Hugh Edwards, peering into the darkness, tried to guess which way the Indian had gone. He listened. On every side the mysteries of the desert night drew close. The shadowy bulk of the hills against the stars assumed the shapes of gigantic and awful creatures of some other world. The smell of the desert—the low sigh of a passing breath of air—the stillness—the feel of the wide empty spaces touched him with a strange dread. The wild, weird call of a coyote startled him. Faint and far away, the call was answered. The lonesome cry of an owl was followed by the soft swish of unseen wings. Suddenly, as if he had risen from the ground, Natachee again stood at his horse’s shoulder.
“It is all right,” said the Indian as he mounted, “there is no one at the water hole. We will camp there until daylight.”
After watering their horses and giving them a feed of grain, the two men ate a cold lunch and lay down to rest until the morning. Natachee slept, but his white companion lay with wide-open eyes waiting for the light.
With the first touch of gray in the sky behind the distant Catalinas, the Indian awoke. By the time there was light enough to see, they were in the saddle.
They had not gone far when Natachee reined his horse toward the west and pointing to the ground said:
“They went here, see? And yonder are the Vaca Hills.”
They were nearing the group of low hills that on every side is surrounded by unbroken desert when Natachee, with a low exclamation, suddenly stopped, and, standing in his stirrups, gazed intently ahead.
“What is it?” asked Hugh, trying in vain to see what it was that had attracted the red man’s attention.
“A horse.”
As he spoke, the Indian slipped from his saddle and motioned the white man to dismount.