He was none too soon, for, immediately after he had secreted himself and his horse back of some trees and brush, the steady gleaming of an electric light reflected on the trail along which a horse was heard approaching. Tally placed his coat over his own horse’s head to keep him from calling to his comrade on the trail.
When the stranger’s horse reached the place where the two trails joined, it stopped, turned its head in the direction of the lake and whistled softly. In a moment the reply from one of the ponies hobbled at the lake reached Tally’s ears. He swore under his breath at this unexpected incident, then he had a further surprise.
“Ah, good old Snubby! You’ve told me where to find them,” spoke a young man’s voice, sounding familiar to the Guide.
“Dat’s Range San’son!” was Tally’s thought, as he hastily caught the bridle of his horse’s head and led him out to confront the newcomer.
“Halt!” commanded the Ranger, flashing his light over in the direction of the unexpected horse and rider.
“Is’s onny Tally, Mees’r San’son,” called the Guide.
“Tally! Good for you, old man! Now you can take me to the camp,” replied Sanderson, eagerly.
“Whad wrong, Mees’r San’son, mek you not ride with scouts?” asked the Indian.
“Why, Tally, you took the wrong trail, and I rode all the way down the old Santa Fé Trail only to discover that you had not gone that way. Then I rode all the way back to the Forks and discovered the tracks your horses made down the Cimarron Trail.”
“Mees’r San’son, you say I go wrong way?” gasped Tally, dubiously.