He couldn’t brace into Fonseca and attack the town single-handed. Still he kept on, until--it was almost a sob that surged up in his throat--the sound of a nicker--far to the right! His hand darted forward to the muzzle of the sorrel to shut off possible answer. No need of that. The big gelding was unconcerned about that far-off sound. Mamie--letting him know! He could tell that call of hers in the midst of a herd of horses; and the rurales or whoever had her, were not pushing on to Fonseca, but eastward toward the mountains. ‘I’m coming!’ he muttered. He flicked his branch on the sorrel’s flanks. Minutes afterward, the call again; and presently from over the eastern mountains, appeared the moon, a shaving less full than last night. Last night--that moon from the cell of Arecibo--far-off as childhood. Two hours, at least, of fierce strain--following those whom he supposed were looking for him; finally a faint haze of firelight over the rim of a hill just ahead--the mysterious party having come to a halt. If they were rurales, why hadn’t they gone to Fonseca--why this halt in the open? He was close as he dared to be with the sorrel. Even now, the big stake-horse might undertake to announce his presence and need of forage. Elbert turned him back to a live-oak scrub, made him fast, and retraced his way up the slope again, struggling with weariness and many fears. The moon was now well clear of the eastern ridges. On top, he gradually discerned two figures stretched out in the firelight below--in ordinary Mexican garb, not in uniform of rurales. Moving nearer, he presently made out Mamie, still saddled, a third Mexican sitting on the ground at her head. Seconds crawled by, as he waited breathlessly, with a vague hope that this third one might doze, but nothing of the kind. Instead, the Mexican now rose, leading his charge to a low tree clump, where other horses were faintly to be discerned. Evidently the Mexican was about to fasten the mare. Once tied, there was less chance for her to break clear, than from the Mexican’s hand. Only a second or two to think in; in fact, Elbert didn’t think it out. His fingers reached for the handle of the sheath-knife, bringing the whistle to his lips. Its shrill scream cut forth. Mamie’s head lifted and yanked back, but the Mexican did not lose his grip upon the rein. Running forward Elbert whistled again; then stretched his lungs in a yell, as strange and startling to himself as to the sleepy Sonora hills. The knife in his hand was not to kill; he had merely not put it back in its sheath. The two men by the fire were on their feet; the third stubbornly trying to gain the saddle, but Mamie slid from under, and kept pulling away. Then an instant of utter amazement--the face of Mamie’s tormentor near enough to be recognized--one of Bart’s bandits whom he had raced away from the night before.