The Newmans and DeWitt stood staring at Porter with horror in their eyes.  The clock ticked for an instant then DeWitt gave a groan and bowed his head against the mantelpiece.  Katherine ran to him and tried to pull his head to her little shoulder.

“O John, don’t!  Don’t!  Maybe Billy is right.  I’m afraid he is!  But one thing I do know.  Rhoda is as safe in Kut-le’s hands as she would be in Jack’s.  I know it, John!”

John did not move, but at Katherine’s words the color came back into Jack Newman’s face.

“That’s right!” he said stoutly.  “It’s a devilish thing for Kut-le to do.  But she’s safe, John, old boy, I’m sure she is.”

Billy Porter, conscience-stricken at the effect of his words, clapped John on the shoulder.

“Aw shucks!  I let my Injun hate get the best of my tongue.  Of course she’s safe enough; only the darn devil’s got to be caught before he gets to Mexico and makes some padre marry ’em.  So it’s us to the saddle a whole heap.”

“We’d better get an Indian to help trail,” said Jack.

“You’ll have a sweet time getting an Injun to trail Kut-le!” said Porter.  “The Injuns half worship him.  They think he’s got some kind of strong medicine; you know that.  You get one and he’ll keep you off the trail instead of on.  I can follow the trail as soon as he quits covering it.  Get the canteens and come on.  We don’t need a million cowboys running round promiscuous over the sand.  Numbers don’t help in trailing an Injun.  It’s experience and patience.  It may take us two weeks and we’ll outfit for that.  But we’ll get him in the end.  Crook always did.”

There was that in Billy Porter’s voice which put heart into his listeners.  John DeWitt lifted his head, and while his blue eyes returned the gaze of the others miserably, he squared his shoulders doggedly.

“I’m ready,” he said briefly.

“Oh, let me come!” cried Katherine.  “I can’t bear this waiting!”

Billy smiled.

“Why, Mrs. Jack, you’d be dried up and blowed away before the first day was over.”

“But Rhoda is enduring it!” protested Katherine, with quivering lips.

“God!” John DeWitt muttered and flung himself from the house to the corral.  The other two followed him at once.

It was mid-afternoon when the three rode into the quivering yellow haze of the desert followed by a little string of pack horses.  It was now nearing twenty-four hours since Rhoda had disappeared and in that time there had been little sand blowing.  This meant that the trail could be easily followed were it found.  The men rode single file, Billy Porter leading.  All wore blue flannel shirts and khaki trousers.  John DeWitt rode Eastern park fashion, with short stirrup, rising from the saddle with the trot.  Jack and Billy rode Western fashion, long stirrup, an inseparable part of their horses, a fashion that John DeWitt was to be forced to learn in the fearful days to come.