But he could delay the signal only so long, unless he cut out the
scene altogether.
"Get back, over on that side, Bill," he commanded harshly. "Leave her plenty
of room to pass that side of the camera. All ready, Pete?" Then, as if he
wanted to have it over with as soon as possible, he whistled once, waited
while he might have counted twenty, perhaps, and sent shrilling through the
sunshine the signal that would bring her.
They watched, holding their breaths in fearful expectancy. Then they saw her
flash into view and come galloping down along the edge of the ridge where the
hill fell away so steeply that it might be called a cliff. Indian fashion, she
was whipping the pinto down both sides with the end of her reins. Her slim
legs hung straight, her moccasined toes pointing downward. One corner of her
red-and-green striped blanket flapped out behind her. Haste--the haste of the
pursuer--showed in every movement, every line of her figure.
She came to the descent, and the pinto, having no desire for applause but a
very great hankering for whole bones in his body, planted his forefeet and
slid to a stop upon the brink. His snort came clearly down to those below who
watched.
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