Relieved for the moment we hurried Miss Emory rapidly up the bed of the shallow wash.  The tunnel mentioned was part of an old mine operation, undertaken at some remote period before the cattle days.  It entered the base of one of those isolated conical hills, lying like islands in the plain, so common in Arizona.  From where we had hidden it lay about three miles to the northeast.  It was a natural and obvious hide out, and I had no expectation of remaining unmolested.  My hope lay in rescue.

We picked our way under cover of the ravine as long as we could, then struck boldly across the plain.  Nobody seemed to be following us.  A wild hope entered my heart that perhaps they might believe we had all made our escape to Box Springs.

As we proceeded the conviction was borne in on me that the stratagem had at least saved us from immediate capture.  Like most men who ride I had very sketchy ideas of what three miles afoot is like—­at night—­in high heels.  The latter affliction was common to both Miss Emory and myself.  She had on a sort of bedroom slipper, and I wore the usual cowboy boots.  We began to go footsore about the same time, and the little rolling volcanic rocks among the bunches of sacatone did not help us a bit.  Tim made good time, curse him.  Or rather, bless him; for as I just said, if he had not tolled away our mounted pursuit we would have been caught as sure as God made little green apples.  He seemed as lively as a cricket, in spite of the dried blood across his face.

The moon was now sailing well above the horizon, throwing the world into silver and black velvet.  When we moved in the open we showed up like a train of cars; but, on the other hand, the shadow was a cloak.  It was by now nearly one o’clock in the morning.

Miss Emory’s nerve did not belie the clear, steadfast look of her eye; but she was about all in when we reached the foot of Bat-eye Butte.  Tim and I had discussed the procedure as we walked.  I was for lying in wait outside; but Tim pointed out that the tunnel entrance was well down in the boulders, that even the sharpest outlook could not be sure of detecting an approach through the shadows, and that from the shelter of the roof props and against the light we should be able to hold off a large force almost indefinitely.  In any case, we would have to gamble on Brewer’s winning through, and having sense enough in his opium-saturated mind to make a convincing yarn of it.  So after a drink at the tenaja below the mine we entered the black square of the tunnel.

The work was old, but it had been well done.  They must have dragged the timbers down from the White Mountains.  Indeed a number of unused beams, both trunks of trees and squared, still lay around outside.  From time to time, since the original operations, some locoed prospector comes projecting along and does a little work in hopes he may find something the other fellow had missed.  So the passage was crazy with props and supports, new and old, placed to brace the ageing overhead timbers.  Going in they were a confounded nuisance against the bumped head; but looking back toward the square of light they made fine protections behind which to crouch.  In this part of the country any tunnel would be dry.  It ran straight for about a hundred and fifty feet.