"What, with the bunch howling like a pack of coyotes? No, I didn't hear a horse breathe."
"I did," chimed in Stacy.
"Did what?" queried Ned, turning on him sharply. Rector had not heard the fat boy approach them.
"Heard the big cowboy breathe. He wheezed like a leaky steam engine."
Tad and the guide burst out laughing.
"Why, boy, we weren't talking about the cowboy. We were speaking of one of the bronchos. Tad says he is wind-broken."
"Huh!" grunted Stacy, strolling off with hands thrust in his pockets, chin on his breast. "When I'm not right I'm always wrong," he muttered. "Mostly wrong."
They did not see the lad again for more than an hour. The rest of the party gathered under the tent they had first erected, where they now fell to discussing their late visitors, next turning to their plans for the morrow.
"Do we follow the same course when we next start?" asked the Professor.
"Not quite. We veer a little more to the west, until we string the San Antonio Range. When we leave there, if you conclude to go on, we shall head southward toward Death Valley. I understand you are willing to penetrate it a little way."