"Go ahead, you fellers," ordered Hopalong as some of his friends went first down the trail after the two sent to the camp for the horses. "Come on, Sanchez! Fall in there!"
When the procession reached the bottom of the trail Buck halted it to wait for the horses and his prisoners took one more look around.
"Say, Peters, where's th' cayuses we had in that corral?" asked Hall, surprised.
"Oh, we got them out th' first night—we wasn't taking no chances," replied the foreman. "They're somewhere near th' camp now."
As the horse herd was driven up Sanchez made his last play. All were intent upon tightening cinches, the more intent because of the impending and disagreeable task, when he slipped like a shadow through the group and throwing himself across a likely looking pinto (he knew the horse), headed in a circular track for the not too distant chaparral.
"Take him, Red!" shouted Buck, who was the first to recover.
Red's rifle leaped to his shoulder and steadied; in three more jumps the speedy pinto would have shielded Sanchez, clinging like a burr to the further side; but the rifle spoke once and the fleeing Mexican dropped and lay quiet on the sand.
Hopalong rode out to him and glancing at the still form, wheeled and returned. "Got him clean, Red."
A group of horsemen rode eastward towards the chaparral and as it was about to enclose them one of the riders bringing up the rear turned in his saddle and looked back at two dangling forms outlined against the darker background of the frowning mesa, two where he had expected to see three.