While Bull stood on gaze at the distant mountains he shook with the
chill of a great fear. His question issued in a whisper so low and husky
that the agent took the meaning from his gesture toward the hills.
"The bandits moved toward the señor Lovell's." He answered. "Praise the
saints! the señoritas are both in El Paso."
"Then they'll go straight on to Mary's!" The last vestige of color
drained from Bull's face.
Leaping the intervening mountains, imagination showed him that trickle
of foul humanity dribbling down upon the _rancho_. He saw Mary Mills on
the veranda, Betty pressed to her side. But in place of the hope and
trust of his previous visions pale horror sat on her face. Obliterating
the sweet wholesomeness that surrounded her like an aura, the dirty
dribble swept around her and the child.