She sat her horse in true savage style: astride, and, with a dress fashioned for that purpose, as was hers, the effect was far from displeasing. Her dress flashed back the firelight in a thousand scintillations, from the beads and silver ornaments that thickly studded its folds. The long black hair, slightly curling at the extremities, floated in wild profusion around her form. A light rifle was carelessly balanced across the deep-seated Mexican saddle. Other weapons gleamed from the belt that encircled her round, compact waist. “Who and what are you, anyhow?” cried Campbell, breaking the spell with an effort. The only reply was a low, clear laugh, melodious as the notes of a silver bell. Hawksley had not exaggerated in the least. The most skeptical now acknowledged this, mentally, if not aloud. “Keep her in sight, Ned,” muttered Fred, as he arose. “If Mott can do it, I’ll answer that question before I’m an hour older!” At his movement, the strange rider wheeled her mustang and seemed ready for flight, her face turned, glancing back over her shoulder. “I can drop the piebald without hurting her,” muttered Campbell, half inquiringly. “No—that would never do. We have no right. Keep her in sight—I think I can overhaul her,” and Hawksley uttered a low whistle, at the same time gliding toward where his saddle and bridle hung. With another clear laugh, the strange rider turned and, bending low along the spotted mustang’s neck, dashed around the timber. Campbell rushed to the arch, then paused, muttering eagerly: “Quick, Fred—she’s waiting for you!” Such indeed seemed the case. The woman had only retreated a few hundred yards from the bivouac, and then, as if feeling implicit confidence in the powers of the animal she bestrode, had halted, once more glancing back toward the camp-fire. Her actions were strange as her appearance. She seemed inviting—challenging pursuit. In less than a minute from her first appearance, Fred Hawksley sprung upon his noble beast, and dashed through the arch out upon the prairie. The strange rider uttered another laugh, clear and silvery, yet with a taunting cadence that caused the young hunter’s blood to tingle and his lips to compress firmly. He resolved to overtake the woman, even if it cost him the noble steed he bestrode. “We’ll follow on after you, Fred,” cried Campbell as his friend dashed past him. “Don’t be rash—there may be some deviltry in this!” The strange rider tossed back her floating hair with one hand, as the young borderer sprung into view, then with a peculiar cry, gave her mustang free rein, and sped away over the undulating prairie with the speed of a swallow. And after her thundered the big yellow horse, with the long, swinging stride that Fred knew few mustangs could successfully cope with in any thing over a mile dash.