The mare
was at a fast lope and Pablo's rawhide riata was uncoiled now; the loop
swung in slow, fateful circles--
There could be no mistaking his purpose. With a cry that was curiously
animal-like, the man ran for the nearest brush. Twenty feet from him,
Pablo made his cast and shrieked exultantly as the loop settled over
his prey. A jerk and it was fast around the fellow's mid-riff; a half
hitch around the pommel, a touch of a huge Mexican spur to the flank of
the fleet little black thoroughbred and Pablo Artelan was headed for
home! He picked his way carefully in order that he might not snag in
the bushes that which he dragged behind him, and he leaned forward in
the saddle to equalize the weight of the THING that bumped and leaped
and slid along the ground behind him. There had been screams at first,
mingled with Pablo's exultant shouts of victory, but by the time the
river was reached there was no sound but a scraping, slithering
one--the sound of the vengeance of Pablo Artelan.
When he reached the wagon road he brought the mare to a walk. He did
not look back, for he knew his power; the scraping, slithering sound
was music to his ears; it was all the assurance he desired. As calmly
as, during the spring round-up, he dragged a calf up to the branding
fire, he dragged his victim up into the front yard of the Rancho
Palomar and paused before the patio gate.
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