It was on the twelfth day of the hunt that the sheep-herder found them. They were cinching up the packs after the noon rest when he rode up on a burro. He was dust-coated and both he and the burro were panting.
"I've seen her! I've seen the señorita!" he shouted as he clambered stiffly from the burro.
The three Americans stood rigid.
"Where? How? When?" came from three heat-cracked mouths.
The Mexican started to answer, but his throat was raw with alkali dust and his voice was scarcely audible. DeWitt impatiently thrust a canteen into the little fellow's hands.
"Hurry, for heaven's sake!" he urged.
The Mexican took a deep draught.
"The night after you left I moved up into the peaks, intending to cross the range to lower pastures next day. A big storm came up and I made camp. Then an Indian in a blanket rode up to me and asked me if I was alone. I sabed him at once. 'But yes, señor,'" I answered, "'except for the sheep!'"
"But Miss Tuttle! The señorita!" shouted DeWitt.
The Mexican glanced at the tired blue eyes, the strained face, pityingly.