get. Therefore, from that less dangerous point of vantage they watched the L.X. outfit, with Ben Evans at its head, dash into the plaza and turn its horses toward its solitary occupants.
"Is she dead?" Ben's horse went back on its haunches.
"Stunned, I think."
"Who—how did it happen?"
"Borjarques ran her down."
Ben's mouth was set in a straight, hard line as he flashed a look at the others. Then he raised his reins and asked:
"Which way did he go?"
Bob directed him with a nod. That was all. The saddle leathers creaked as the horses responded to the spurs.
The Mexicans were returning, laughing boisterously, and Ignacio was a hero, wearing a self-conscious smirk. How neatly he had bowled her over! They bent in mirth over their saddle-horns.
What horsemanship he had displayed in striking the shoulder at the right angle! Ah, he was a devil when roused! They had better beware of him—Ignacio Bojarques! There
