It was an hour later that he observed a moving spot on the sky line. The distance was great, but something familiar in the lines of the figure--when he presently got near enough to see that the blot was a pony and rider--made his blood leap with eager anticipation; and he spoke sharply to Patches, sending him forward at a brisk lope. He had seen some cattle near the rider; he had passed them earlier in the morning--lean, gaunt range steers that would bother a fast pony in a run if thoroughly aroused. He saw that the rider had halted very close to one of the steers, and a look of concern flashed into his eyes. "She oughtn't to do that!" he muttered. Unconsciously, his spurs touched Patches' flanks, and the little animal quickened his pace. Randerson did not remove his gaze from the distant horse and rider. He rode for a quarter of a mile in silence, his muscles slowly tensing as he watched. "What's she doin' now?" he demanded of the engulfing space, as he saw the rider swing around in the saddle. "Hell!" he snapped an instant later; "she's gettin' off her horse!" He raised his voice in a shout, that fell flat and futile on the dead desert air, and he leaned forward in the saddle and drove the spurs deep as he saw the range steer nearest the rider raise its head inquiringly and look toward the rider--for she had dismounted and was walking away from her horse at an angle that would take her very close to the steer. Patches was running now, with the cat-like leaps peculiar to him, and his rider was urging him on with voice and spur and hand, his teeth set, his eyes burning with anxiety. But the girl had not seen him. She was still moving away from her horse; too far away from it to return if the steer decided to charge her, and Randerson was still fully half a mile distant. He groaned audibly as he saw the steer take a few tentative steps toward her, his head raised, tail erect, his long horns glinting in the white sunlight. Randerson knew the signs. "Good God!" he whispered; "can't she see what that steer is up to?" It seemed she did, for she had halted and was facing the animal. For an instant there was no movement in the vast realm of space except the terrific thunder of Patches' hoofs as they spurned the hard alkali level over which he was running; the squeaking protests of the saddle leather, and Randerson's low voice as he coaxed the pony to greater speed. But Patches had reached the limit of effort, was giving his rider his last ounce of strength, and he closed the gap between himself and the girl with whirlwind rapidity.