“Shore, Tom, in a minute.  I’ve been down the road.  An’ I found hoss tracks an’ steer tracks goin’ across the line.  But I seen no sign of raiders till this mornin’.  Slept at Carter’s last night.  That raid the other day cleaned him out.  He’s shootin’ mad.  Well, this mornin’ I rode plumb into a bunch of Carter’s hosses, runnin’ wild for home.  Some Greasers were tryin’ to head them round an’ chase them back across the line.  I rode in between an’ made matters embarrassin’.  Carter’s hosses got away.  Then me an’ the Greasers had a little game of hide an’ seek in the cactus.  I was on the wrong side, an’ had to break through their line to head toward home.  We run some.  But I had a closer call than I’m stuck on havin’.”

“Laddy, you wouldn’t have any such close calls if you’d ride one of my horses,” expostulated Belding.  “This broncho of yours can run, and Lord knows he’s game.  But you want a big, strong horse, Mexican bred, with cactus in his blood.  Take one of the bunch—­Bull, White Woman, Blanco Jose.”

“I had a big, fast horse a while back, but I lost him,” said Ladd.  “This bronch ain’t so bad.  Shore Bull an’ that white devil with his Greaser name—­they could run down my bronch, kill him in a mile of cactus.  But, somehow, Tom, I can’t make up my mind to take one of them grand white hosses.  Shore I reckon I’m kinda soft.  An’ mebbe I’d better take one before the raiders clean up Forlorn River.”

Belding cursed low and deep in his throat, and the sound resembled muttering thunder.  The shade of anxiety on his face changed to one of dark gloom and passion.  Next to his wife and daughter there was nothing so dear to him as those white horses.  His father and grandfather—­all his progenitors of whom he had trace—­had been lovers of horses.  It was in Belding’s blood.

“Laddy, before it’s too late can’t I get the whites away from the border?”

“Mebbe it ain’t too late; but where can we take them?”

“To San Felipe?”

“No.  We’ve more chance to hold them here.”

“To Casita and the railroad?”

“Afraid to risk gettin’ there.  An’ the town’s full of rebels who need hosses.”

“Then straight north?”

“Shore man, you’re crazy.  Ther’s no water, no grass for a hundred miles.  I’ll tell you, Tom, the safest plan would be to take the white bunch south into Sonora, into some wild mountain valley.  Keep them there till the raiders have traveled on back east.  Pretty soon there won’t be any rich pickin’ left for these Greasers.  An’ then they’ll ride on to new ranges.”

“Laddy, I don’t know the trails into Sonora.  An’ I can’t trust a Mexican or a Papago.  Between you and me, I’m afraid of this Indian who herds for me.”

“I reckon we’d better stick here, Tom....Dick, it’s some good to see you again.  But you seem kinda quiet.  Shore you get quieter all the time.  Did you see any sign of Jim out Sonoyta way?”