better time upon the lower level than those on the ridge trail. By mid-morning, when they approached the foothills that ran down to the desert, the pursuit was more than a mile in the rear and shut off to boot by a monolithic hill, while Alan was many a weary mile in advance.
He sat upon his horse, just then, at standstill upon the summit of a rounded knoll, the Painted Hills lifted up behind him, the desert before, unfolding like a map, but blurred by the heat-haze that simmered over it.
Was Judith out there, somewhere, lost, defenceless, impotent to lift a hand to shield her face from the blast of the savage sun?
Was she back there among the Painted Hills, lying still and lifeless, crushed beneath the weight of that fallen horse?
No rest for Alan till he knew. …
Descending the knoll, he reined his lagging mount back into the trail, following its winding course through the foothills and round the base of that monolithic mountain toward the junction with the ridge trail miles away.
It approached the hour of noon before he gained the point where the two trails joined and struck out across the desert. And here he discovered indications that the fright of Judith's horse had persisted (perhaps because of her struggles to free herself) even
