A lithe, brown body lay stretched comfortably upon a bed of grasses at the edge of a little rise of ground beneath which the riders must pass before they came to the cluster of huts which squatted in a tiny natural park at the foot of the main peak.  Far above the watcher a spring of clear, pure water bubbled out of the mountain-side, and running downward formed little pools among the rocks which held it.  And with this water the Pimans irrigated their small fields before it sank from sight again into the earth just below their village.  Beside the brown body lay a long rifle.  The man’s eyes watched, unblinking, the two specks far below him whom he knew and had known for an hour were gringos.

Another brown body wormed itself forward to his side and peered over the edge of the declivity down upon the white men.  He spoke a few words in a whisper to him who watched with the rifle, and then crawled back again and disappeared.  And all the while, onward and upward came Billy Byrne and Eddie Shorter, each knowing in his heart that if not already, then at any moment a watcher would discover them and a little later a bullet would fly that would find one of them, and they took the chance for the sake of the American girl who lay hidden somewhere in these hills, for in no other way could they locate her hiding place more quickly.  Any one of the other eight Americans who rode in pairs into the hills at other points to the left and right of Billy Byrne and his companion would have and was even then cheerfully taking the same chances that Eddie and Billy took, only the latter were now assured that to one of them would fall the sacrifice, for as they had come closer Eddie had seen a thin wreath of smoke rising from among the trees of the oasis.  Now, indeed, were they sure that they had chanced upon the trail to the Piman village.

“We gotta keep our eyes peeled,” said Eddie, as they wound into a ravine which from its location evidently led directly up to the village.  “We ain’t far from ’em now, an’ if they get us they’ll get us about here.”

As though to punctuate his speech with the final period a rifle cracked above them.  Eddie jumped spasmodically and clutched his breast.

“I’m hit,” he said, quite unemotionally.

Billy Byrne’s revolver had answered the shot from above them, the bullet striking where Billy had seen a puff of smoke following the rifle shot.  Then Billy turned toward Eddie.

“Hit bad?” he asked.

“Yep, I guess so,” said Eddie.  “What’ll we do?  Hide up here, or ride back after the others?”

Another shot rang out above them, although Billy had been watching for a target at which to shoot again—­a target which he had been positive he would get when the man rose to fire again.  And Billy did see the fellow at last—­a few paces from where he had first fired; but not until the other had dropped Eddie’s horse beneath him.  Byrne fired again, and this time he had the satisfaction of seeing a brown body rise, struggle a moment, and then roll over once upon the grass before it came to rest.