about the matter. It was his day's work.
The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not his fault.

As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came from
above. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against it
easily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legs
angled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the led
horses pulling back.

At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat,
broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reached
into his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other,
hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in his
voice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.

None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the Land
Where No Man Lived?

"Si!" said Waring softly.

The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavy
lip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the lead-rope
and turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering, curious. The led
horses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no movement toward his
gun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply, paying little attention to
the youth. The horse of the squat Mexican grew restless, sidling toward
the other.

Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the off
side to get behind his companion. Evidently the numbness of surprise had
given way to fear, and fear meant action. Waring knew that the elder
Mexican would sacrifice his companion for the sake of a chance of
killing the gringo.

Waring held out his left hand. "Give me your gun," he said to the youth.
"And hand it down butt first."

The youth, as though hypnotized, pulled out his gun and handed it to
Waring. Waring knew that if the other Mexican meant to fight it would be
at that instant. Even as the butt of the gun touched Waring's hand it
jumped. Two shattering reports blended and died echoless in the
close-walled arroyo.

The Mexican's gun slipped slowly from his fingers. He rocked in the
saddle, grasped the horn, and slid to the ground. Waring saw him reach
for the gun where it lay on the sand. He kicked it aside. The Mexican
youth leaped from the saddle and stood between Waring and the fallen
man. Waring stepped back. For an instant his eyes drew fine. He was
tempted to make an end of it right there. The youth dropped to his
knees. A drift of wind