In the party of sixteen there were only three horses, ridden by the officers. The prisoners had been compelled to tramp over the desert, the mountains, and valleys. The wrists of each captive were bound behind his back.
A tough-looking, desperate lot they were, taken all together. There were Mexicans and men with Indian blood in their veins among them. They had weather-beaten, leathery, bearded faces. Many of them had a hangdog expression. Their eyes were shiftless and full of treachery.
It was a most important capture for Curry, as there were among those men desperate characters for whose apprehension rewards had been offered. In short, it was a round-up of criminals that would make Curry’s name known as that of a wonderfully successful officer of the law. He was proud of his accomplishment, although he regretfully admitted to himself that he deserved very little credit for it. He and his two companions had already been well paid by Frank Merriwell.
Now, with his weapons ready, Curry was watching the prisoners, while his two companions sought for water in the bed of the creek.
“How are you hitting her, Bill?” he called.
“She’s moist, Pete,” answered one of the diggers. “There’s water here.”
“It takes a right good while for her to gather in the hole,” said the other digger. “If we makes a hole big enough, we will have some in an hour or so.”
Curry took a look at the sky, the mountains, and the westering sun.
“Well, I opines we stops here a while,” he said. “We may as well.”
A big, burly fellow among the captives carelessly stalked toward Curry, who watched him with a keen eye.