He did not want to go on, and, when urged, could hardly walk.
Roberts got off to examine the injury. “Wal, he didn't break his leg,” he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was. “Joan, I reckon there'll be some worryin' back home tonight. For your horse can't carry double an' I can't walk.”
Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy of the moment she forgot her own trouble.
“Reckon we'll have to make camp right here,” said Roberts, looking around. “Lucky I've a pack on that saddle. I can make you comfortable. But we'd better be careful about a fire an' not have one after dark.”
“There's no help for it,” replied Joan. “Tomorrow we'll go on after Jim. He can't be far ahead now.” She was glad that it was impossible to return home until the next day.
Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. And he was bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan's saddle when suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.
“What's that?”
Joan heard soft, dull thumps on the turf and then the sharp crack of an unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They were just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed in her direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they made dark and sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at Roberts. He was staring with a look of recognition in his eyes. Under his breath he muttered a curse. And although Joan was not certain, she believed that his face had shaded gray.
The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly and powerfully affected her.
“Howdy,” greeted one of the men.
And then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen gray.
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