where I had left my horse.  I held the girl’s hand to help her when she stumbled, while Brower scuttled along with surprising endurance for a dope wreck.  Nobody said anything, but saved their wind.

“Where’s Tim?” I asked at a check when we had to scramble across a barranca.

“He went back into the ranch the way we came,” replied Artie with some bitterness.

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done.  He had not been identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez was safe for twelve hours.

We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty.

“Now,” said I, “here is the plan.  You are to take these papers to Senor Buck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch.  That’s the next ranch on the fork of the road.  Do you remember it?”

“Yes,” said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober and responsible.  “I can get to it.”

“Wake him up.  Show him these papers.  Make him read them.  Tell him that Miss Emory and I are in the Bat-eye Tunnel.  Remember that?”

“The Bat-eye Tunnel,” repeated Artie.

“Why don’t you go?” inquired the girl, anxiously.

“I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is,” I replied.  “If anybody else was to go, it would be you.  But Artie rides light and sure, and he’ll have to ride like hell.  Here, put these papers inside your shirt.  Be off!”

Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro with lanterns.  It would not take these skilled vaqueros long to catch their horses and saddle up.  At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swing open to let loose the wolf pack.

Brower ran to my horse—­a fool proceeding, especially for an experienced horseman—­and jerked loose the tie rope.  Badger is a good reliable cow horse, but he’s not a million years old, and he’s got some natural equine suspicions.  I kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool hard-boiled hat.  At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope, hit a yucca point, whirled and made off.  Artie was game.  He hung on until he was drug into a bunch of chollas, and then he had to let go.  Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting.

“Well, you’ve done it now!” I observed to Brower, who, crying with nervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly considerably stuck up with cholla spines, was crawling to his feet.