"
"The moon is rising," Paloma half sobbed. "They'll be sure to see
us. Do you think we're ahead of Tad Lewis?"
"Oh yes. He hasn't had time to get here yet, but--he'll come fast
when he starts. This is the only plan I can think of."
Alaire drove as swiftly as she dared, following the blurred streak
of gray that was the road, and taking the bumps with utter
recklessness. Already the yellow rim of the moon was peering over
the horizon to her right, and by its light she found the road that
turned abruptly toward the Rio Grande, a mile or more distant. The
black mud from the last heavy rain had hardened; the ruts in this
side road were deep, and the car leaped and plunged, flinging its
occupants from side to side. Ahead loomed the dark ridge of the
river thickets, a dense rampart of mesquite, ebony, and coma, with
here and there a taller alamo or hackberry thrusting itself
skyward. But even before they were sheltered from the moonlight
Paloma saw the lights of another automobile approaching along the
main-traveled highway behind them--the lights, evidently, of Tad
Lewis's machine. A moment later Alaire's car drove into the black
shadows, but, fearing to switch on her headlights, she felt her
way cautiously between the walls of foliage until at her right
another opening showed, like a narrow arroyo, diverging from the
one they followed.
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