As he spoke, there was a sound of voices in the fissure.  The two men cocked their rifles as John and Carlos emerged from the opening.  John was scowling and breathless.

“Lost ’em as usual, by our infernal stupidity,” he panted, while Carlos dropped his empty canteen and lifted Porter’s to his lips.  “I rode round to the south of the mesa.  There are a couple of possible ascents there.  I found Carlos making one.  We followed a dozen fissures before we located this one.  We got into it about a mile back from here.  Here’s a basket we found at the bottom in a burlap bag.”

He tossed one of Cesca’s pitch baskets at Billy, then threw himself in the sand.

“They were down off the mesa, I bet,” he went on, “before we fools found the way up, and it was easy for the chap they left guarding the entrance to avoid us.  The mesa is covered with big rocks.”

“He got away within the last half-hour then,” said Billy, “for I didn’t stir from this spot until the burro started to eat the grub pack, and I naturally had to wrestle with him.  And no human being could a got out the front even then.”

“God!  What a country!” groaned DeWitt.  “The Indians outwit us at every step!”

“Well,” Jack answered dejectedly, “tell us what we could have done differently.”

“I’m not blaming any one,” replied John.

Billy Porter rose briskly.

“You boys quit your kicking.  The scent is still warm.  You fellows get a couple of hours’ sleep while I take the horses back to Coyote Hole for water.  By daylight we got to be on the south side of the mesa to pick up the trail.”

Billy’s businesslike manner heartened Jack and John DeWitt.  They turned in beside Carlos, who already was sleeping.

Dawn found them examining the ascents on the south side of the mesa but they found no traces and as the sun came well up they followed the only possible way toward the mountains.  At noon they found a low spring in a pocket between mesa and mountain.  Kut-le was growing either defiant or careless, for he had left a heap of ashes and a pile of half-eaten desert mice.  Very much cheered they allowed the horses a fair rest.  They found no further traces of camp or trail that day and made camp that night in the open desert.

At dawn they were crossing a heavily wooded mountain.  The sun had not yet risen when they heard a sound of singing.

“What’s that?” asked DeWitt sharply, as the four pulled up their horses.

“A medicine cry,” answered Jack.  “We must be near some medicine-man’s campos.”

“Come on,” cried DeWitt, “we’ll quiz them!”

“Hold up, you chump!” exclaimed Billy.  “If you rush in on a cry that way you are apt not to come back again.  You’ve got to go at ’em careful.  Let me do the talking.”

They rode toward the sound of the chant and shortly a dingy campos came into view.  An Indian buck made his way from the doorway toward them.