“Who is sick, friend?” asked Billy.

“Old buck,” said the Indian.

“Apache?” said Billy.

The Indian nodded.

“You sabe Apache named Kut-le?”

The buck shook his head, but Billy went on patiently.

“Yes, you sabe him.  He old Ke-say’s son.  Apache chief’s son.  He run off with white squaw.  We want squaw, we no hurt him.  Squaw sick, no good for Injun.  You tell, have money.”  Billy displayed a silver dollar.

The Indian brightened.

“Long time ’go, some Injun say he sabe Kut-le.  Some Injun say he all same white man.  Some Injun say he heap smart.”  He looked at Billy inquiringly, and Billy nodded approval.  DeWitt swallowed nervously.  “Come two, three day ’go,” the buck went on, his eyes on the silver dollar, “big Injun, carry white squaw, go by here very fast.  He go that way all heap fast.”  The buck pointed south.

“Did he speak to you?  What did he say?” cried DeWitt.

But the Indian lapsed into silence and refused to speak more.  Porter felt well rewarded for his efforts and tossed the dollar to the Indian.

“Gee!” said Billy, as they started elated down the mountain.  “I wish we could overtake him before he outfits again.  That poverty-stricken lot couldn’t have had any horses here for him to use.  I’ll bet he makes for the nearest ranch where he could steal a good bunch.  That would be at Kelly’s, sixty miles south of here.  We’ll hike for Kelly’s!”

This idea did not meet with enthusiastic approval from the other three but as no one had a better suggestion to make, the trail to Kelly’s was taken.  It seemed to John Dewitt that Billy relied little on science and much on intuition in trailing the Indians.  At first, considering Porter’s early boasts about his skill, DeWitt was much disappointed by the old-timer’s haphazard methods.  But after a few weeks’ testing of the terrible hardships of the desert, after a few demonstrations of the Apache’s cleverness, John had concluded that intuition was the most reliable weapon that the whites could hope to discover with which to offset the Indian’s appalling skill and knowledge.

It was an exhausted quartet with its string of horses that drew up at Kelly’s dusty corral.  Dick Kelly, a stocky Irishman, greeted the strangers pleasantly.  When, however, he learned their names he rose to the occasion as only an Irishman can.

“You gentlemen are at the end of your rope, wid the end frayed at that!” he said.  “Now come in for a few hours’ rest and the Chinaman will cook you the best meal he knows how.”

“Lord, no!” cried Billy.  “We’re so close on the track now that we can hang on to the end.  If you’ve had no trace here we’ll just double back and start from the mountains again!”

By this time a dozen cowboys and ranch hands were gathered about the newcomers.  Every one knew about Rhoda’s disappearance.  Every one knew about every man in the little search party.  In the flicker of the lanterns the men looked pityingly at DeWitt’s haggard face.