about, began to draw out its contents.

"Field mice," growled Tex, as the half-breed held up an empty canvas bag
with its corner gnawed to shreds. Another gnawed bag followed, and
another.

"We don't draw no flour, nor rice, not jerky, anyhow," said the puncher,
examining the bags. "Nor bacon, either. The only chance we stand to
make a haul is on the air-tights."

"What are air-tights?" asked the girl.

"Canned stuff--tomatoes are the best for this kind of weather--keep you
from gettin' thirsty. I've be'n in this country long enough to pretty
much know its habits, but I never saw it this hot in June."

"She feel lak' dat dam' Yuma bench, but here is only de rattlesnake. We
don' got to all de tam hont de pizen boog. Dat ain' no good for git so
dam' hot--she burn' oop de range. If it ain' so mooch danger for Win to
git hang--" He paused and looked at Tex with owlish solemnity. "A'm no
lak we cross dem bad lands. Better A'm lak we gon' back t'rough de
mountaine."

"You dig out them air-tights, if there's any in there, an' quit your
croakin'!" ordered the cowboy.

And with a grin Bat thrust in his arm to the shoulder. One by one he
drew out the tins--eight in all, and laid them in a row. The labels had
disappeared and the Texan stood looking down at them.