“You’re whistlin’, Ed!  It’s one crook tryin’ to git the best of another crook.  But I would ‘a’ said Brent was straight.  I say The Spider’s money goes into that there bank.”

“Same here.  I ain’t so dam’ honest that it hurts me, but I quit when it comes to stealin’ from the man that’s payin’ my wages.”

“Then I reckon you and me is pardners in this deal,” and Pete, boyishly proffered his hand.

Big Ed Brevoort grasped Pete’s hand, and held it till the horses shied apart.  “To the finish,” he said.

“To the finish,” echoed Pete, and with one accord they slackened rein.  The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in need of beef.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A GAMBLE

On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques of the cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed.  Beyond, to the south, lay a sea of shimmering space, clear to the light blue that edged the sky-line.  The afternoon sun showed copper-red through a faint haze which bespoke a change of weather.  The miles between the Olla and that tiny dot on the horizon—­the Ortez hacienda—­seemed endless, because of no pronounced landmarks.  Pete surmised that it would be dark long before they reached their destination.  Incidentally he was amazed by the speed of the thoroughbreds, who ran so easily, yet with a long, reaching stride that ate into the miles.  To Pete they seemed more like excellent machines than horses—­lacking the pert individuality of the cow-pony.  Stall-fed and groomed to a satin-smooth glow, stabled and protected from the rains—­pets, in Pete’s estimation—­yet he knew that they would run until they dropped, holding that long, even stride to the very end.  He reached out and patted his horse on the neck.  Instantly the sensitive ears twitched and the stride lengthened.  Pete tightened rein gently.  “A quirt would only make him crazy,” he thought; and he grinned as he saw that Brevoort’s horse had let out a link or two to catch up with its mate.

The low sun, touching the rim of the desert, flung long crimson shafts heavenward—­in hues of rose and amethyst, against the deep umber and the purple of far spaces.  From monotonous and burning desolation the desert had become a vast momentary solitude of changing beauty and enchantment.  Then all at once the colors vanished, space shrank, and occasional stars trembled in the velvet roof of the night.  And one star, brighter than the rest, grew gradually larger, until it became a solitary camp-fire on the level of the plain.

“Don’t like the looks of that,” said Brevoort, as he pulled up his horse.  “It’s out in front of the ’dobe—­and it means the Ortez has got company.”

“Soldiers?”