Hope is contagious; even Joe Norman was touched by it as he hurried out to the stable. He gave the word from Mary Valentine, and it was obeyed with some hesitation, for no one on the ranch had ever heard of another person than Morgan Valentine himself riding the gray stallion. But they were accustomed to taking the word of Mary as a law second only to that of the master of the house. Or even before it, on occasion.
He was a fine fellow of fifteen three, muscled beautifully for speed, with long antelope legs.
“And enough bone in 'em to write poems about,” as Joe Norman himself had said.
The saddle of Mary Valentine was cinched on the long back of the stallion, and then she came herself, running as freely and swiftly as a man in her boy's clothing. One word to Joe, one wave to the stableman, and they were into the saddles side by side and off at a rattling gallop.
The difference between the two mounts was at once apparent. Joe Norman rode a fine horse that would have rejoiced the heart of the most particular cattleman, a sturdy, stout-hearted, durable-legged animal with speed enough for any. But in the very beginning the cow horse was straining his utmost to keep up, and Gray Tom was running well within his strength, with a wide-stretching gallop. He carried his head high and free, while Norman's horse was stretched out straight as a string.
“You'll kill your hoss before you're halfway there!” shouted Joe. “Rein in, Mary. You'll kill Gray Tom!”
“Let him die,” she answered through her teeth.
“Morgan Valentine'll never forgive you.”
“I'll live without his forgiveness. Faster, Joe.”
“My hoss won't stand it. He's busting himself wide open now.”
She looked across at the laboring animal and at once saw the truth. If she were to keep with her guide, she would have to alter her speed, and reluctantly, with a sob breaking in her throat, she drew the rein of Gray Tom.
Even then they were cutting across the hills at a dizzy rate—and Windville so many and many a mile across the broken mountains!
They were striking straight for the tallest and blackest of the peaks now, and presently they dipped down a sheer bank and into the dry bed where a great river had once run. The shod hoofs of the horses beat up a terrific rattling, and the echo from the stones knocked against the banks and came back at them, before and behind.
It was hard going, too, with the danger always before them that one of the horses might pick up a sharp rock at any time and be rendered helpless, useless for that night's work. But Mary Valentine was setting the pace, and Joe reluctantly spurred up beside her.
It was dangerous going, but the river bed gave them a perfect grade by which they ate into the heart of the high country. And Mary cried out in her disappointment when the gravel road terminated in an abrupt mound, where a landslide had buried the old bed.
There was nothing for it but to hit up the slope which lay straight head of them; as they struck the softer soil above the bank, Mary reined in her horse and raised her hand.
“Do you hear, Joe?” she whispered.
“Out of the river bed behind us.”
He bent his ear and now, indistinctly, he made out the far-off clattering of a horse that galloped across the pebbles.
“It's Morgan Valentine,” he said gloomily. “They've told him about you taking Gray Tom, and he's following you. Mary, be reasonable. Give up and go back!”
“I'll die first,” sobbed the girl. “Come on, Joe. Hurry!”
And she sent Gray Tom scurrying up the slope.
Joe Norman followed reluctantly, shaking his head. But in this uphill going the shorter-legged mustang did far better, by comparison, than he had done in the level. He was made for the sweat and grind of climbing, jumping, side-stepping rocks, vaulting over fallen trees. And obstacles that maddened the high-spirited Gray Tom were taken in the most casual manner by the cow pony.
It was only a brief climb to the first ridge, but when they came out on it, Joe Norman stretched out his hand and caught the reins in the hand of Mary.
The girl obeyed, and her heart sank.
Ridge after ridge lay before them, sharp-crested, with the rocks on the summits glittering in the moonlight and the forest everywhere black, somber. It was such a sight as everywhere sends the thoughts of men to the shelter of a home. And as she looked on it, despair fell on Mary Valentine.
“And that's not all,” said Joe Norman. “They's a lot more of it than you can see from here. We're just on the edge of it. Them ranges are like rows of teeth. And the sides of some of 'em are as slippery as teeth. Mary, give it up. They ain't any use. You'll kill Gray Tom, and you'll kill my hoss. I don't care about that if we could gain anything in the long run. But we can't. We're beat before we start. We was beat before we left the house, and I knew it, but I thought I'd come out with you and let you take the first run, so's the night wind would calm you up some, and you could see it was impossible.”
“Then you lied, Joe. You said it could be done by day.”
“I dunno. Maybe it could be done by day. But by night it's pure suicide. Will you believe me, Mary? There's slides that take your breath even when you got the sun to help you. But the moon ain't any good for ticklish work. It just shows you a pile of things that really ain't there. And the real dangers it covers up. Will you believe me, Mary, and turn back?”
“Go back yourself, Joe. I'll go on. I've got to go on. But you go back, and I'll find a way.”
She touched Gray Tom with her spurs as she spoke, and the big stallion sprang out to the full length of his stride. He landed far down the slope, crashed upon some loose rock, staggered, and then plunged out of sight in the thicket with the noise of a living landslide.
Joe Norman screamed: “Mary! You're gone mad! Mary!”
Only the noise of her wild descent roared back at him. He spurred his own mustang with a shout of horror and galloped after her. But more carefully, letting the half-wild horse have his head partly to himself, for he knew that the instinct of the brute was all that could save them from being dashed to pieces a thousand times in such a place; no cunning of hand or sharpness of eye could warn the rider in time.
It was a nightmare to Joe Norman. Somehow, they came out on the clearing at the bottom of the slope, and stretching across the open ground, he saw Gray Tom flash in the moonlight and then lunge once more into the dark of the forest toward the next ridge.
An exultation that was half the cold of fear ran through the veins of Joe Norman. He spurred his horse frantically, and striking the far slope at full speed, they followed the crash of Gray Tom, leading the way. Close to the top, he shouted again, and when he reached the ridge, he found that she had reined her horse for a moment and was waiting for him. Gray Tom was panting as if he had run twenty miles.
“You're killing him,” he warned her. “But let him die, then. More to the left, Mary. You see that tall, bald rock? Holy Mount they call it? Strike toward that!”
“Thanks, Joe. But faster, Joe. You keep me back!”
“I keep you back to sense. But come on!”
But there was no keeping the girl back. Once more she spurred Gray Tom, and once more the stallion, frantic in this wild ride, leaped out through thin air, smashed into the thicket far below, and went thundering toward the bottom of the slope. A sort of frenzy seized on Joe. With spur and quirt he sent the mustang flying down after the girl, and the wild horse went snorting, dancing like a sparring pugilist through the maze of young trees and shrubs, and coming out at the bottom almost even with Gray Tom.
In the middle of the narrow valley floor Joe Norman drew rein with a low cry of warning. The girl checked her horse.
“Look up and back. Up to the top of the last ridge, just where we come over it!”
She obeyed, and distinctly outlined, black against the moonlit sky, she saw a horseman top the ridge and shoot down into the forest with a noise that came distinctly to them.
“That's not your uncle, Mary. Your uncle would never ride as crazily as that. Who is it?”
“I don't know. It might be Uncle Morgan. But there was something I recognized about the way he sat the saddle, sort of sidewise. But come on, Joe. Whoever he is, he can't catch us.”
And they drove together at the next slope.
Fear was in them now, not so much of the dangerous trail which they were following as of the unknown man who rode so desperately after them. For if he had been a friend, surely he would have tried to hail them. From the top of that last ridge he could easily have reached them with his voice, but they had not heard a sound.
This slope was not so heartbreaking as the others, but, nevertheless, Mary Valentine held Gray Tom in. The harshness of his breathing was beginning to alarm her, and she knew that it is possible to break the heart of a horse in a very short time if he is allowed to run himself out. So she nursed the stallion up the slope. He was in better condition already when he reached the top, and as they swung in a canter down a more moderate fall of ground beyond, Mary swung close to Joe.
“I've remembered who that was like,” she called. “The man who's following us is Sheriff Caswell!”
