to a steady lope that ate up the ground,
drifting straight and fast across country for the opening in the mesa
that he had marked as the short-cut to the spot described by Donald
Keith. Through gray sage and ferny mesquite Pronto moved, elastic of
every sinew, springy of pastern, without fret or fuss though he had not
been ridden for two days. Even as the man fitted the saddle,
counterbalanced every supple movement of his steed, so Sandy's will
dominated that of Pronto, making his mood his master's, telling him the
occasion was one for best efforts with no place for wasted energy.

"We're goin' to cross a hard country, li'l' hawss," said Sandy. "But I
figger we can make it. Got to make it, Pronto. An' we're sure goin' to.
Doin' it fo' her."

Every now and then he talked his thoughts aloud, as the lonely rider
will and, if the pinto could not understand, he listened with pricked
ears.

"Grit must have been hurt pritty bad, I'm afraid. Still he might have
trailed her 'stead of comin' back. Sun's gettin' to'ards the no'th."

He glanced at the luminary, slowly descending. "But the moon's up
already an' she's full." He looked to where a wan plate of battered
silver hung in the east. "We got some luck on our side, Pronto, after
all.

"Wonder who the three were with Plimsoll? They've gone to the Hideout
an' we got to find it, li'l' hawss. Some job, I reckon. But Plimsoll's
goin' to be mighty sorry fo' himse'f befo' long."

As they neared the foot-hills of the range he lapsed to silence. He was
taking chances, crossing country this fashion. He knew it fairly well,
and he guessed at what lay behind the visible contours from the
experience of years. Deep barrancas might crop up in their path, massed
thickets of cactus that had to be ridden around for loss of time. The
mesa, looking like a solid block of rock at a distance, was, he knew
well, broken into tortuous ravines and canyons, eroded into wild thrusts
of the mother rock, its central part eaten away by time and weather.

Part of the Three Star range, shared by two ranches, ran over the
southern part of the mesa and it was close to its boundary fence that
Sandy was heading. Then came the range of Plimsoll's Waterline, a rough
country, unknown to Sandy, with scant food for many cattle, but sweet
grass enough for a horse herd and containing pockets where the
slicktails sometimes came.

Sandy struck the first rise. He was now a crucible filled with glowing
white fury.