He looked about him. The car was at this moment passing quite near to one of the arroyos--as they are called in our West--that Ned had noted. Kennell, his eyes half-closed, was hunched in a doze, the pistol in his lap. Carl Schultz and Hank Harkins were talking in low tones. Not a single one of them was watching the Dreadnought Boy. The moment to carry out his plan, if he was to put it into execution at all, had arrived. With a quick move, Ned slipped off his thongs, and sprang to his feet. Before any one of the occupants of the tonneau knew what was happening he was out of the auto and sprinting, as he had never sprinted before for the friendly darkness of the gully. Angry shouts instantly broke out. The gully seemed farther than Ned had judged. He had gained its edge, and, with a grateful prayer, was about to slide over into security, when he felt a sharp twinge in his right calf. At the same moment he heard the sharp crack of a revolver behind him. Nobody had ever accused Kennell of being a bad shot, and he had aimed true this time. Ned doubled up. He was halted by unbearable pain. In another instant his pursuers had seized him with exulting cries. CHAPTER XXV. THREE MINUTES OF LIFE. Before the first sharp sting of the wound that had halted the Dreadnought Boy had subsided, Ned found himself once more a prisoner. He had torn the gag from his mouth as he ran; but he made no effort to shout, knowing that it would do no good in that desolate region. He calmly submitted to being rebound, this time his legs also being tied tightly. "We'll take no further chances with you, my young rooster," commented Kennell, as he made a double half-hitch on Ned's leg thongs; "but you were a greeny to think you could get away as long as Ralph Kennell could hold a gun." Although the wound in his leg gave him acute pain, Ned was pretty sure it was only a flesh one, and had not shattered the bone; for which he felt thankful. Ned was made of that kind of stuff that never gives up hope, and, even in the desperate position in which he now was, he yet decided to make the best of it and watch for any chance that might present itself to extricate himself. "Come on, come on," growled the elder Pulsifer, as Ned was once more hustled roughly into the tonneau of the machine. "We can't waste all night on that cub. Silas and Carl told us that you were a good fast worker. We're not paying you to take all night over it." "All right, guv'nor; keep your shirt on," rejoined Kennell; "let her rip. We've got him hog-tied now, all right." Not long after, the auto shot into a dark, shadowed cañon, which seemed to bisect the range of rugged hills, and came to a halt on the other side. The stop was made before a small house, built in the native style, in front of which stood a row of royal palms. "Home, sweet home," grinned Kennell, with grim humor; "come on, younker, pile out, there."