Here they were hidden from the view of the Indians, and Billy broke at once into a run, half carrying the girl with a strong arm about her waist.

“If we can reach the foothills,” he said, “I think we can dodge ’em, an’ by goin’ all night we may reach the river and El Orobo by morning.  It’s a long hike, Barbara, but we gotta make it—­we gotta, for if daylight finds us in the Piman country we won’t never make it.  Anyway,” he concluded optimistically, “it’s all down hill.”

“We’ll make it, Billy,” she replied, “if we can get past the sentry.”

“What sentry?” asked Billy.  “I didn’t see no sentry when I come in.”

“They keep a sentry way down the trail all night,” replied the girl.  “In the daytime he is nearer the village—­on the top of this bluff, for from here he can see the whole valley; but at night they station him farther away in a narrow part of the trail.”

“It’s a mighty good thing you tipped me off,” said Billy; “for I’d a-run right into him.  I thought they was all behind us now.”

After that they went more cautiously, and when they reached the part of the trail where the sentry might be expected to be found, Barbara warned Billy of the fact.  Like two thieves they crept along in the shadow of the canyon wall.  Inwardly Billy cursed the darkness of the night which hid from view everything more than a few paces from them; yet it may have been this very darkness which saved them, since it hid them as effectually from an enemy as it hid the enemy from them.  They had reached the point where Barbara was positive the sentry should be.  The girl was clinging tightly to Billy’s left arm.  He could feel the pressure of her fingers as they sunk into his muscles, sending little tremors and thrills through his giant frame.  Even in the face of death Billy Byrne could sense the ecstasies of personal contact with this girl—­the only woman he ever had loved or ever would.

And then a black shadow loomed before them, and a rifle flashed in their faces without a word or a sign of warning.

CHAPTER XVII

“You are my girl!”

Mr. Anthony Harding was pacing back and forth the length of the veranda of the ranchhouse at El Orobo waiting for some word of hope from those who had ridden out in search of his daughter, Barbara.  Each swirling dust devil that eddied across the dry flat on either side of the river roused hopes within his breast that it might have been spurred into activity by the hoofs of a pony bearing a messenger of good tidings; but always his hopes were dashed, for no horseman emerged from the heat haze of the distance where the little dust devils raced playfully among the cacti and the greasewood.

But at last, in the northwest, a horseman, unheralded by gyrating dust column, came into sight.  Mr. Harding shook his head sorrowfully.  It had not been from this direction that he had expected word of Barbara, yet he kept his eyes fastened upon the rider until the latter reined in at the ranchyard and loped a tired and sweating pony to the foot of the veranda steps.  Then Mr. Harding saw who the newcomer was.