restless, circling his picket and lifting his head to peer over the
brush. Long before Waring could have been aware of it, had he been
awake, the horse saw a moving something on the southern horizon. Trained
to the game by years of association with his master, Dex walked to where
Waring lay and nosed his arm. The gunman rolled to his side and peered
through the chaparral.

Far in the south a moving dot wavered in the sun. Waring swept the
southern arc with his glasses. The moving dot was a Mexican, a horseman
riding alone. He rode fast. Waring could see the rise and fall of a
quirt. "Some one killing a horse to get somewhere," he muttered, and he
saddled Dex and waited. The tiny figure drew nearer. Dex grew restless.
Waring quieted him with a word.

To the west of the chaparral lay the trail, paralleled at a distance of
a half-mile by the railroad. The glasses discovered the lone horseman to
be Ramon, of Sonora. The boy swayed in the saddle as the horse lunged
on. Waring knew that something of grave import had sent the boy out into
the noon desert. He was at first inclined to let him pass and then ride
east toward the Sierra Madre. If the rurales were following, they would
trail Dex to the water-hole. And if Ramon rode on north, some of them
would trail the Mexican. This would split up the band--decrease the odds
by perhaps one half.

But the idea faded from Waring's mind as he saw the boy fling past
desperately. Waring swung to the saddle and rode out. Ramon's horse
plunged to a stop, and stood trembling. The boy all but fell as he
dismounted. Stumbling toward Waring, he held out both hands.

"Señor, the rurales!" he gasped.