Creech leaned down.  His gaunt face, lighted by terrible eyes, made her recoil.  “Bostil ruined me—­an’ killed my hosses,” he whispered, grimly.  “An’ I’m takin’ you away.  An’ I’ll hold you in ransom for the King an’ Sarchedon—­an’ all his racers!”

“Oh!” cried Lucy, in startling surprise that yet held a pang.  “Oh, Creech! . . .  Then you mean me no harm!”

The man straightened up and stood a moment, darkly silent, as if her query had presented a new aspect of the case.  “Lucy Bostil, I’m a broken man an’ wild an’ full of hate.  But God knows I never thought of thet—­of harm to you. . . .  No, child, I won’t harm you.  But you must obey an’ go quietly, for there’s a devil in me.”

“Where will you take me?” she asked.

“Down in the canyons, where no one can track me,” he said.  “It’ll be hard goin’ fer you, child, an’ hard fare. . . .  But I’m strikin’ at Bostil’s heart as he has broken mine.  I’ll send him word.  An’ I’ll tell him if he won’t give his hosses thet I’ll sell you to Cordts.”

“Oh, Creech—­but you wouldn’t!” she whispered, and her hand went to his brawny arm.

“Lucy, in thet case I’d make as poor a blackguard as anythin’ else I’ve been,” he said, forlornly.  “But I’m figgerin’ Bostil will give up his hosses fer you.”

“Creech, I’m afraid he won’t.  You’d better give me up.  Let me go back.  I’ll never tell.  I don’t blame you.  I think you’re square.  My dad is. . . .  But, oh, don’t make me suffer!  You used to—­to care for me, when I was little.”

“Thet ain’t no use,” he replied.  “Don’t talk no more. . . .  Git up hyar now an’ ride in front of me.”

He led her to a lean mustang.  Lucy swung into the saddle.  She thought how singular a coincidence it was that she had worn a riding-habit.  It was dark and thick, and comfortable for riding.  Suppose she had worn the flimsy dress, in which she had met Slone every night save this one?  Thought of Slone gave her a pang.  He would wait and wait and wait.  He would go back to his cabin, not knowing what had befallen her.

Suddenly Lucy noticed another man, near at hand, holding two mustangs.  He mounted, rode before her, and then she recognized Joel Creech.  Assurance of this brought back something of the dread.  But the father could control the son!

“Ride on,” said Creech, hitting her horse from behind.

And Lucy found herself riding single file, with two men and a pack-horse, out upon the windy, dark sage slope.  They faced the direction of the monuments, looming now and then so weirdly black and grand against the broad flare of lightning-blazed sky.