miles to the northeast. It was a natural and obvious hide out, and I
had no expectation of remaining unmolested. My hope lay in rescue.

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, then
struck boldly across the plain. Nobody seemed to be following us. A wild
hope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all made
our escape to Box Springs.

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem had
at least saved us from immediate capture. Like most men who ride I had
very sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like--at night--in high
heels. The latter affliction was common to both Miss Emory and myself.
She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual cowboy boots.
We began to go footsore about the same time, and the little rolling
volcanic rocks among the bunches of _sacatone_ did not help us a bit.
Tim made good time, curse him. Or rather, bless him; for as I just said,
if he had not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been caught
as sure as God made little green apples. He seemed as lively as a
cricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face.

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world into
silver and black velvet. When we moved in the open we showed up like a
train of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak. It was by
now nearly one o'clock in the morning.

Miss Emory's nerve did not belie the clear, steadfast look of her eye;
but she was about all in when we reached the foot of Bat-eye Butte. Tim
and I had discussed the procedure as we walked. I was for lying in wait
outside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down in
the boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure of