“Sure you don’t, sweetheart,” replied the ruffian Frank.  “Thet man Fresno is rough with ladies.  Now I’m gentle. ...  Come an’ let me spill this sack in your lap.”

“I guess not,” replied Allie.

“Wal, you’re sure a cat ...  Look at her eyes! ...  All right, don’t git mad at me.”

He spilled the contents of the sack out on the sand, and bent over it.

What had made Allie’s eyes flash was the recognition of her opportunity.  She did not hesitate an instant.  First she looked to see just where the mustang stood.  He was near, with the rope dragging, half coiled.  Allie suddenly noticed the head and ears of the mustang.  He heard something.  She looked up the valley slope and saw a file of Indians riding down, silhouetted against the sky.  They were coming fast.  For an instant Allie’s senses reeled.  Then she rallied.  Her situation was desperate—­almost hopeless.  But here was the issue of life or death, and she met it.

In one bound she had the rifle.  Long before, she had ascertained that it was loaded.  The man Frank heard the click of the raising hammer.

“What’re you doin’?” he demanded, fiercely.

“Don’t get up!” warned Allie.  She stepped backward nearer the mustang.  “Look up the slope! ...  Indians!”

But he paid no heed.  He jumped up and strode toward her.

“Look, man!” cried Allie, piercingly.  He came on.  Then Fresno appeared, running, white of face,

Allie, without leveling the rifle, fired at Frank, even as his clutching hands struck the weapon.

He halted, with sudden gasp, sank to his knees, fell against the tree, and then staggered up again.

Allie had to drop the rifle to hold the frightened mustang.  She mounted him, urged him away, and hauled in the dragging lasso.  Once clear of brush and stones, he began to run.  Allie saw a clear field ahead, but there were steep rocky slopes boxing the valley.  She would be hemmed in.  She got the mustang turned, and ran among the trees, keeping far over to the left.  She heard beating hoofs off to the right, crashings in brush, and then yells.  An opening showed the slope alive with Indians riding hard.  Some were heading down, and others up the valley to cut off her escape; the majority were coming straight for the clumps of trees.

Fresno burst out of cover mounted on Sandy’s bay horse.  He began to shoot.  And the Indians fired in reply.  All along the slopes rose white puffs of smoke, and bullets clipped dust from the ground in front of Allie.  Fresno drew ahead.  The bay horse was swift.  Allie pulled her mustang more to the left, hoping to get over the ridge, which on that side was not high.  To her dismay, Indians appeared there, too.  She wheeled back to the first course and saw that she must attempt what Fresno was trying.