“Can’t we catch him?  Won’t he stop?” asked Miss Emory.  “If he gets to the ranch, won’t they look for you?”

“He’s one of my range ponies:  he won’t stop short of the Gila.”

I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowledge of the country against the probabilities of search.  The proportion was small.  Most of my riding experience had been farther north and to the west.  Such obvious hole-ups as the one I had suggested—­the Bat-eye Tunnel—­were of course familiar to our pursuers.  My indecision must have seemed long, for the girl broke in anxiously on my meditations.

“Oughtn’t we to be moving?”

“As well here as anywhere,” I replied.  “We are under good cover; and afoot we could not much better ourselves as against mounted men.  We must hide.”

“But they may find the trampled ground where your horse has been tied.”

“I hope they do.”

“You hope they do!”

“Sure.  They’ll figure that we must sure have moved away.  They’ll never guess we’d hide near at hand.  At least that’s what I hope.”

“How about tracks?”

“Not at night.  By daylight maybe.”

“But then to-morrow morning they can——­”

“To-morrow morning is a long way off.”

“Look!” cried Brower.

The big gates of the ranch had been thrown open.  The glare of a light—­probably a locomotive headlight—­poured out.  Mounted figures galloped forth and swerved to right or left, spreading in a circle about the enclosure.  The horsemen reined to a trot and began methodically to quarter the ground, weaving back and forth.  Four detached themselves and rode off at a swift gallop to the points of the compass.  The mounted men were working fast for fear, I suppose, that we may have possessed horses.  Another contingent, afoot and with lanterns, followed more slowly, going over the ground for indications.  I could not but admire the skill and thoroughness of the plan.

“Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon,” I told my companions.  “If we can slip through the riders, and get in their rear, we may be able to follow the barranca down.  Any of those big rocks will do.  Lay low, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spot without being seen.”

We were not to be kept long in suspense.  Out of all the three hundred and sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selected precisely our direction!  Straight as an arrow he came for us, at full gallop.  I could see the toss of his horse’s mane against the light from the opened door.  There was no time to move.  All we could do was to cower beneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around the shadow as he passed.

But he did not pass.  Down into the shallow barranca he slid with a tinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet of our lurking place.