"Our only chance is in the shadow from the moon," I told my companions.
"If we can slip through the riders, and get in their rear, we may be
able to follow the _barranca_ down. Any of those big rocks will do. Lay
low, and after a rider has gone over a spot, try to get to that spot
without being seen."

We were not to be kept long in suspense. Out of all the three hundred
and sixty degrees of the circle one of the swift outriders selected
precisely our direction! Straight as an arrow he came for us, at full
gallop. I could see the toss of his horse's mane against the light from
the opened door. There was no time to move. All we could do was to cower
beneath our rock, muscles tense, and hope to be able to glide around the
shadow as he passed.

But he did not pass. Down into the shallow _barranca_ he slid with a
tinkle of shale, and drew rein within ten feet of our lurking place.

We could hear the soft snorting of his mount above the thumping of our
hearts. I managed to get into a position to steal a glimpse. It was
difficult, but at length I made out the statuesque lines of the horse,
and the rider himself, standing in his stirrups and leaning slightly
forward, peering intently about him. The figures were in silhouette
against the sky, but nobody ever fooled me as to a horse. It was the
Morgan stallion, and the rider was Tim Westmore. Just as the realization
came to me, Tim uttered a low, impatient whistle.

It's always a good idea to take a chance. I arose into view--but I kept
my gun handy.