The train was already moving as Wemple dashed up to its hindmost car, his
horse staggering and their pursuers almost upon them.

"Jump for the car-steps!" he shouted to Barbara. She had not leaped and
clambered up and down the stair in the Acoma cliff all her life for
nothing, and her strength and agility stood her in good stead in this
moment of supreme necessity. She leaped from the horse's back, landed
upon the upper step, and whirled about to assist her lover.

The train was moving faster, the Indians, with shouts and yells and
curses, were grasping at his bridle, and Wemple felt his horse giving way
beneath him. With a last encouraging call to the poor beast he urged it
to one more leap, and as it brought him again even with the end of the
car he threw his leg over its neck and jumped. The horse staggered and
fell as he left the saddle and caused him to lose his balance. He went
down upon the car-steps, his wounded left arm beside him and his right
doubled beneath his body. In another instant he would have rolled back
to the ground beneath the hoofs of the Indian ponies, but Barbara seized
him by the shoulders, and held him until he recovered his footing.

The Indians, seeing his predicament, whipped up their horses and galloped
beside the platform, reviling and jeering at him. Wemple scrambled to
his feet and put his arm about Barbara, as though fearful they might yet
try to take her from him. She leaned over the rail, laughed in their
faces, and called out, in the Indian tongue:

"Good-bye! Good-bye, forever! Now I shall be a white woman!"