speculating as to what it all meant.  When the escort with the ambulance and paymaster went through before the dawn, Feeny had roused him to ask if anything had been heard of Indians on the war-path between them and the Sonora line, and the answer was both prompt and positive, “No.”  As for their being north or north of west of his station, and up towards the Gila, Wing scouted the suggestion.  He wished, however, that Jackson were back with such tidings as he had picked up at Ceralvo’s.  It was always best to be prepared, even though this was some distance away from the customary raiding-ground of the tribe.

Just then there came a hail from aloft.  Pikey was shouting.

“All right,” answered Wing, cheerily; “be there in a minute,” and then went springing up the trail as though the climb of four hundred feet were a mere bagatelle.  “What’s up?—­Jackson here?” he asked, short of breath as he reached the little nook in which their brush-covered tents were pitched.  There was no reply.

“Pike.  Oh-h, Pike!  Where are you?” he called.

And presently, faint and far somewhere down in the dark canon to the south, a voice replied,—­

“Down hyar.  Something’s coming up the road.”

Surely enough.  Probably a quarter-mile away a dim light as of a swinging lantern could be seen following the winding of the rough and rock-ribbed road.  Then came the click of iron-shod hoofs, the crack of the long mule-whip, and a resonant imprecation in Spanish levelled at the invisible draught animals.  Bounding lightly down the southward path, Sergeant Wing soon reached the roadside, and there found Pike in converse with a brace of horsemen.

“It’s old Harvey’s outfit, from Yuma, making for Moreno’s,” vouchsafed the soldier.

“Oh, is that you, Sergeant Wing?  I ought to have known you were here.  I’m Ned Harvey.”  And the taller horseman held out a hand, which Wing grasped and shook with cordial fervor.

“Which way, Mr. Harvey, and who are with you?”

“Home to Tucson.  My sisters are in the Concord behind us, going to visit the old folks for a few weeks before their trip to Cuba.”

“You don’t tell me!” exclaimed Wing.  “They’re the first ladies to pass through here since I came on duty at the station two months ago.  You stay at Moreno’s, I suppose?”

“Yes; the governor meets us there with relays and four or five men.  We knew there would be no danger west of the Santa Maria.”

“W-e-ll,—­did you stop at Ceralvo’s or see any of their people?”

“No, I never put in there.  Father’s very suspicious of that gang.  Why do you ask, though?”

Wing hesitated.  “There was some story afloat about Apaches,” he finally said.  “The paymaster’s escort threw off a detachment towards the Gila this morning, and I sent one of my two men back to Ceralvo’s to inquire.  You must have met him.”

“No, we made a circuit,—­came by the old trail around the head of the slough.  We haven’t passed anybody, have we, Tony?” he asked of the silent horseman by his side.