Waring paid scant attention to the Mexicans, but he glanced continuously from side to side of the canon, alert for a surprise.  The wounded man, Vaca, was known to him.  He was but one of the bandits.  Ramon, Vaca’s nephew, was not of their kind, but had been led into this journey by Vaca that the bandit might ride wide when approaching the ranchos and send his nephew in for supplies.

The pack on Ramon’s saddle rode too lightly to contain anything heavier than food.  There was nothing tied to Vaca’s saddle but a frayed and faded blanket.  Yet Waring was certain that they had not cached the gold; that they carried it with them.

At noon they watered the horses midway up the canon.  As they rode on again, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home in the stirrup, but he attributed this to the other’s condition.  The Mexican was a sick man.  His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leaned forward, clutching the horn.  The heat was stagnant, unwavering.  The pace was desperately slow.

Despite his vigilance, Waring’s mind grew heavy with the monotony.  He rolled a cigarette.  The smoke tasted bitter.  He flung the cigarette away.  The hunting of men had lost its old-time thrill.  A clean break and a hard fight; that was well enough.  But the bowed figures riding ahead of him:  ignorant, superstitious, brutal; numb to any sense of honor.  Was the game worth while?  Yet they were men—­human in that they feared, hoped, felt hunger, thirst, pain, and even dreamed of vague successes to be attained how or when the Fates would decide.  And was this squalid victory a recompense for the risks he ran and the hardships he endured?

Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet the voice was his own:  “You will turn back from the hunting of men.”

“Like hell I will!” muttered Waring.

Ramon, who rode immediately ahead of him, turned in the saddle.  Waring gestured to him to ride on.

The heat grew less intense as an occasional, vagrant breeze stirred in the brush and fluttered the handkerchief round Waring’s throat.  Ahead, the canon broadened to the mesa lands, where the distant green of a line of trees marked the boundary of the Armigo rancho.

Presently Vaca began to sing; softly at first, then with insane vehemence as the fever mounted to his brain.  Waring smiled with dry lips.  The Mexican had stood the journey well.  A white man in Vaca’s condition would have gone to pieces hours ago.  He called to Ramon, who gave Vaca water.  The Mexican drank greedily, and threw the empty canteen into the bushes.

Waring listened for some hint, some crazy boast as to the whereabouts of the stolen money.  But Vaca rode on, occasionally breaking into a wild song, half Yaqui, half Mexican.  The youth Ramon trembled, fearing that the gringo would lose patience.

Across the northern end of the canon the winnowing heat waves died to the level of the ground.  Brown shadows shot from the western wall and spread across the widening outlet.  The horses stepped briskly, knowing that they were near water.