He rose hastily and walked off, letting his weight fall on his toes altogether, so that the spurs might not jingle.

Even that brief rest had so far refreshed his mustang that he was greeted with flattened ears and flying heels.  These efforts Sinclair met with a smile and terrible whispered curses, whose familiar sound seemed to soothe the horse.  He saddled at once, still using care to avoid noise, and swung steeply down the side of the mountain.  On the descending trail, he could cut by one half the miles they had traversed winding up the slope.

Recklessly he rode, giving the wise pony its head most of the time, and only seeing that it did not exceed a certain speed, for when a horse passes a certain rate of going it becomes as reckless as a drunken man.  Once or twice they floundered onto sheer gravel slides which the broncho took by flinging back on its haunches and going down with stiffly braced forelegs.  But on the whole the mustang took care of itself admirably.

In an amazingly short time they struck the more placid footing of the valley, and Sinclair, looking up, could not believe that he had been so short a time ago at the top of the flat-crested mountain.

He gave little time to wondering, however, but cut across the valley floor at a steady lope.  From the top of the mountain the lights of Sour Creek were a close-gathered patch, from the level they appeared as a scattering line.  Sinclair held straight toward them, keeping away to the left so as to come onto the well-beaten trail which he knew ran in that direction.  He found it and let the mustang drop back to a steady dogtrot; for, if the journey to Sour Creek was now a short distance, there would be a hard ride back to the flat-topped mountain if he wished to accomplish his business and return before the full dawn.  He must be there by that time, for who could tell what the girl might do when she found herself alone.  Therefore he saved the cattle pony as much as possible.

He was fairly close to Sour Creek, the lights fanning out broader and broader as he approached.  Suddenly two figures loomed up before him in the night.  He came near and made out a barelegged boy, riding without a saddle and driving a cow before him.  He was a very angry herdsman, this boy.  He kept up a continual monologue directed at the cow and his horse, and so he did not hear the approach of Riley Sinclair until the outlaw was close upon him.  Then he hitched himself around, with his hand on the hip of his old horse, swaying violently with the jerk of the gait.  He was glad of the company, it seemed.

“Evening, mister.  You ain’t Hi Corson, are you?”

“Nope, I ain’t Hi.  Kind of late driving that cow, ain’t you?”

The boy swore with shrill fluency.

“We bought old Spot over at the Apwell place, and the darned old fool keeps breaking down fences and running back every time she gets a chance.  Ain’t nothing so foolish as a cow.”