his
revolver.

But even there she was before him, for she held the knife in both
hands against her breast, and threw herself forward in the haze of
dust.

The other guard dismounted and stared at the still figure on the
trail, then kicked her over until he could see her face. One look was
enough. He jerked the knife from the dead body, wiped it on her
_manta_, and turned to tie a handkerchief over the cheek of the
wounded horseman.

Kit muttered an oath of horror, and hastily drew the field glass from
its case to stare at the man whose beard, a false one, had been torn
off in the struggle. It was not easy to re-adjust it so that it would
not interfere with the bandage, and thus he had a very fair view of
the man's features, and his thoughts were of Billie's words to Conrad
concerning slave raids in Sonora. Had Billie really suspected, or had
she merely connected his Mexican friends with reports of raids for
girls in the little Indian pueblos?

Pike reached for the glass, but by the time he could focus it to fit
his eyes, the man had re-mounted, riding south, and there was only the
dead girl left there where she fell, an Indian girl they both knew,
Anita, daughter of Miguel, the major-domo of Mesa Blanca, whose own
little rancheria was with the Pimans at Palomitas.

"Look above, Cap," said Kit.

Above two pair of black wings swept in graceful curves against the
saffron sky--waiting!

Rhodes went back to the outfit for pick and shovel, and when twilight
fell they made a grave there in the dusky canon of the desert.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SLAVE TRAIL

They camped that night in the barranca, and next morning a thin blue
smoke a mile away drew Kit out on the roan even in the face of the
heat to be, and the water yet to find. He hoped to discover someone
who had been more fortunate in escape.

He found instead an Indian he knew, one whose gray hair was matted
with blood and who stood as if dazed by terror at sound of hoofs. It
was Miguel, the Pima head man of Mesa Blanca.

"Why, Miguel, don't you know me?" asked Kit.

The eyes of the man had a strange look, and he did not answer. But he
did move hesitatingly to the horse and stroked it.

"_Caballo_," he said. "_Muy bueno, caballo._"

"Yes," agreed Pardner's rider, "very good always."

"_Si_ senor, always."

Kit swung from the saddle, and patted the old man's shoulder. He was
plainly dazed from either a hurt, or shock, and would without doubt
die i