r catch us!"

Spurs went into their horses' flanks and the race began. For the noose
of the rope was looming large and ominous before their terrified
eyes.

A quarter of a mile from the hollow they divided and went their ways
in three different directions.

CHAPTER XXVI

ON THE LITTLE BLUFF RIVER

Away to the west, where the plains cease and the hills begin, where
the Little Bluff River debouches upon the plains from its secret path
through canyon and crevasse, Jim Thorpe was standing beside a low scrub
bush, gazing ruefully at his distressed horse. The poor brute was too
tired to move from where he stood, nipping at the rich prairie grass
about his feet. He still had the strength and necessary appetite to do
this, but that was about all.

In his anxiety to serve the woman he loved Jim had done what years ago
he had vowed never to do. He had ridden his willing servant to a
standstill.

The saddle had been removed for more than an hour and was lying beside
the bush, and the man, all impatience and anxiety, was considering his
position and the possibility of fulfilling his mission. The outlook
was pretty hopeless. He judged that he had at least ten miles to go,
with no other means of making the distance than his own two legs.

And then, what would be the use? Doc Crombie was probably on the road.
He had heard the men preparing for the start before he left the
village. True, they had not overtaken him, but that was nothing. There
were other ways of reaching the rustlers' hollow. He knew of at least
three trails, and the difference in the distance between them was
infinitesimal.

For all he knew the other men might have already reached their
destination. Yes, they probably had. He had been out of the saddle
more than an hour. It was rotten luck. What would Eve think? He had
failed her in her extremity. At least his horse had. And it was much
the same thing. He realized now the folly of his attempt on a tired
horse. But then there had been no time to get a fresh one. No
possibility of getting one without rousing suspicion. Truly his luck
was devilish.

He sat down, his back propped against the stump of a dead sapling. And
from beneath the wide brim of his hat, pressed low down upon his
forehead, he gazed steadily out over the greensward at the southern
sky-line. His face was moody. His feelings were depressed. What could
he do? In profound thought he sat clasping one knee, which was drawn
up almost to