When he recovered his senses the shouts and outcries above him had ceased.  He knew he was safe.  The ledge could only be reached by a circuitous route three miles away.  He knew, too, that if he could only reach a point of outcrop a hundred yards away he could easily descend to the stage road, down the gentle slope of the mountain hidden in a growth of hazel-brush.  He bound up his wounded leg, and dragged himself on his hands and knees laboriously to the outcrop.  He did not look up; since his pick had crashed into Marshall’s brain he had but one blind thought before him—­to escape at once!  That his revenge and compensation would come later he never doubted.  He limped and crept, rolled and fell, from bush to bush through the sloping thickets, until he saw the red road a few feet below him.

If he only had a horse he could put miles between him and any present pursuit!  Why should he not have one?  The road was frequented by solitary horsemen—­miners and Mexicans.  He had his revolver with him; what mattered the life of another man if he escaped from the consequences of the one he had just taken?  He heard the clatter of hoofs; two priests on mules rode slowly by; he ground his teeth with disappointment.  But they had scarcely passed before another and more rapid clatter came from their rear.  It was a lad on horseback.  He started.  It was his own son!

He remembered in a flash how the boy had said he was coming to meet the padre at the station on that day.  His first impulse was to hide himself, his wound, and his defeat from the lad, but the blind idea of escape was still paramount.  He leaned over the bank and called to him.  The astonished lad cantered eagerly to his side.

“Give me your horse, Eddy,” said the father; “I’m in bad luck, and must get.”

The boy glanced at his father’s face, at his tattered garments and bandaged leg, and read the whole story.  It was a familiar page to him.  He paled first and then flushed, and then, with an odd glitter in his eyes, said, “Take me with you, father.  Do!  You always did before.  I’ll bring you luck.”

Desperation is superstitious.  Why not take him?  They had been lucky before, and the two together might confound any description of their identity to the pursuers.  “Help me up, Eddy, and then get up before me.”

“Behind, you mean,” said the boy, with a laugh, as he helped his father into the saddle.

“No,” said Steptoe harshly.  “Before me,—­do you hear?  And if anything happens behind you, don’t look!  If I drop off, don’t stop!  Don’t get down, but go on and leave me.  Do you understand?” he repeated almost savagely.

“Yes,” said the boy tremulously.

“All right,” said the father, with a softer voice, as he passed his one arm round the boy’s body and lifted the reins.  “Hold tight when we come to the cross-roads, for we’ll take the first turn, for old luck’s sake, to the Mission.”