In a few moments, from the crest of the ridge, they made out the two
running forms on the road below. Blenham was still frantically beating
his horse and Temple's. Terry's horn blared; her car leaped; and
Blenham, cursing loudly, jerked his horse back on its haunches and well
out of the road. With wheels locked, Terry slid to a standstill.
"Pile in, dad," she said coolly, ignoring Blenham. "Steve Packard and
I will take you into Red Creek. Packard is ready to make you a better
proposition than Blenham's. Turn your horse loose; he'll go home, and
pile in with us."
"He'll do nothing of the kind!" shouted Blenham, his voice husky with
his fury. "Just you try that on Temple, an'-- He'll do nothing of the
kind," he concluded heavily, his mien eloquent of threat.
"We know you think you've got some kind of a strangle-hold on him,
Blenham," cut in Terry crisply. "But even if you have, dad is a white
man and--dad! What is the matter?"
Temple slipped from his saddle and stood shaking visibly, his face dead
white, his eyes staring. Even in the moonlight they could all see the
big drops of sweat on his forehead, glistening as they trickled down.
He put out his hand to support himself by gripping at his saddle,
missed blindly, staggered, and began slowly collapsing where he stood
as though his bones were little by little melting within him.
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