For a few miles the
Beaver Valley was fairly wide and open. Not twenty minutes later, as
Arnold's comrades sat on the porch on the north side of the house,
they heard swift hoof-beats, and wondered who could be coming now.
But, without an instant's pause, the rider had galloped by, and one of
the men, hurrying to the corner of the ranch, was amazed to see the
lithe, slender form of Angela Wren speeding her pet pony like the wind
up the sandy trail. Arnold refused to believe at first, but his eyes
speedily told him the same story. He had barely a glimpse of her
before she was out of sight around a grove of willows up the stream.
"Galloping to catch the colonel," said he, and such was his belief.
Angela, he reasoned, had hastened after them to send some message of
love to her wounded father, and had perhaps caught sight of the trio
far out in the lead. Arnold felt sure that they would meet her coming
back, sure that there was no danger for her, with Byrne and his
fellows well out to the front. They finished their breakfast,
therefore, reset their saddles, mounted and rode for an hour toward
the Mogollon and still the pony tracks led them on, overlying those of
the colonel's party. Then they got among the rocks and only at
intervals found hoof-prints; but, far up along the range, caught sight
of the three horsemen, and so, kept on.
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