If the safety of numbers made her main concern, perhaps that was what made Molly Wingate’s eye light up when she heard the hoofs of Will Banion’s horse splashing in the little stream.  She sprang to her feet, waving a hand gayly.

“Oh, so there you are!” she exclaimed.  “I was wondering if you’d be over before Jed and I left for the prairie.  Father and mother have moved on out west of town.  We’re all ready for the jump-off.  Are you?”

“Yes, to-morrow by sun,” said Banion, swinging out of saddle and forgetting any errand he might have had.  “Then it’s on to Oregon!”

He nodded to Woodhull, who little more than noticed him.  Molly advanced to where Banion’s horse stood, nodding and pawing restively as was his wont.  She stroked his nose, patted his sweat-soaked neck.

“What a pretty horse you have, major,” she said.  “What’s his name?”

“I call him Pronto,” smiled Banion.  “That means sudden.”

“He fits the name.  May I ride him?”

“What?  You ride him?”

“Yes, surely.  I’d love to.  I can ride anything.  That funny saddle would do—­see how big and high the horn is, good as the fork of a lady’s saddle.”

“Yes, but the stirrup!”

“I’d put my foot in between the flaps above the stirrup.  Help me up, sir?”

“I’d rather not.”

Molly pouted.

“Stingy!”

“But no woman ever rode that horse—­not many men but me.  I don’t know what he’d do.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Jed, approaching, joined the conversation.

“I rid him,” said he.  “He’s a goer all right, but he ain’t mean.”

“I don’t know whether he would be bad or not with a lady,” Banion still argued.  “These Spanish horses are always wild.  They never do get over it.  You’ve got to be a rider.”

“You think I’m not a rider?  I’ll ride him now to show you!  I’m not afraid of horses.”

“That’s right,” broke in Sam Woodhull.  “But, Miss Molly, I wouldn’t tackle that horse if I was you.  Take mine.”

“But I will!  I’ve not been horseback for a month.  We’ve all got to ride or drive or walk a thousand miles.  I can ride him, man saddle and all.  Help me up, sir?”

Banion walked to the horse, which flung a head against him, rubbing a soft muzzle up and down.

“He seems gentle,” said he.  “I’ve pretty well topped him off this morning.  If you’re sure—­”

“Help me up, one of you?”

It was Woodhull who sprang to her, caught her up under the arms and lifted her fully gracious weight to the saddle.  Her left foot by fortune found the cleft in the stirrup fender, her right leg swung around the tall horn, hastily concealed by a clutch at her skirt even as she grasped the heavy knotted reins.  It was then too late.  She must ride.

Banion caught at a cheek strap as he saw Woodhull’s act, and the horse was the safer for an instant.  But in terror or anger at his unusual burden, with flapping skirt and no grip on his flanks, the animal reared and broke away from them all.  An instant and he was plunging across the stream for the open glade, his head low.