th came in here. Gale thought the tracks either one
or two days old. Ladd said they were one day. The Indian shook his
head.

No farther advance was undertaken. The Yaqui headed south and traveled
slowly, climbing to the brow of a bold height of weathered mesa. There
he sat his horse and waited. No one questioned him. The rangers
dismounted to stretch their legs, and Mercedes was lifted to a rock,
where she rested. Thorne had gradually yielded to the desert's
influence for silence. He spoke once or twice to Gale, and
occasionally whispered to Mercedes. Gale fancied his friend would soon
learn that necessary speech in desert travel meant a few greetings, a
few words to make real the fact of human companionship, a few short,
terse terms for the business of day or night, and perhaps a stern order
or a soft call to a horse.

The sun went down, and the golden, rosy veils turned to blue and shaded
darker till twilight was there in the valley. Only the spurs of
mountains, spiring the near and far horizon, retained their clear
outline. Darkness approached, and the clear peaks faded. The horses
stamped to be on the move.

"Malo!" exclaimed the Yaqui.

He did not point with arm, but his falcon head was outstretched, and
his piercing eyes gazed at the blurring spot which marked the location
of Coyote Tanks.

"Jim, can you see anything?" asked Ladd.

"Nope, but I reckon he can."

Darkness increased momentarily till night shaded the deepest part of
the valley.

Then Ladd suddenly straightened up, turned to his horse, and muttered
low under his breath.

"I reckon so," said Lash, and for once his easy, good-natured tone was
not in evidence. His voice was harsh.

Gale's eyes, keen as they were, were last of the rangers to see tiny,
needle-points of light just faintly perceptible in the blackness.

"Laddy! Campfires?" he asked, quickly.

"Shore's you're born, my boy."

"How many?"

Ladd did not reply; but Yaqui held up his hand, his fingers wide. Five
campfires! A strong force of rebels or raiders or some other desert
troop was camping at Coyote Tanks.

Yaqui sat his horse for a moment, motionless as stone, his dark face
immutable and impassive. Then he stretched wide his right arm in the
direction of No Name Mountains, now losing their last faint traces of
the afterglow, and he shook his head. He made the same impressive
gesture toward the Sonoyta Oasis with the same somber negation.

Thereupon he