toward the well and the shining plain beyond, there would be reason for it.  But when the sun lost its heat and the wind died down Yaqui took long and careful surveys westward from the high points on the trail.  Sunset was not far off, and there in a bare, spotted valley lay Coyote Tanks, the only waterhole between Papago Well and the Sonoyta Oasis.  Gale used his glass, told Yaqui there was no smoke, no sign of life; still the Indian fixed his falcon eyes on distant spots looked long.  It was as if his vision could not detect what reason or cunning or intuition, perhaps an instinct, told him was there.  Presently in a sheltered spot, where blown sand had not obliterated the trail, Yaqui found the tracks of horses.  The curve of the iron shoes pointed westward.  An intersecting trail from the north came in here.  Gale thought the tracks either one or two days old.  Ladd said they were one day.  The Indian shook his head.

No farther advance was undertaken.  The Yaqui headed south and traveled slowly, climbing to the brow of a bold height of weathered mesa.  There he sat his horse and waited.  No one questioned him.  The rangers dismounted to stretch their legs, and Mercedes was lifted to a rock, where she rested.  Thorne had gradually yielded to the desert’s influence for silence.  He spoke once or twice to Gale, and occasionally whispered to Mercedes.  Gale fancied his friend would soon learn that necessary speech in desert travel meant a few greetings, a few words to make real the fact of human companionship, a few short, terse terms for the business of day or night, and perhaps a stern order or a soft call to a horse.

The sun went down, and the golden, rosy veils turned to blue and shaded darker till twilight was there in the valley.  Only the spurs of mountains, spiring the near and far horizon, retained their clear outline.  Darkness approached, and the clear peaks faded.  The horses stamped to be on the move.

“Malo!” exclaimed the Yaqui.

He did not point with arm, but his falcon head was outstretched, and his piercing eyes gazed at the blurring spot which marked the location of Coyote Tanks.

“Jim, can you see anything?” asked Ladd.

“Nope, but I reckon he can.”

Darkness increased momentarily till night shaded the deepest part of the valley.

Then Ladd suddenly straightened up, turned to his horse, and muttered low under his breath.

“I reckon so,” said Lash, and for once his easy, good-natured tone was not in evidence.  His voice was harsh.

Gale’s eyes, keen as they were, were last of the rangers to see tiny, needle-points of light just faintly perceptible in the blackness.

“Laddy!  Campfires?” he asked, quickly.

“Shore’s you’re born, my boy.”

“How many?”

Ladd did not reply; but Yaqui held up his hand, his fingers wide.  Five campfires!  A strong force of rebels or raiders or some other desert troop was camping at Coyote Tanks.