The valley floor was fairly level, and a hundred yards away the girl shot a swift glance over her shoulder. Bethune's horse was getting under way in frantic leaps that told of cruel spurring, and with her eyes to the front, she bent forward over the horn and slapped her horse's neck with her gloved hand. She remembered with a quick gasp of relief that Bethune prided himself upon the fact that he never carried a gun. She had once taunted Vil Holland with the fact, and he had replied that "greasers and breeds were generally sneaking enough to be knife men." Again, she glanced over her shoulder and smiled grimly as she noted that the distance between the two flying horses had increased by half. "Good old boy," she whispered. "You can beat him--can 'run rings around him,' as Vil would say. It would be a long knife that could harm me now," she thought, as she pulled her Stetson tight against the sweep of the rushing wind. The ground was becoming more and more uneven. Loose rock fragments were strewn about in increasing numbers, and the valley was narrowing to an extent that necessitated frequent fording of the shallow creek. "He can't make any better time than I can," muttered the girl, as she noted the slackening of her horse's speed. She was riding on a loose rein, giving her horse his head, for she realized that to force him might mean a misstep and a fall. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the thoughts of a fall. A thousand times better had she fallen and been pounded to a pulp by the flying hoofs of the horse herd, than to fall now--and survive it. The ascent became steeper. Her horse was still running, but very slowly. His neck and shoulders were reeking with sweat, and she could hear the labored breath pumping through his distended nostrils. A sudden fear shot through her. Nine valleys in every ten, she knew, ended in surmountable divides; and she knew, also, that one valley in every ten did not. Suppose this one that she had chosen at random terminated in a cul-de-sac? The way became steeper. Running was out of the question, and her horse was forging upward in a curious scrambling walk. A noise of clattering rocks sounded behind her, and Patty glanced backward straight into the face of Bethune. Reckless of a fall, in the blind fury of his passion, the quarter-breed had forced his horse to his utmost, and rapidly closed up the gap until scarcely ten yards separated him from the fleeing girl.