"This yore saddle?" She nodded. Jackson flung it across the horse, his hands flying as he fastened the cinch. He led it to the edge of the verandah and she mounted. The three of them, at a gallop, crossed the meadow and made the gorge at break-neck gait. When she saw the burned gate in the ray of the torch Thora gave the only sound she made. At the opening of the ravine both men dismounted and anxiously hunted for a sign.
They found it, the mixed tracks of several horses on a soft patch by the stream. They were headed west. Towards Pioche Gap.
West they galloped, the white horse laboring hard to keep up under the handicap of years and weight. Where they struck the road Sheridan and Red again hunted for tracks and disagreed. Jackson was inclined to fancy the party had gone south but the wagon road was metaled and he could not be sure. Nor could they discover a sign farther west. The soil was too fertile, too well turfed with the long grass, waving in the wind as if to mock their efforts. Thora sat her horse, knowing herself useless in such extremity, yet craning her neck and bending from the saddle to find some trace, to be doing something. She had gnawed her lips till they bled. She was no rider and her mount was in bad shape, scant of wind, stained with sweat, standing with hanging head.
"Well?" said Red. "Looks like a blind lead."
"We'll try towards Metzal," said Sheridan.
"We'll ride to Hollister's ranch. Maybe we can get something out of that girl, Juanita. We can work
