It seemed to rise and fall
around her as if with some changing urgency of purpose. Raising her eyes
she suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph wire
above her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along its
vibrating chords. But it brought another and more practical fear to her
active brain. Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating her!
Had Poindexter thought of that? She hesitated no longer, but laying the
whip on the back of her jaded mustang again hurried forward.
As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted by
the white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel of
the slough. It might be Poindexter arriving by the more direct route
from the steamboat that occasionally lay off the ancient embarcadero of
the Los Cuervos Rancho. But even while watching it her quick ear caught
the sound of galloping hoofs behind her. She turned quickly and saw she
was followed by a horseman. But her momentary alarm was succeeded by
a feeling of relief as she recognized the erect figure and square
shoulders of Poindexter.
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