Thoughts of what Plimsoll might achieve in insult and injury
to Molly could not be kept out of his mind and they but added fuel. It
was not Sandy Bourke of the Three Bar, riding his favorite pinto, but a
desperate man on a horse infected with the same grim determination, a
man with a face that, despite the fiery heat within, blazing from his
eyes, would have chilled the blood of any meeting him.

He did not spare Pronto nor did Pronto attempt to spare himself, going
at the task set before him with all the superb coordination of muscle
and tendon and bone that he possessed. They slid down the sides of
ravines that were almost as steep as a wall, the pinto squatting on its
tail; they climbed the opposing banks with the surety of a mountain
goat, a rush, a scramble of well-placed hooves, a play of fetlocks;
then, with a heave of spreading ribs and hammer-strokes of a gallant
heart under Sandy's lean thighs, they were over the top and away, with
Sandy's eyes searching the land for the shortest, most practical way.

The place it had taken Molly and young Keith nearly three hours to reach
in leisurely fashion, Sandy gained in one, splashing through the
shallows of Willow Creek at the ford below the big bend and giving
Pronto the chance to cool his fetlocks and rinse out his mouth in the
cold water.

Ahead lay the chimney ravine that led around into Beaver Dam Lake, in
which Molly and the boy had been attacked. Sandy viewed the chaparral,
the trees that covered the lesser slopes, the stark cliffs above. Part
of this lay in the Waterline territory. The chances that Plimsoll had
left some one on guard were not to be slighted. But he rode on down the
narrow trail. Once in a while he broke a branch and left it swinging as
a guide to Sam when he should follow with the riders from the ranch.
They would be coming in now and in a few minutes would start on
remounts. Perhaps Brandon had come? Sandy wasted little time on surmise.

The tracks of Molly's Blaze and the horse Donald had been riding were
plain as print to Sandy. He even noticed the slot of Grit's pads here
and there in softer soil. He had picked them up at the coming-out place
of the ford. Two more sets of hoofs came out of the chaparral and from
there on the sign was badly broken. But Sandy knew the story and the
interpretation was sufficient.

The shadows were getting longer, half the eastern side of the ravine was
in shadow that steadily crept down as if to obliterate