any direction
except down."

"Not to-day, I guess. Say, Forbes--you ain't seen any strangers this
way, have you? Mexicans, mebbe?"

"Not any. But I just come up from the river. Hills might be full of
people, for all I know. Water all round, after these rains."

"Look, now," said Jody. "We're doin' a little man hunt--and if you're
hangin' round here prospectin', you may be able to give us a straight
tip. Keep your eye peeled. There'll be a piece of money in it for you
if you can help us out."

"Give it a name. But see here, Caney--this isn't Dona Ana County, you
know. You're over the line."

"I'm not doing this official," said Caney. "Neither is Hales, here,
though he is a deputy in Socorro County. We're private cits in this
man's county--playin' a hunch. Here's the lay: There's been a heap of
stealing saddles for a business lately--saddles and other truck, but
saddles, wholesale, most particular. Got so it wasn't safe for a man
to leave a saddle on a horse at night, down round Las Cruces."

"They got Bill McCall's saddle in Mesilla three months ago," broke in
Jody, laughing. "So Bill, he went and broke a bronc backward. Yes,
sir! Broke him to be saddled and mounted from the wrong side. Only
left-handed horse in the world, I reckon. Then Bill slips off down to
Mesilla, ties his horse in front of Isham Holt's house about dark, and
filters inside to jolly Miss Valeria. Pretty soon Bill heard a tur'ble
row outside, and when he went out he found a Mex boy rollin' round in
the street and a-holdin' both hands to his belly. Claimed he had the
cramps, he did--but that's why we're rather looking for Mexicans."

"We figured they were a regular gang, scattered up and down, hurrying
the stuff along by relays, and likely taking it down in old Mexico to
dispose of," said Caney. "Then we hear that saddles are being missed
up in Socorro County too. So Hales and me gets our wise heads
together. Here is our hugeous hunch: This is lonesome country here,
the big roads dodge the river from San Marcial to Rincon, 'count of it
being so rough, so thieves wouldn't go by the Jornada nor yet take the
big west-side roads through Palomas or Hillsboro. No, sir. They just
about follow the other side of the river, where nobody lives, as far
down as Engle Ferry. There or thereabouts they cross over, climb up
Mescal Canyon and ooze out through the rough country east of Caballo
Mountain. Then they either come through by MacCleod's and cross the