"Guess so," grinned Buck; "if he ain't, it'll be the worse fer him."

As he spoke they topped a little rise. Over in front of them, and
on all sides--the desert, vast, illimitable, untrod of man, lay, a
desolate expanse of nothingness.

Far, far off could be seen a tiny blue cloud, resting on the
horizon--the desert range.

"Thar's whar Jim Bell's mine is, I'll bet a hoss and saddle," said
Bellew reining in his horse and pointing to the distant azure mass.

"Guess you'd win," nodded Red Bill Summers, "and," he added, his
keen eyes narrowing to slits he gazed straight ahead, "and thar, I
reckon, is Jim Bell himself and his party."

They followed the direction of his gaze. Far off across the
glittering ocean of sand and alkali a yellowish cloud--almost
vaporish, arose. It seemed to be a sort of water spout on land. It
drifted lazily upward. The experienced desert hawks knew it for
what it was. The dust cloud raised by a company of travelers.

As their glances rested on it intently, not one of the three figures
toping the crest of the little rise, spoke.

Their tired horses, too, stood absolutely still. Men and animals
might have been petrified figures, carved out of the desolation
about them. There was a something impressive about them as they
stood there in the midst of the desert glare. Silent, hawk-like,