t among
these he would be securely hidden from the pursuit inside of an hour.

"Git down in yore collar to it, you buckskin," he urged his pony
cheerfully. "This ain't no time to dream. You got to travel some,
believe me. Steve played a bum hand for all it was worth and I can see
where he's right to hit the grit some lively. Burn the wind, you
buzzard-haid."

An hour later he drew his pony to a road gait and lifted his head to the
first faint flush of a dawning day. He sang softly, because by a miracle
of good fortune that coming sun brought him life and not death. The song
he caroled was, "When Gabriel blows his horn in the mawnin'."

CHAPTER XI

CHAD DECIDES TO GET BUSY

After his failure to stop Yeager's escape, Culvera lost no time before
starting a party in pursuit. He knew there was small chance of finding
the American in that rolling sea of hills, but there was at least no
harm in making the attempt.

As he walked to Pasquale's headquarters to make a report of the affair,
Culvera's mind was full of vague suspicions. How had this man escaped?
Had the old general freed him for some purpose of his own? Ramon had
seen condemned prisoners released by his chief before. Always within a
short time some enemy or doubtful friend of Pasquale had died a violent
death. Was it his turn now? Could it be that Pasquale was anticipating
his treachery?

To learn that the general was out at three o'clock in the morning lent
no reassurance to his fears. After a moment's consideration the young
man turned his steps toward the house where Yeager had been confined.
But before starting he stopped in the shadow of a barn to see that his
revolvers were loose in the scabbards and in good working order. Nor did
he cross the moonlit open direct, but worked to his destination by a
series of tacks that kept him almost all the time in the darkness.

The seventeen-year-old sentry was still doing duty outside the prison.
At sight of Culvera he stopped rolling a cigarette to snatch up his
rifle and fling a challenge at him.

"How is it that you have let your prisoner escape?" demanded the officer
in Spanish after he had given the countersign.

"Escape? No, senor. Listen. Do you not hear him move?" replied in the
boy in the same tongue. "I think the Gringo is having a fit. For
ten--twenty--minutes he has beat on the floor and kicked at the walls.
To die at daybreak is not to his liking."

"Mil diablos! I tell you I saw him ride