Evening was close upon them when Jim suddenly pulled Terry down behind a bush. He pointed to the right and whispered to his chum.
“A man, over there!”
Terry looked, to see a lone traveler encamped in a small hollow some little distance from them. The man was seated beside a small fire, busily engaged in frying something in a small pan. His horse, a beautiful black animal, was grazing on the short grass nearby, and the man’s rifle stood close at hand. Terry turned to Jim with a satisfied air.
“There’s my supper!” he announced, pointing to the pan in the man’s hand.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Jim warned. “We want to be mighty careful who we walk up to.”
“Say, you don’t think every human being in this country belongs to Sackett’s gang, do you?” asked Terry.
“I suppose not,” Jim gave in. “Shall we walk up and announce ourselves?”
“We’ll walk up and reserve a table!” grinned Terry. “That pan excites me; let’s go!”
They advanced toward the man, who did not see them coming until they were barely twenty yards from him. Then he looked up and they saw that he was a Mexican. He gave a slight start and reached for his gun, but allowed his fingers to slide from the stock as he continued to look at them. At the same time the boys recognized him.
“It is Alaroze, the overseer of Senorita Mercedes ranch!” cried Jim, and Terry nodded.