The wind in their faces blew back the
great cloud of dust made by their horses hoofs, hiding their number and
the way behind them. Their steeds were wet with foam, but their riders
spurred them on with merciless fury. In the forefront Ferdinand Ramero's
tall form, towering above the small statured evil-faced Mexican band he
was leading, was outlined against the dust-cloud following them, and I
caught the glint of light on his drawn revolver.
"Ride! Ride like the devil!" Beverly shouted.
At the same time he and the Hopi girl whirled out and, letting us pass,
fell in as a rear guard between us and our pursuers. And the race was
on.
Jondo had said the lonely ranch-house whither we were tending was as
strong as a fort. Surely it could not be far away, and our ponies were
not spent with hard riding. Before us the valley narrowed slightly, and
on its rim jagged rock cliffs rose through three hundred feet of
earthquake-burst, volcanic-tossed confusion to the high tableland
beyond.
As we strained forward, half a dozen Mexican horsemen suddenly appeared
on the trail before us to cut off our advance. Down between us and the
new enemy stood the old stone chapel, like the shadow of a great rock in
a weary land, where for two hundred long years it had set up an altar to
the Most High on this lonely savage plain.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297