THE AMBUSH Streak had done well, having slightly improved on the limit set for the trip by Mary Bransford.

With no delay whatever, Williams and his men and the Double A cowpunchers were headed for the ranchhouse, their horses running hard.
Sanderson was leading them, though close behind came several of the Double A men, their faces set and grim; and then one of Williams' men, a young fellow who had admired Mary Bransford from afar; then some more of the Double A men, and Williams and the remainder of his band of engineers.
There was no word spoken.

In a few swift sentences Sanderson had told them what had occurred, and there was no need for words as they fled southwestward.
For a few miles the trail was hard and smooth, and the posse made good time.

Then they struck a stretch of broken country, where volcanic action had split the surface of the earth into fissures and chasms, thus making speed impossible.
It took them long to cross the section, and when it was behind them they found themselves in a hilly country where the going was not much better than it had been in the volcanic area.
The trail was narrow, and they were forced to travel in single file.
Sanderson led the way, Streak thundering along, a living blot splitting the brown, barren wasteland, followed closely by other blots, rushing over the hazardous trail, the echoes of their passing creating a rumble as of drumfire reverberating in a canon.
They came to a point where the trail led upward sharply, veering around the shoulder of a hill and dropping precipitously into a valley.
For an instant, as the riders flashed around the shoulder of the hill, they caught a glimpse of a group of riders coming toward them, visible to Sanderson and the others as they were for a second exposed to view in a narrow defile.

Then the view of them was cut off, and Sanderson and the men following him were in the valley, riding desperately, as before.
Still there had been no word said.