But they were seen. Martha, riding at a little distance behind Marion, and straining her eyes to watch the trail ahead, noted the movement in the saccaton, and called sharply to the girl: “They’s somethin’ movin’ in that grass off to your right, honey! It wouldn’t be no cattle, heah; they’s never no cattle round heah, fo’ they ain’t no water. Lawsey!” she exclaimed, as she got a clear view of them; “it’s men!” Marion halted her horse. Martha’s voice had startled her, for she had not been thinking of the present; her thoughts had been centered on Taylor. A shiver of trepidation ran over her, though, when she saw the men, and she gathered the reins tightly in her hands, ready to wheel the animal under her should the appearance of the men indicate the imminence of danger. And when she saw that danger did indeed threaten, she spoke to the horse and turned it toward the back trail. For she had recognized one of the three men as Carrington. But the horse had not taken a dozen leaps before Carrington was beside her, his hand at her bridle. And as her horse came to a halt, Carrington’s animal lunged against it, bringing the two riders close together. Carrington leaned over, his face close to hers; she could feel his breath in her face as he laughed jeeringly, his voice vibrating with passion: “So it _is_ you, eh? I thought for a moment that I had made a mistake!” Holding to her horse’s bridle-rein with a steady pull that kept the horses close together, he spoke sharply to the two men who had halted near Martha: “Get the nigger! I’ll take care of this one!” And instantly, with a brutal, ruthless strength and energy that took the girl completely by surprise, Carrington threw a swift arm out, grasped her by the waist, drew her out of the saddle, and swung her into his own, crosswise, so that she lay face up, looking at him. She fought him then, silently, ferociously, though futilely. For he caught her hands, using both his own, pinning hers so that she could not use them, meanwhile laughing lowly at her efforts to escape. Even in the dusk she could see the smiling, savage exultation in his eyes; the gloating, vindictive triumph, and her soul revolted at the horror in store for her, and the knowledge nerved her to another mighty effort. Tearing her hands free, she fought him again, scratching his face, striking him with all her force with her fists; squirming and twisting, even biting one of his hands when it came close to her lips as he essayed to grasp her throat, his eyes gleaming with ruthless malignance. But her efforts availed little. In the end her arms were pinned again to her sides, and he pulled a rope from his saddle-horn and bound them. Then, as she lay back and glared at him, muttering imprecations that brought a mocking smile to his lips, he urged his horse forward, and sent it clattering up the slope, the two men following with Martha. CHAPTER XXX—PARSONS HAS HUMAN INSTINCTS