It was now that she heard the man who seemed to be directing the
attack call out to another on his right. She was too far to make
out the words, but their effect was clear to her. He pointed to
the brow of the butte above, and a puncher in white woolen chaps
dropped back out of range and swung to the saddle upon one of the
ponies bunched in the rear. He cantered round in a wide circle
and made for the butte. His purpose was obviously to catch their
victim in the unprotected rear, and fire down upon him from
above.

The young woman shouted a warning, but her voice failed to carry.
For a moment she stood with her hands pressed together in
despair, then turned and swiftly scudded to her machine. She
sprang in, swept forward, reached the rim of the mesa, and
plunged down. Never before had she attempted so precarious a
descent in such wild haste. The car fairly leaped into space, and
after it struck swayed dizzily as it shot down. The girl hung on,
her face white and set, the pulse in her temple beating wildly.
She could do nothing, as the machine rocked down, but hope
against many chances that instant destruction might be averted.

Utterly beyond her control, the motor-car thundered down, reached
the foot of the butte, and swept over a little hill in its wild
flight. She rushed by a mounted horseman in the thousandth part
of a second. She was still speeding at a tremendous velocity, but
a second hill reduced this somewhat. She had not yet recovered
control of the machine, but, though her eyes instinctively
followed the white road that flashed past, she again had
photographed on her brain the scene of the turbid tragedy in