"In the Placeta Burro; near the house of Pedro Salazar."

Waring nodded. "Has your horse had water?"

"No, señor. I did not stop."

"Take him back to the water-hole. Or, here! Crawl in there and rest up.
You are all in. I'll take care of the cayuse."

When Waring returned to the chaparral, Ramon was asleep, flat on his
back, his arms outspread and his mouth open. Waring touched him with his
boot. Ramon muttered. Waring stooped and pulled him up.

Within the hour five rurales disembarked from a box-car and crossed to
the water-hole, where one of them dismounted and searched for tracks.
Alert for the appearance of the gringo, they rode slowly toward the
chaparral. The enclosure was empty. After riding a wide circle round the
brush, they turned and followed the tracks toward the eastern hills,
rein-chains jingling and their silver-trimmed buckskin jackets
shimmering in the sun.

* * * * *

"I will ride back," said Ramon. "My horse is too weak to follow. The
señor rides slowly that I may keep up with him."

Waring turned in the saddle. Ahead lay the shadowy foothills of the
mother range, vague masses in the starlight. Some thirty miles behind
was the railroad and the trail north. There was no chance of picking up
a fresh horse. The country was uninhabited. Alone, the gunman would have