As he descended, Tish announced that there must be another photographer on top, as he was “registering” signs of terror—­a moving-picture expression which she had acquired from Charlie Sands—­and looking back frequently over his shoulder.

We waited until he reached timber-line, and then withdrew to a group of trees.  It was not our intention to allow him to see us and spoil everything.  But when he came near, through the woods, and his horse continued at unabated speed, Tish decided that the animal, frightened by the shots, was running away.

She therefore placed herself across the trail to check its headlong speed, but the animal merely rushed round her.  Mr. Oliver yelled something at us, which we were, however, unable to hear, and kept madly on.

Almost immediately four men, firing back over their shoulders, rode into sight at the pass and came swiftly down toward us.

“Where’s the girl?” Tish cried with her glasses to her eyes.  “The idiots have got excited and have forgotten to steal her.”

That was plainly what had happened, but she was determined to be stolen anyhow, for the next moment she rode into view, furiously following the bandits.

“She’s kept her head anyhow,” Tish observed with satisfaction.  “Trust a lot of men to go crazy and do the wrong thing.  But they’ll have to change the story and make her follow them.”

At timber-line the men seemed to realize that she was behind them, and they turned and looked up.  They seemed to be at a loss to know what to do, in view of the picture.  But they were quick thinkers, too, we decided.  Right then and there they took her prisoner, surrounding her.

She made a desperate resistance, even crying out, as we could plainly see.  But Tish was irritated.  She said she could not see how the story would hold now.  Either the girl should have captured them, they being out of ammunition, or the whole thing should have been done again, according to the original plan.  However, as she said, it was not our affair.  Our business was to teach them a lesson not to impose on unsuspecting tourists, for although not fond of Mrs. Ostermaier, we had been members of Mr. Ostermaier’s church, and liked him, although his sermons were shorter than Tish entirely approved of.

We withdrew again to seclusion until they had passed, and Tish gave them ten minutes to get well ahead.  Then we rode out.

Tish’s face was stern as she led off.  The shriek of Mrs. Ostermaier was still, as she said in a low tone, ringing in her ears.  But before we had gone very far, Tish stopped and got off her horse.  “We’ve got to pad the horses’ feet,” she said.  “How can we creep up on them when on every stony place we sound like an artillery engagement?”

Here was a difficulty we had not anticipated.  But Tish overcame it with her customary resource, by taking the blanket from under her saddle and cutting it into pieces with her scissors, which always accompany her.  We then cut the leather straps from our saddles at her direction, and each of us went to work.  Aggie, however, protested.