"LOS TEJANOS!"

The encampment of the returning caravan was in a little pasture well outside the town and it was the scene of bustling activity. Its personnel was different from either of the two trains from the Missouri frontier, for it was made up of traders and travelers from both of the earlier, west-bound caravans. Some of the first and second wagon trains had gone on to El Paso and Chihuahua, a handful of venturesome travelers were to try for the Pacific coast, and others of the first two trains had elected to remain in the New Mexican capital. While in the two west-bound caravans there had been many Mexicans, their number now was negligible. But this returning train was larger than either of the other two, carried much less freight, a large amount of specie, and would drive a large herd of mules across the prairies for sale in the Missouri settlements, which would fan the fires of Indian avarice all along the trail.

Uncle Joe and his brother had been busy all day doing their own work, catching up odds and ends of their Santa Fe connections, and helping friends get ready for the long trip, and they had not given much thought to Patience, whom they believed to be saying her farewells to friends she had made in the city. As the afternoon passed and she and her escort had not appeared, Uncle Joe became a little uneasy; and as the shadows began to reach farther and farther from the wagons he mounted his horse and rode back to Santa Fe to find and join her. It was nearly dark when he galloped back to the encampment and sought his brother, hoping that Patience had made her way to the wagons while he had sought for her in town. He knew that she had not called on any of her friends and that she must have stolen a last ride through the environs of the town. The two men were frankly frightened and hurriedly made the rounds of the wagons and then started for the city. It was dark by then and as they rode by the last camp-fire of the encampment, four villainous Indians loomed up in the light of the little blaze and Uncle Joe recognized them instantly. He drew up quickly.

"Have you seen Patience?" he cried, an agony of fear in his voice. "We can't find her anywhere!"

The Indians motioned for him to go on and they followed him and his brother. When a few score paces from the fire they stopped and consulted, hungrily fingering the locks of their heavy rifles. While they were sketching a plan a Pueblo Indian, following the trail to the camp like a speeding shadow, came up to them and blurted out his fragmentary tale in a mixture of Spanish and Indian.

"Salezar stole white woman on mountain. Put her in carreta and went back to Santa Fe. Tell these people, that her friends will know. Salezar, the son of a pig, stole her on the mountain." He burst into a torrent of words unintelligible and open and shut his hands as he raved.

Finally in reply to their hot, close questioning he told all he knew, his answers interspersed with stark curses for Salezar and pity and anxiety for the angel seÑorita. His words bore the undeniable stamp of sincerity, fitted in with what the anxious group feared, and he was triply bound by the gold pieces crowded into his hands. After another conference, not pointless now, a plan was hurriedly agreed upon and the several parts well studied. The Pueblo was given a commission and loaned a horse, and after repeating what he was to do, shot away into the darkness. Uncle Joe and his brother grudgingly accepted their parts, after Tom had shown them they could help in no other way, and turned back into the encampment, where their hot and eager efforts met with prompt help from their closest friends. Alonzo Webb and Enoch Birdsall, mounted, led four horses out of the west side of the camp and melted into the darkness; several hundred yards from the wagons they turned the led horses over to four maddened Indians and followed them through the night, to enter Santa Fe from the south. Not far behind them a cavalcade rode along the same route, grim and silent. At the little corral where the atejo had put up the Indians got the horses which Turley had loaned them, shook hands with the two traders and listened as the caravan's horses were led off toward the camp.

Armstrong answered the knocks on his door and admitted the Delaware, listened in amazement to the brief, tense statement of fact, strongly endorsed Tom's plans, and eagerly accepted his own part. His caller slipped out, the door closed, and the sounds of walking horses faded out down the street. A few moments later, Armstrong, rifle in hand, slipped out of the house and ran southward.

Captain Salezar, sitting at ease in his adobe house, poured himself another drink of aguardiente and rolled another corn-husk cigarette. Lighting it from the candle he fell to pacing to and fro across the small room. As the raw, potent liquor stimulated his imagination he began to bow to imaginary persons, give orders to officers, and to introduce himself as Colonel Salezar. From the barracks across the corner of the square an occasional burst of laughter rang out, but these were becoming more infrequent and less loud. He heard the grounding gun-butt of the sentry outside his door as the soldier paused before wheeling to retrace his steps over the beat.

The sentry paced along the narrow driveway and stopped at the outer corner of the house to cast an envious glance across at the barracks where he knew that his friends were engaged in a furtive game of monte, which had started before he had gone on duty not a quarter of an hour before. He turned slowly to pace back again and then suddenly threw up his arms as his world became black. His falling firelock was caught as it left his hands, and soon lay at the side of its gagged and trussed owner in the blackness along the base of a driveway wall. Two figures slipped toward the courtyard to the rear of the house and one of them, taking the rifle of his companion, stopped at the corner of the wall at the driveway. The other slipped to the door, gently tried the latch and opened it, one hand hidden beneath the folds of a dirty blanket. The door swung silently open and shut and the intruder cast a swift glance around the room.

Captain Salezar grinned into the cracked mirror hanging on the wall, stiffened to attention, and saluted the image in the glass.

"Colonel Salezar's orders, sir," he declaimed and then, staring with unbelieving eyes at the apparition pushing out onto the mirror, crossed himself, whirled and drew his sword almost in one motion.

The Delaware cringed and pulled at a lock of hair straggling down past his eyes and held out a folded paper, swiftly placing a finger on his lips.

"Por le Capitan despues le Gobernador," he whispered. "Pronto!"

The captain's anger and suspicion at so unceremonious an entry slowly faded, but he did not lower the sword. The Delaware slid forward, abject and fearful, his eyes riveted on the clumsy blade, the paper held out at arm's length. "Por le Capitan," he muttered. "Pronto!"

"You son of swine!" growled Salezar. "You scum! Is this the way you enter an officer's house? How did you pass the sentry? A score of lashes on both your backs will teach you manners and him his duty. Give me that message and stand aside till I call the guard!"

"PerdÓn, Capitan! PerdÓn, perdÓn!" begged the Delaware. "Le Gobernador—" his hands streaked out, one gripping the sword wrist of the captain, the other fastening inexorably on the greasy, swarthy throat well up under the chin. As the grips clamped down the Delaware's knee rose and smashed into the Mexican's stomach. The sword clattered against a wall and the two men fell and rolled and thrashed across the floor.

"Where is she?" grated the Indian as he writhed and rolled, now underneath and now uppermost. "Where is she, you murdering dog?"

They smashed against the flimsy table and overturned it, candle, liquor and all. The candle flickered out and the struggle went on in the darkness.

"Where is she, Salezar? Yore in th' hands of a Texan, you taker of ears! Where is she?"

Salezar was no weakling and although he had no more real courage than a rat, like a rat he was cornered and fighting for his life; but Captain Salezar had lived well and lazily, as his pampered body was now showing evidence. Try as he might he could not escape those steel-like fingers for more than a moment. With desperate strength he broke their hold time and again as he writhed and bridged and rolled, clawed and bit; but they clamped back again as often. His shouts for help were choked gasps and the strength he had put forth in the beginning of the struggle was waning.

The table was now a wreck and they rolled in and over the dÉbris. Salezar made use of his great spurs at every chance and his opponent's clothing was ripped and torn to shreds wet with blood. His fingers searched for his enemy's eyes and missed them, but left their marks on the painted face. They rolled against one wall and then back to the other; they slammed again at the door and back into the wreckage of the table.

"Where is she?" panted the Delaware. "Tell me, Salezar, where is she?"

The captain wriggled desperately and almost gained the top, and thought he sensed a weakened opposition. "Where she will remain!" he choked. "Mistress of the palacio—until he tires—of her. You—cursed Tejano dog!" He drove a spur at his enemy's side, missed, and it became entangled in the rags.

The Delaware, blind with fury, smashed his knee into the soft abdomen and snarled at the answering gasp of pain. "Remember th' prisoners? Near Valencia—Ernest died in the—night. You cut off his ears—and threw his body in a—ditch!" He got the throat hold again in spite of nails and teeth, blows and spurs. "McAllister was shot because he—could not walk. You stole his clothes—cut off his ears and left—his body at th' side of th'—road for the wolves!" He felt the spurs graze his leg and he threw it across the body of the Mexican. "Golpin was shot—other side of Dead Man's Lake. You took—his ears too!" He hauled and tugged and managed to roll his enemy onto his other leg. "On th' Dead Man's Journey—Griffin's brains were knocked out with a—gun butt. His ears were cut off, too!" Hooking his feet together he clamped his powerful thighs in a viselike grip on his enemy. "Gates died in a wagon near—El Paso, of starvation, sickness—an' fright. You got his—ears!"

"As—I'll get—yours!" hoarsely moaned Salezar, again missing with the spurs. "The seÑorita will be happy—in Armijo's arms. After that—the soldiers—can have her!"

The Delaware loosened his leg grip, jerked them up toward the captain's stomach as he hauled his victim down toward them, and clamped them tight again over the soft stomach.

"Yore lies stick—in yore throat—Salezar!" he panted. "An' those murders cry—to heaven; but you'll only—hear th' echoes ringin' through hell—for all eternity. You called th' roll of th' livin'—on that damnable march; I'm—callin' th' roll of th' dead! Yore name comes last! There's many a Texan would give his—chance of heaven to change places—with me, now!" He raised his head in the darkness. "Oh, Ernest, old pardner; I'm payin' yore debt, in full!"

The spurs stabbed in vain, for the Delaware was now well above their flaying range; the nails scoring his face were growing feeble. He shifted the leg hold again and managed to imprison one of Salezar's arms in their grip. Lifting himself from the hips, he released the throat hold and grabbed the Mexican's other arm, thrust it under him and fell back on it as his two hands, free now to work their worst, leaped back under the swarthy chin. The relentless thumbs pressed up and in.

The Blackfoot on guard at the end of the driveway thought he heard the door open and close, but there was no doubt about the labored breathing which wheezed along the dark wall. Stumbling steps faltered and dragged and then the Delaware bumped into him and held to him for a moment.

"Git th' hosses, Hank!" came a mumbled command.

"Thar with Jim an' Zeb," whispered the hunter in surprise. "How'd ye get so wet? Is that blood?"

"Spurred me—I'll be all right—soon's I git breath. He—fought like a—fiend."

"Git his ears?" eagerly demanded the Blackfoot.

"Thar's been ears enough took—already. Come on; she's in th' palacio—with Armijo!"

"Jest what we figgered, damn him!" growled the Blackfoot, leading the way.

In the stable at the rear of the courtyard a decrepit dog, white with age, had barked feebly when its breath permitted, while the fight had raged in the house. The Blackfoot had considered stopping the wheezy warnings, but they did not have power enough to lure him from his watch. He had accepted the lesser of the two evils and remained on guard. As the two Indians crept from the courtyard the aged animal burst into a paroxysm of barking, which exhausted it. To those who knew the captain's dog, its barking long since had lost all meaning, for, as the soldiers said, it barked over nothing. They did not know that the animal dreamed day and night of the days of its youth and strength and now, in its dotage, in imagination was living over again stirring incidents of hunts and fights long past. Gradually it recovered its strength from sounding its barked warnings in vain, and pantingly sniffed the air. Its actions became frantic and the decrepit old dog struggled to its feet, swaying on its feeble legs, its grizzled muzzle pointing toward its master's house. The composite body odor it had known for so many years had changed, and ceased abruptly. Whining and whimpering, the dog searched the air currents, but in vain; the scent came no more. Then, sinking back on its haunches, it raised its gray nose to the sky and poured out its grief in one long, quavering howl of surprising volume.

The sleeping square sprang to life, superstitious terror dominated the barracks. Lights gleamed suddenly and the barracks door opened slowly, grudgingly as frightened soldiers hurriedly crossed themselves. Don Jesu and Robideau pushed hesitatingly to the portal and peered fearsomely into the night. They suddenly cried out, drew their ancient pistols, and fired at two vague figures slinking hurriedly along the side of the house opposite. From the darkness there came quick replies. A coruscating poniard of spiteful flame stabbed into the night. Don Jesu whirled on buckling legs and pitched sidewise to the street. A second stab of sparky flame split the darkness and Robideau reeled back into the arms of his panicky soldiers. As the heavy reports rolled through the town they seemed to be a signal, for on the southern outskirts of Santa Fe gun after gun crashed in a rippling, spasmodic volley. A few stragglers in the all but deserted streets raised a dreaded cry and fled to the nearest shelter. The cry was taken up and sent rioting through the city; doors were doubly barred and the soldiers in the barracks, safer behind the thick mud walls than they would be out in the dark open against such an enemy, slammed shut the ponderous door and frantically built barricades of everything movable.

"Los Tejanos!" rolled the panicky cries. "Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!"

The wailing warning of the coming of a plague could not have held more terror. Gone were the vaunted boastings and the sneers; gone was the swaggering bravado of the dashing caballeros, who had said what they would do to any Texan force that dared to brave the wrath of the defenders of San Francisco de la Santa Fe. Gone was all faith, never too sincere, in ancient escopeta and rusty blunderbuss, now that the occasion was close at hand to measure them against the devil weapons of hardy Texan fighting men, of the breed that had stood off, bloody day after bloody day, four thousand Mexican regulars before a little adobe church, now glorified for all the ages yet to come. To panicky minds came magic words of evil portent; the Alamo and San Jacinto. To evil consciences, bowed with guilt, came burning memories of that sick and starved Texan band that had walked through winter days and shivered through winter nights from Santa Fe to the capital, two thousand miles of suffering, and every step a torture. Texan ears had swung from a piece of rusty wire to feed the cruel conceit of a swarthy tyrant.

"Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!"

At the palacio a human brute recoiled before a barred door between him and a desperate captive, his honeyed cajolings turning to acid on his lying tongue. No longer did he hear the measured tread of the palace guards, who secretly exulted as they fled and left him defenseless.

"Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!"

He dashed through a door to grab his weapons and flee, and in through the open, undefended portal from the square leaped a blood-covered Delaware, an epic of rags and rage, a man so maddened that all thought of weapons save Nature's, had gone from his burning brain. Behind him leaped a Blackfoot, dynamic and deadly as a panther, a Colt pistol in one eager, upraised hand, in the other the cold length of a keen skinning knife. Behind them from a wagon deserted in the square came the sharp crashes of Hawken and Colt, and a shouted battlecry: "Remember th' Alamo! Remember th' Alamo! Texans to th' fore!"

As the Delaware dashed past an open door he caught a flurry of movement, the flare of a pistol and his laughter pealed out in one mad shout as he stopped like a cat and leaped in through the opening. Another flash, another roar, and a burning welt across a shoulder spurred the bloody Nemesis to a greater speed. The wavering sword he knocked aside and near two hundred pounds of fighting, mountain sinew hurled itself behind a driving fist. The hurtling bulk of Armijo crashed against a wall and dropped like a bag of grain as the plunging Delaware whirled to pounce upon it. As he turned, a scream rang out somewhere behind him, through the door he had just entered, a scream vibrant with desperate hope, and he bellowed a triumphant answer. Here was his mission; Armijo was a side issue. The governor, helpless before him, was forgotten and the Delaware whirled through the door bellowing one name over and over again. "Patience! Patience! Patience!"

"Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!" came from the public square.

"Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!" quavered the despairing echo throughout the quaking town, while from the south there came the steady crash of alien rifles, firing harmlessly into the air.

Before him a Blackfoot methodically battered at a door, taking a few quick steps backward and a plunging dive forward. The Delaware shouted again and added the power of his driving weight. There came a splintering crash and the door went in. The Blackfoot whirled and darted to the great portal leading to the square, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a cougar expecting danger at every point. The Delaware scrambled to his feet and gathered a whitefaced woman in his arms, crushing her to his bloody chest. He felt her go suddenly limp and, throwing her across a bare and bleeding shoulder, he drew a Colt repeating pistol and sprang after his Indian ally, not feeling the weight of his precious burden.

Lurid, stabbing rapiers of fire still sprang from the wagon barricade, making death certain to any man who opened the barracks' door. Between their heavy roars the woodwork of the wagon smacked sharply in time to bursts of fire from the barracks' few windows. The Delaware darted from the palacio door and held close to the wall, hidden by the portico and the darkness. As he reached the end of the column-supported roof the Blackfoot bulked out of the night on his horse, and leading four others. The lost-soul call of a loon sounded and changed the deadly wagon into a vehicle of peace and quiet as its Arapahoe defenders slipped away from it. The sudden creaking of saddle leather was followed by the rolling thunder of flying hoofs as the first three horses left the square. A moment's pause and then two more horses galloped through the darkness after the others, the Arapahoe rear guard sitting almost sidewise in their saddles, their long, hot rifles pointing backward to send hotter greetings to whoever might follow.

They raced like gambling fools through the dark night, the Blackfoot leading the way with the instinct of a homing bird. Mile after mile strung out behind them, pastures, gullies, knolls rolling past. While they climbed and dipped and circled they gradually sensed a steady rising of the ground. Suddenly the Blackfoot shouted for them to halt, and the laboring horses welcomed the moment's breathing space. The guide threw himself on the ground and pressed his ear against it. In a moment he was back in the saddle and gave the word to go on again. He had heard no sounds of pursuit and he chuckled as he leaned over close to the Delaware who rode at his flank.

"Nothin' stirrin' behind us, fur's I could make out," he said. "They can only track us by sound in th' dark, at any speed, an' I'm gamblin' they wait fer daylight. Thar scared ter stick thar noses out o' doors this night. How's yore gal?"

Tom's rumbling reply could mean anything and they kept on through the night without further words. The trail had been growing steadily rougher and steeper and the horses were permitted to fall into a swinging lope. Another hour passed and then Hank signalled for a stop. From his lips whistled the crowded, hurried, repeated call of a whip-poor-will. Three times the insistent demand rang out, clear and piercing. At the count of ten an echoing whistle sounded and a light flickered on the trail ahead.

"J'get her?" bawled a voice, tremulous with fear and anxiety, and only a breath ahead of another.

"Hell yes!" roared Hank. "Got Salezar, Don Jesu and Robideau, too; only we left them behind—with thar ears!"

In another moment Uncle Joe and Adam Cooper took the precious burden from the Delaware's numbed arms, someone uncovered the lighted candle lantern, and saddles were thrown on fresh mounts. The Pueblo pushed forward and peered into Patience's face, and his own face broke into smiles. His torrent of mixed Spanish and Indian brought a grin to Hank's painted countenance.

"This hyar shore is good beaver," he chuckled, clapping the Pueblo on the shoulder, "but thar's more good news fer you." He put his mouth close to the Pueblo's ear and whispered: "Yer friend Salezar will be leadin' a percession ter th' buryin' ground. That Delaware thar killed him with his bare hands!"

The Pueblo touched Tom's arm, his hand passing down it caressingly, to be seized in a grip which made him wince; and when Adam Cooper offered him a handful of gold coins the Indian drew himself up proudly and pushed them away.

"For his friends Pablo do what he can," he said in Spanish. "I now take these horses back on the trail to make a puzzle in the sand that will take time to read. Pablo does not forget. Adios!" He vaulted onto his horse, took the lead ropes of the tired mounts, and was lost in the darkness, eager to weave a pattern of hoof marks to mock pursuing eyes.

The little cavalcade pushed on, following a trail that wound along the sides of the mountains, passing many places where a handful of resolute men could check scores. The cold mountain air bit shrewdly, and occasional gusts of wind blustered along the timbered slopes and set the pines and cedars whispering. Higher and higher went the narrow trail, skirting sheer walls of rock on one side, and dizzy precipices on the other; higher and higher plodded the little caravan in single file, following the unhesitant leader.

There came a leaden glow high up on the right. It paled swiftly as a streak of silver flared up behind the jagged crests of the mountains, here and there caught by a snow mantle to gleam in virgin white. On the left lay abysmal darkness, like a lake of ink, and slowly out of it pushed ranks of treetops as the dawn rolled downward and the mountain fogs dissolved in dew. Deep canons, sheer precipices; long streaks on mountain sides where resistless avalanches had scraped all greenery from the glistening rock; green amphitheaters, fit for fairy pageants; velvety knolls and jewels of mountain pastures lay below them, with here and there the crystal gleam of ribbon-like mountain brooks, their waters embarked on a long, depressing journey through capricious oceans of billowy sands and the salty leagues of desert wastes. Birds flashed among the branches, chipmunks chattered furiously at these unheeding invaders of their mountain fastness; high up on a beetling crag a bighorn ram was silhouetted in rigid majesty, and over all lazily drifted an eagle against the paling western sky, symbolical of freedom.

There came the musical tinkle of falling water and Hank stopped, raising his hand. Into the little mountain dell the caravan wound and in a moment muscles tired and cramped from long, hard riding found relief in a score of little duties. While the animals were relieved of saddles and packs and securely picketed, and a fire made of dry wood from a bleached windfall, Hank climbed swiftly up the mountain side for a view of the back trail. Perched on an out-thrust finger of rock high above the dell he knelt motionless, searching with keen and critical eyes every yard of that windswept trail, following it along its sloping length until it shrunk into a hair line across the frowning mountain sides and then faded out entirely. Below him grotesque figures moved about like gnomes performing incantations around a tiny blaze; dwarfed horses cropped the plentiful grass and succulent leaves, and a timid streamer of pale blue smoke arose like a plumb line until the cruising gusts above the treetops tore it into feathery wisps and carried it away. Across the valley the rising sun pushed golden floods of light into crevices, among the rocks, and turned the pines and cedars into glistening cones of green on stems of jet.

"Wall," said a voice below him, "hyar I am. Go down an' feed. See anythin'?"

Hank leaned over and looked down at the climbing figure, whose laborious progress sent a noisy stream of clicking pebbles behind him like sparks from a rocket.

"Nothin' I ain't plumb glad ter see," replied Hank. "This hyar beats th' settlements all ter hell." As Jim's horrible face peered over the edge of the rock balcony Hank eyed it critically and shook his head. "I've seen some plumb awful lookin' 'Rapahoes; but nothin' ter stack up ag'in you. Vermillion mebby is yer favorite color, but it don't improve yer looks a hull lot. Neither does that sorrel juice. How's th' gal?"

"Full o' spunk an' gittin' chipper as a squirrel," answered Jim. "Who's goin' ter git th' blame fer last night's fandango?"

"Four murderin' Injuns, a-plunderin' an' a-kidnappin'," chuckled Hank. "Woodson's goin' ter raise hell about th' hull Cooper fambly bein' stole. Armijo'll keep his mouth shet an' pass th' crime along ter us, an' make a great show o' gittin' us; but," he winked knowingly at his accomplice in the night's activities, "chasin' four desperite Injuns along an open trail, whar his sojers kin spread out an' take advantage o' thar bein' twenty ter one is one thing; chasin' 'em along a trail like this, whar they has ter ride Injun fashion, is a hull lot diff'rent. They've had thar bellies full o' chasin' along Injun trails in th' mountings. Th' Apaches, Utes, an' Comanches has showed 'em it don't pay. Thar's sharpshooters that can't be got at; thar's rollin' rocks, an' ambushes; an' chasin' murderin' Injuns afoot up mounting sides ain't did in this part o' th' country."

"Meanin' we won't be chased?" demanded Jim, incredulously.

"Not meanin' nothin' o' th' kind," growled Hank, spitting into three hundred feet of void. "We killed some of th' military aristo-crazy, as Tom calls 'em, didn't we? We made fools outer th' whole prairie-dog town, didn't we? An' what's worse, we stole th' gal that Armijo war sweet on, an' Tom knocked him end over end—oh, Jim, ye should 'a' seen that! Six feet o' greaser gov'ner a-turnin' a cartwheel in his own house! Chase us? Hell, yes!"

The Arapahoe rubbed his chin. "Fust ye say one thing, then ye say another. What ye mean, Ol' Buffaler?"

"I'm bettin' thar's a greaser army a-poundin' along th' wagon road fer Raton Pass," replied Hank, spitting again with great gusto. "We're a Delaware from Bent's, a Blackfoot from th' Upper Missoury, an' two ugly 'Rapahoes from 'tother side o' St. Vrains, ain't we? Wall, if ye know a fox's den ye needn't foller him along th' ridges." He chuckled again. "We're goin' another way over some Ute trails I knows of."

"But s'posin' they foller us along this trail?"

Hank looked speculatively back along the narrow pathway, with its numerous bends, and then glanced pityingly at his anxious friend. "I jest told ye why they won't; an' if they do, let 'em!"

Ogden looked steadily southward along the trail and suddenly laughed: "Yes; let 'em!"

In the great courtyard of Bent's Fort one evening more than a week later, three trappers sat with their backs against the brass cannon that scowled at the heavy doors. They were planning their winter's trip in the mountains, figuring out the supplies and paraphernalia for a party of four, when Hank, glancing up, saw two people slowly walking along the high, wide parapet on the side toward the Arkansas. He raised an arm, pointing, and his companions, following it with their eyes, saw the two figures suddenly become like one against the moonlit sky.

Hank sighed, bit his lip, and looked down.

"Better figger on a party o' three," he said.