Cheetim rode with an awkward forward hunch and his right elbow higher than his left. It was by these that Wichita recognized him even before she saw his face; though she was naturally inclined to doubt her own judgment, since she had believed “Dirty” Cheetim dead for several years. An instant later she discerned his whiskered face. While she did not know that these men were pursuing her, she was quite confident that there would be trouble the instant that Cheetim recognized her; and so she spurred on at a faster gait, intending to keep ahead of the five without actually seeming to be fleeing them. But that was to be more easily planned than executed, for the instant that she increased her speed they spurred after her at a run, shouting to her to stop. She heard them call that Geronimo was out, but she was more afraid of Cheetim than she was of Geronimo. So insistent were they upon overtaking her that presently her horse was extended at full speed, but as it is seldom that a horse that excels in one gait is proportionally swift at others it was soon apparent that she would be overhauled. Leaning forward along her horse’s neck, she touched him again with her spurs and spoke encouraging words in his back-laid ears. The incentive of spur and spoken word, the lesser wind resistance of her new position, had their effects, with the result that for a short time she drew away from her pursuers; but presently the young cow-puncher, plying long rowels, wielding pliant, rawhide quirt that fell with stinging blows alternately upon either flank of his wiry mount, edged closer. “Hold on, Miss!” he called to her. “You gotta come back—Geronimo’s out!” “You go back and tell ‘Dirty’ Cheetim to lay off,” she shouted back over her shoulder. “If I’ve got to choose between him and Geronimo, I’ll take the Apache.” “You better stop and talk to him,” he urged. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt you none.” “You’re damn tootin’ cow-boy,” she yelled at him; “he sure ain’t if I know it.” The young puncher urged his horse to greater speed. Wichita’s mount was weakening. The man drew closer. In a moment he would be able to reach out and seize her bridle rein. The two had far outdistanced the others trailing in the dust behind. Wichita drew her six-shooter. “Be careful, cow-boy!” she warned. “I ain’t got nothin’ agin’ you, but I’ll shore bore you if you lay ’ary hand on this bridle.” Easily Wichita lapsed into the vernacular she had spent three years trying to forget, as she always and unconsciously did under stress of excitement. “Then I’ll run that cayuse o’ yourn ragged,” threatened the man. “He’s just about all in now.” “Yours is!” snapped Wichita, levelling her six-shooter at the horse of her pursuer and pulling the trigger.