“I’ll divide,” said Sandy, as he mounted his horse.  “Wait till we make camp.  You fellers pack the beavers.”

Fresno untied Allie from the tree, but he left the lasso round her; holding to it and her arm, he rudely dragged her to his horse.

“Git up, an’ hurry,” he ordered.

Allie mounted.  The stirrups were too long.

“You fellers clear out,” called Fresno, “an ketch me one of them hosses we seen along the brook.”

While he readjusted the stirrups, Allie looked down upon him.  He was an uncouth ruffian, and his touch gave her an insupportable disgust.  He wore no weapons, but his saddle holster contained a revolver and the sheath a Winchester.  Allie could have shot him and made a run for it, and she had the nerve to attempt it.  The others, however, did not get out of sight before Fresno had the stirrups adjusted.  He strode after them, leading the horse.  Allie glanced back to see a thin stream of smoke coming out of the cabin door.  Then she faced about, desperately resolved to take any chance to get away.  She decided that she would not be safe among these men for very long.  Whatever she was to do she must do that day, and she only awaited her opportunity.

At the ford Sandy caught one of Slingerland’s horses—­a mustang and a favorite of Allie’s, and one she could ride.  He was as swift as the wind.  Once upon him, she could run away from any horse which these robbers rode.  Fresno put the end of the lasso round the mustang’s neck.

“Can you ride bareback?” he asked Allie.

Allie lied.  Her first thought was to lead them astray as to her skill with a horse; and then it occurred to her that if she rode Fresno’s saddle there might be an opportunity to use the gun.

Fresno leaped astride the mustang, and was promptly bucked off.  The other men guffawed.  Fresno swore and, picking himself up, tried again.  This time the mustang behaved better, but it was plain he did not like the weight.  Then Fresno started off, leading his own horse, and at a trot that showed he wanted to cover ground.

Allie heard the others quarreling over something, probably the gold Slingerland had been so many years in accumulating.

They rode on to where the valley opened into another, along which wound the old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail.  They kept to this, traveling east for a few miles, and then entered an intersecting valley, where some distance up they had a camp.  They had not taken the precaution to hide either packs or mules, and so far as Allie could tell they had no fear of Indians.  Probably they had crossed from California, and, being dishonest and avoiding caravans and camps, they had not become fully acquainted with the perils of that region.

It was about noon when they arrived at this place.  The sun was becoming blurred and a storm appeared brewing.  Fresno dismounted, dropping the halter of the mustang.  Then he let go his own bridle.  The eyes he bent on Allie made her turn hers away as from something that could scorch and stain.  He pulled her off the saddle, rudely, with coarse and meaning violence.