“Firio, you brown son of the sun,” said Jack, with a sudden display of his old-time trail imagery, “you prolix, garrulous Firio, you knew!  You had the great equine trio ready, and look at the miles they have done since sunset to prove it!  You, P.D., favorite trooper of our household cavalry!  You, Wrath of God, don’t be afraid to make an inward smile, for your face will never tell on you!  You, Jag Ear, beat a tattoo with the fragment of the gothic glory of burrohood, for we rest, to go on all the faster when the heat of the day is past!”

While Prather and Nogales were riding over hell’s apron, their pursuers had saddles off hot, moist backs, over which knowing hands were run to find no sores.  After they had eaten, P.D. and Wrath of God and Jag Ear stood in drooping relaxation which would make the most of every moment of respite.  Jack and Firio, with a blanket fastened to the rifles as standards, made a patch of shade in which they lay down.

“Have a nap, Firio,” said Jack.  “I will wake you when it is time to start.”

“And you—­you no sleep?” asked Firio.

“I could not sleep to-day,” Jack answered.  “I don’t feel as if I could sleep until I’ve seen Prather and heard his story—­my story—­Firio!” And he lay with eyes half closed, staring at the steel blue overhead.

It was well after midday when they mounted for the remainder of the journey.  The Eternal Painter was shaking out the silvery cloud-mist of his beard across a background that had a softer, kindlier, deeper blue.  The shadows of the ponies and their riders and Jag Ear and his pack no longer lay under their bellies heavily, but were stretched out to one side by the angle of the sun, in cheerful, jogging fraternity.  Prather and Nogales had again become only a speck.

“Do you think that they are out of the sand?” asked Jack.

“Very near,” Firio answered.

“Their ponies had a whole night’s rest—­we must not forget that,” said Jack; “and they must be in a hurry, for certainly Nogales had sense enough to rest over noon.”

“Quien sabe!” answered Firio.  “But we catch them—­si, si!”

Leading the way, Firio turned toward the eastern range until he came to a narrow tongue of shale almost as hard to the hoofs as asphalt, that ran like a shoal across that sea of sand.  Rest had given the great equine trio renewed life.  P.D., reduced in rank to second place, could not think of allowing more than a foot between his muzzle and the tail of Wrath of God, who was bound to make up the time he had lost in pursuit of the horizon.  Another hypothesis of Jack’s as to the cause of Wrath of God’s melancholy was that solemn Covenanter’s inability to get any nearer to the edge of the earth.  Once he could poke his nose through the blue curtain and see what was on the other side, the satisfaction of his eternal curiosity might have made him a rollicking comedian.  As for Jag Ear, his baton was once more conducting his orchestra in spirited tempo.  He, who was nearest of all three in heart to Firio, might well have been saying to himself:  “I knew!  I knew we were not going through the sand!  Firio and I knew!”