We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the thumping of our hearts.  I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse.  It was difficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse, and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly forward, peering intently about him.  The figures were in silhouette against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse.  It was the Morgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore.  Just as the realization came to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

It’s always a good idea to take a chance.  I arose into view—­but I kept my gun handy.

“Thank God!” cried Tim, fervently, under his breath.  “I remembered you’d left your horse by this Joshua:  it’s the only landmark in the dark.  Saints!” he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all.  “Where’s your horse?”

“Gone.”

“We can’t all ride this stallion——­”

“Listen,” I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previously given Brower.  He heard me attentively.

“I can beat that,” he cut me off.  He dismounted.  “Get on here, Artie.  Ride down the barranca two hundred yards and you’ll come to an alkali flat.  Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I’m going back and tell ’em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse.”

“They’ll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?”

“I’ve been back once,” he pointed out.  He was helping Brower aboard.

“Where did you get that bag?” he asked.

“Found it by the rock where we were hiding:  it’s mine,” replied Brower.

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey was obstinate.  He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.

“You’re right:  I beg your pardon,” I answered Westmore’s remark to me.  “You don’t look slugged.”

“That’s easy fixed,” said Tim, calmly.  He removed his hat and hit his forehead a very solid blow against a projection of the conglomerate boulder.  The girl screamed slightly.

“Hush!” warned Tim in a fierce whisper.  He raised his hand toward the approaching horsemen, who were now very near.  Without attention to the blood streaming from his brow he bent his head to listen to the faint clinking of steel against rock that marked the stallion’s progress toward the alkali flat.  The searchers were by now dangerously close, and Tim uttered a smothered oath of impatience.  But at last we distinctly heard the faint, soft thud of galloping hoofs.

The searchers heard it, too, and reined up to listen.  Tim thrust into my hand the 30-30 Winchester he was carrying together with a box of cartridges.  Then with a leap like a tiger he gained the rim of the barranca.  Once there, however, his forces seemed to desert him.  He staggered forward calling in a weak voice.  I could hear the volley of rapid questions shot at him by the men who immediately surrounded him; and his replies.  Then somebody fired a revolver thrice in rapid succession and the whole cavalcade swept away with a mighty crackling of brush.  Immediately after Tim rejoined us.  I had not expected this.