"To ride my mare? No; what do you mean?" Before he could answer Wilder sprang forward demanding, "Is she gone?" and Conrad started for the door. "A man has just ridden her away on the run," the Mexican said excitedly, and every one in the room rushed for the street. "She's gone!" shouted Conrad. "Did you see him? What was he like?" demanded the Sheriff. "A pock-marked greaser with a bad eye?" yelled Wilder, towering threateningly above the bearer of the news. Gonzalez threw back his head, folded his arms across his breast, and answered deliberately, "He was a Mexican, señor, he was pock-marked, and he was blind in one eye." "Melgares! He's done it at last! Hooray!" shouted Wilder. Far down the street, beyond the last cottonwood, against the gray, sun-flooded road, they could see a dark object, distorted by the heat haze, but still showing the form of a man on a galloping horse. Tillinghurst's smile became an eager grin as he started up the street on a run. "Everybody come that wants to," he called over his shoulder. Wilder and Conrad were already half a block ahead of him, and several others quickly followed. When they presently came pelting back, their horses at top speed, a crowd of men still stood on the sidewalk, where the Blue Front made a splash of brilliant color against the sombre grays and browns of the surrounding adobes. Wilder's tall, thin figure was in the lead, bending forward in the saddle like a sapling in a gale, the wide, limp brim of his sombrero flapping in the wind. Conrad and Tillinghurst were pressing him close, and half a dozen others were pounding along behind these three, while a stout man, who rode awkwardly, trailed along in the rear. The crowd at the Blue Front shouted encouragingly as they clattered past, and made bets on the chances of catching the fugitive. The Mexican, Gonzalez, watched Conrad closely as he sped by, and said carelessly to the man beside him, "Señor Conrad is a good rider, the best of them all. I hope he will get back his fine mare." The horsemen swept down the street past the last straggling houses, and out into the open plain. Fleeing down the road, perhaps two miles ahead of them, galloped the Mexican. Tillinghurst measured the distance with a careful eye, and said to Conrad, "He's our meat. We can get him easy." He glanced backward, chuckled, then turned in his saddle, and called loudly, "Come along there, Pendy! Don't get discouraged!" Another of the party turned his head and yelled, "You're all right, Pendy! You'll get there before Dan does!" The stout man who brought up the rear had made sure of his gray slouch hat by tying it on with a red bandanna handkerchief. He was gripping his bridle with both hands and bouncing in his saddle like a bag of meal. "Don't you worry about me!" he yelled back good-naturedly; "you can't lose me if you try." "Who is he?" asked Curtis.