"How did you get here?"
"Strayed from my party."
"And they are——"
"Gone on. Gimme suthin' to eat!"
"Take him back to camp and hand him over to Sanchez. He'll know what to do," said the surgeon to one of the men. "Well, Blunt," he continued, addressing the leader, "you're saved—but your nine men in buckram have dwindled down to one, and not a very creditable specimen at that," he said, as his eyes followed the retreating Dumphy.
"I wish it were all, doctor," said Blunt simply; "I would be willing to go back now, but something tells me we have only begun. This one makes everything else possible. What have you there?"
One of the men was approaching, holding a slip of paper with ragged edges, as if torn from some position where it had been nailed.
"A notiss—from a tree. Me no sabe," said the ex-vaquero.
"Nor I," said Blunt, looking at it; "it seems to be in German. Call Glohr."
A tall Swiss came forward. Blunt handed him the paper. The man examined it.