"Spread! Spread! There they are!"

"Don't shoot!" It was Porter's voice, shrill and high with excitement.
"That's her, the boy there! Rhoda! Rhoda! We're coming!"

With a quick responsive cry, Rhoda struck her horse. With the blow,
Kut-le leaned from his own horse and seized her bridle, turning her
horse with his own away from the mesa and to the left. The other
Indians followed and with hoarse cries of exultation the rescuers took
up the pursuit.

Rhoda looked back.

"Shoot!" she screamed. "Shoot!"

Before the second scream had left her lips she was lifted bodily from
the saddle to Kut-le's arms where, understanding his device, she
struggled like a mad woman. But she only wasted her strength. Without
a glance at her, Kut-le turned his pony almost in its tracks and made
for the mesa.

"Cut him off! He'll get away from us!" It was DeWitt's voice, and
"John! John DeWitt!" Rhoda cried.

But the young Indian had gaged his distance well. He brought his horse
to its haunches and with Rhoda in his arms was running into a fissure
seemingly too narrow for human to enter, while the pursuers were still
a hundred yards away.

"Hold 'em, Alchise!" he said briefly as he ran.