In the middle of May Jimmie rode down toward the border, to see how some of the pack-mules in pasture upon a ranch were getting along. There was likely to be need of them soon, for the Indians certainly were going to break out.
It was an all-day ride. The pasture was in some bottoms among the hills, where there was good water and grass; so he cooked his own supper and prepared to sleep out, beneath the stars.
He was just about to turn in, under his blanket, when he heard Chiquito snort. Chiquito was his horse, picketed out to graze. The snort might mean mountain lion, Mexican leopard, wolf, deer, or——!
“What is it, Chiquito?”
Chiquito’s head was up, his ears pricked, he was staring into the south. He knew a heap, Chiquito did.
Jimmie gazed, too, in the same direction. And there, far to the southwest, across the Mexican line, he saw a red gleam on a high hill. A signal fire, sure: Indian signal!
Jimmie scrambled to his feet and stood peering intent. Presently the gleam was broken—and then repeated. Indians down there were signalling for other Indians to answer. That was plain. Even Chiquito had known. He was Indian wise.
Jimmie swept the dark horizon again and again, to catch the answer, but none appeared. His view from the camp was not very good; but he must find out what was going on; accordingly he snatched up his blanket and ran through the brush to the crest of the slope above him.
Here he found the right spot, and squatted, with his blanket wrapped around him, to wait. He did not dare to build a fire, lest it be seen.