"Then you have seen him?"
"Seen who? Who are you, anyway?"
"Me, I am Ramon Ortego, of Sonora. The Señor Jim is my friend. I would find him."
"Well, if your friend sports a black Stetson and a dam' bad eye and performs with a short-barreled .45, he rode in this afternoon just about a hour behind three other fellas. They lit out into the dry spot. Reckon you'll find your friend out there, if the coyotes ain't got to him."
Ramon limped to the rail and untied Dex. Then he mounted his own horse.
"Dex," he said softly, riding alongside, "where is the Señor Jim?"
The big buckskin swung his head round and sniffed Ramon's hand. Then he plodded down the street toward the desert. At the tank Ramon let his horse drink. Dex, like a great dog, sniffed the back trail on which he had come, plodding through the night toward the spot where he knew his master to be.
Ramon, burdened with dread and weariness, rode with his hands clasped round the saddle-horn. The Señor Jim, his Señor Jim, had found those whom he sought. He had not come back. Ramon was glad that he had filled the canteen. If the man who had killed his Señor Jim had escaped, he would follow him even as he had followed Waring. And he would find him. "And then I shall kill him," said Ramon simply. "He does not know my face. As I speak to him the Señor Jim's name I shall kill him, and the Señor Jim will know then that I have been faithful."
The big buckskin plodded on across the sand, the empty stirrups swinging. Ramon's gaze lifted to the stars. He smiled wanly.
"I follow him. Wherever he has gone, I follow him, and he will not lose the way."