es fixed upon the point where the
quarry ought to come in sight again. When three more minutes passed and
the farther shore was still a deserted blank, the Mexican dug both
rowels into his mustang and galloped down to the river, muttering curses
in the _patois_ of his native Sonora.

Apparently the closing in had been delayed too long. There were fresh
hoof-prints in the marl of the hither approach to the shallow ford, but
none to match them on the farther side. The Mexican crossed hastily and
searched for the outcoming hoof-marks. The rocky bar which formed the
northern bank of the stream told him nothing.

Now it is only in the imagination of the word-smith that the villain in
the play is gifted with supernatural powers of discernment. Ruiz
Gregorio Maria y Alvarez Mattacheco, familiarly and less cumbrously
known as "Mexican George," was a mere murderer, with a quick eye for
gun-sights and a ready and itching trigger finger. But he was no Vidoeq,
to know by instinct which of the two trails, the canyon passage or the
longer route over the hills, Ford had chosen.

Having two guesses he made the wrong one first, urging his mustang
toward the canyon trail. A stumbling half-mile up the narrow cleft of
the river's path revealing nothing, he began to reconsider. Drawing a
second blank of the same dimensions, he turned back to the ford and
tried the hill trail. At the end of the first hundred yards on the new
scent he came again upon the fresh hoof-prints, and took off the
brow-cramping hat to swear the easier.

Two courses were now open to him; to press hard upon the roundabout hill
trail in the hope of overtaking the engineer before he could reach the
Horse Creek camp, or to pass by the shorter route to the upper ford to
head him off at the river crossing. The Mexican gave another glance at
the dull red spot in the western sky and played for safety. The
waylaying alternative commended itself on several counts. The canyon
trail was the shorter and it could be traversed leisurely and in
daylight. Pressing his livery hack as he could, Ford would scarcely
reach the crossing at the mouth of Horse Creek before dusk. Moreover, it
would be easier to wait and to smoke than to chase the quarry over the
hills, wearing one's pinto to the bone.

Ruiz Gregorio Maria set his horse once more at the task of picking a
path among the canyon boulders, riding loosely in the saddle, first in
one stirrup and then in the other, and smoking an