"Like hell I will!" muttered Waring.

Ramon, who rode immediately ahead of him, turned in the saddle. Waring
gestured to him to ride on.

The heat grew less intense as an occasional, vagrant breeze stirred in
the brush and fluttered the handkerchief round Waring's throat. Ahead,
the cañon broadened to the mesa lands, where the distant green of a line
of trees marked the boundary of the Armigo rancho.

Presently Vaca began to sing; softly at first, then with insane
vehemence as the fever mounted to his brain. Waring smiled with dry
lips. The Mexican had stood the journey well. A white man in Vaca's
condition would have gone to pieces hours ago. He called to Ramon, who
gave Vaca water. The Mexican drank greedily, and threw the empty canteen
into the bushes.

Waring listened for some hint, some crazy boast as to the whereabouts of
the stolen money. But Vaca rode on, occasionally breaking into a wild
song, half Yaqui, half Mexican. The youth Ramon trembled, fearing that
the gringo would lose patience.

Across the northern end of the cañon the winnowing heat waves died to
the level of the ground. Brown shadows shot from the western wall and
spread across the widening outlet. The horses stepped briskly, knowing
that they were near water.

Waring became more alert as they approached the adobe buildings of the
rancho. Vaca had drifted into a dull silence. Gray with suffering and