Then the robber Frank appeared, riding out of the cedars.  The Indian riders closed rapidly in on him, shooting all the time.  His horse was hit, and stumbling, it almost threw the rider.  Then the horse ran wildly—­could not be controlled.  One Indian was speeding from among the others.  He had a bow bent double, and suddenly it straightened.  Allie saw dust fly from Frank’s back.  He threw up his arms and slid off under the horse, the saddle slipping with him.  The horse, wounded and terrorized, began to plunge, dragging man and saddle.

Ahead, far to the right, Fresno was gaining on his pursuers.  He was out of range now, but the Indians kept shooting.  Then Allie’s situation became so perilous that she saw only the Indians to the left, with their mustangs stretched out so as to intercept her before she got out into the wider valley.

Her mustang did not need to be goaded.  The yells behind and on all sides, and the whistling bullets, drove him to his utmost.  Allie had all she could do to ride him.  She was nearly blinded by the stinging wind, yet she saw those lithe, half-naked savages dropping gradually back and she knew that she was gaining.  Her hair became loose and streamed in the wind.  She heard the yells then.  No more rifles cracked.  Her pursuers had discovered that she was a girl and were bent on her capture.

Fleet and strong the mustang ran, sure-footed, leaping the washes, and outdistancing the pursuers on the left.  Allie thought she could turn into the big valley and go down the main trail before the Indians chasing Fresno discovered her.  But vain hope!  Across the width of the valley where it opened out, a string of Indians appeared, riding back to meet her.

A long dust line, dotted with bobbing objects, to the right.  Behind a close-packed bunch of hard riders.  In front an opening trap of yelling savages.  She was lost.  And suddenly she remembered the fate of her mother.  Her spirit sank, her strength fled.  Everything blurred around her.  She lost control of the mustang.  She felt him turning, slowing, the yells burst hideously in her ears.  Like her mother’s—­her fate.  A roar of speedy hoof-beats seemed to envelop her, and her nostrils were filled with dust.  They were upon her.  She prayed for a swift stroke—­then for her soul.  All darkened—­her senses were failing.  Neale’s face glimmered there—­in space—­and again was lost.  She was slipping—­slipping—­A rude and powerful hold fastened upon her.  Then all faded.

13

When Allie Lee came back from that black gap in her consciousness she was lying in a circular tent of poles and hides.

For a second she was dazed.  But the Indian designs and trappings in the tent brought swift realization—­she had been brought captive to the Sioux encampment.  She raised her head.  She was lying on a buffalo robe; her hands and feet were bound; the floor was littered with blankets and beaded buckskin garments.  Through a narrow opening she saw that the day was far spent; Indians and horses passed to and fro; there was a bustle outside and jabber of Indian jargon; the wind blew hard and drops of rain pattered on the tent.