"You mean——"
"That I don't like the looks of it. If there's an insurrection in Mexico, those fellows are after no good on this side of the border. They may be some band of cut-throats, who are taking advantage of the disturbances to raise Cain."
"Good gracious," exclaimed Jack, "and the professor's just injured himself so that we can't move him for some time anyhow."
Coyote Pete turned sharply on the boy.
"What's he done?"
"Broken his ankle, or, at any rate, seriously sprained it."
Pete's rejoinder to this was a long whistle of dismay. He said nothing, however, but once more applied the glasses to his eyes. Jack saw him gnaw his moustache, as he gazed out over the desert. The dust-cloud was quite close now—not more than a mile away. The boys, with their naked eyes, could easily catch the moving glint of metal.
"Well, Pete, what do you think?" inquired Jack eagerly, as the cowpuncher at length set down the glasses.
"That we're in Dutch," was the expressive rejoinder.