“Come here, Jack, and take a sniff.”

Jack knelt obediently and cried excitedly: 

“It smells of smoke, by Jove!  Don’t it, John, old scout!”

“They knew smoke wouldn’t show against a black outcrop, but they didn’t bank on my nose!” said Billy complacently.  “Come ahead, boys.”

A short distance from the spring they found a trail which led back up the mountain, and as dusk came on they followed its dizzy turns until darkness forced them to halt and wait until the moon rose.  By its light they moved up into a pinon forest.

“Let’s wait here until daylight,” suggested Jack.  “It’s a good place for a camp.”

“No, it’s too near the ledge,” objected Billy.  “Of course we are working on faith mostly.  I’m no Sherlock Holmes.  We’ll keep to the backbone of this range for a while.  It’s the wildest spot in New Mexico.  Kut-le will avoid the railroad over by the next range.”

So Billy led his little band steadfastly southward.  At dawn they met a Mexican shepherd herding his sheep in a grassy canon.  Jack Newman called to him eagerly and the Mexican as eagerly answered.  A visitor was worth a month’s pay to the lonely fellow.  The red of dawn was painting the fleecy backs of his charges as the tired Americans rode into his little camp.

“Seen anything of an Injun running away with a white girl?” asked Billy without preliminaries.

The Mexican’s jaw dropped.

“Sacra Maria!” he gasped.  “Not I!  Who is she?”

“Listen!” broke in Jack.  “You be on the watch.  An educated Indian has stolen a young lady who was visiting my wife.  I own the Newman ranch.  That Indian Cartwell it was, three days ago.”

John DeWitt interrupted.

“If you can catch that Indian, if you can give us a clue to him, you needn’t herd sheep any more.  Lord, man, speak up!  Don’t stand there like a chump!”

“But, senors!” stammered the poor fellow to whom this sudden torrent of conversation was as overwhelming as a cloudburst.  “But I have not seen—­”

Billy Porter spoke again.

“Hold up, boys!  We are scaring the poor devil to death.  Friend pastor,” he said, “we’ll have breakfast here with you, if you don’t object, and tell you our troubles.”

The shepherd glowed with hospitality.

“Yonder is good water and I have tortillas and frijoles.”

Unshaven and dirty, gaunt from lack of sleep, the three men dismounted wearily and gladly turned their coffee and bacon over to the herder to whom the mere odor of either was worth any amount of service.  As they ate, Jack and Billy quizzed the Mexican as to the topography of the surrounding country.  The little herder was a canny chap.

“He will not try to cover his trail carefully now,” he said, swallowing huge slabs of bacon.  “He has a good start.  You will have to fool him.  He sleeps by day and travels by night, you will see.  You are working too hard and your horses will be dead.  You should have slept last night.  Now you will lose today because you must rest your horses.”