"You ain't her nurse," growled Gurley.
"That's why I'm goin' to take her home to those that are. 'Nuff said, Steve. What I say goes."
"You act mighty high-heeled," grumbled the other man.
"Mebbeso," replied Dinsmore curtly. "Saddle the horses, Steve."
"I dunno as I'm yore horse-rustler," mumbled Gurley, smothering his sullen rage. None the less he rose slowly and shuffled away toward the hobbled horses.
'Mona touched Dinsmore on the sleeve. Her soft eyes poured gratitude on him. "I'll remember this as long as I live. No matter what anybody says I'll always know that you're good."
The blood crept up beneath the tan of the outlaw's face. It had been many years since an innocent child had made so naïve a confession of faith in him. He was a bad-man, and he knew it. But at the core of him was a dynamic spark of self-respect that had always remained alight. He had ridden crooked trails through all his gusty lifetime. His hand had been against every man's, but at least he had fought fair and been loyal to his pals. And there had never been a time when a good woman need be afraid to look him in the face.
"Sho! Nothin' to that. I gotta take you home so as you won't be in the way," he told her with a touch of embarrassed annoyance.
No man alive knew this country better than Homer Dinsmore. Every draw was like its neighbor, every rolling rise a replica of the next. But the outlaw rode as straight a course as if his road had been marked out for him by stakes across the plains. He knew that he might be riding directly toward a posse of Rangers headed for Palo Duro to round up the stage robbers. He could not help that. He would have to take his chance of an escape in case they met such a posse.
The sun climbed high in the heavens.
"How far do you think we are now from the ranch?" asked Ramona.
"Most twenty miles. We've been swingin' well to the left. I reckon we can cut in now."
They climbed at a walk a little hill and looked across a wide sweep of country before them. Ramona gave a startled cry and pointed an outstretched finger at some riders emerging from a dry wash.
"'Paches!" cried Dinsmore. "Back over the hill, girl."
They turned, but too late. On the breeze there came to them a yell that sent the blood from 'Mona's heart.