ll want to make pretty good time to the Tenaja Poquita," pointed
out the captain. "They're shy on water."

"On wind, too. They've traveled hard, and they can't be in the pink of
condition. According to Hoff, they deserted him while he was taking a
nap, about four o'clock in the afternoon. It's a fair bet they'd camp
for the night, as you say it's an eight hour hike to the tenaja."

"Eight, the way they'd go."

"Then--er--there's a--er--shorter way?" drawled Average Jones, removing
some sand from a wrinkle in his scarified and soiled trousers as
carefully as if that were the one immediate and important consideration
in life.

"Yes. Across the Padre Cliffs. It cuts off about four hours, and it
takes us almost to the secret tenaja I spoke of. We can fill up there.
But it's not what you'd call safe, even in daylight."

"But to a hunter, wouldn't it be well worth the risk for a record pair
of horns--even if they were only tin horns?" queried Average Jones
suggestively.

Captain Funcke relaxed into a grin. He nodded.

"What'll we do with him?" he asked, jerking his head toward the sleeper.

"Leave him water, food and a note. Now, about this Tenaja Poquita we're
headed for. How much water do you think there is in it?"

"If there's a hundred gallons it's doing well, this dry season."

Average Jones got painfully to his feet. Looking carefully over the
scattered camp outfit, he selected from it a collapsible pail. Captain
Funcke glanced at it with curiosity, but characteristically forebore to
ask any questions. He himself shouldered the largest canteen.

"This'll be enough for both until we reach the supply," he said. "Don't
need so much water at night."

But the tenderfoot hung upon his own shoulder, not only the smallest of
their three canteens, but also the empty one which they had found in the
camp. Their own third tin, almost full, they left beside Hoff, with a
note.

"I've a notion," said Jones, "that I'll need all these receptacles for
water in my own peculiar business."

"All right," assented the other patiently. He took one of them and the
pail from Jones and skillfully disposed them on his own back. "Ready?
Hike, then."

Two hours of the roughest kind of climbing brought them to a landslide.
These sudden shiftings of the slopes are a frequent feature of travel
in the Lower California mountains, often obliterating trails and costing
the wayfarer painful and perilous search for a new path. On the Padre