Bill Summers was the speaker.
"He's sharp as a steel trap," volunteered Bellew, "when he wants to be."
"I guess arter that dressing down you giv' him las' night he'll want to be, all right," opined the black-mustached man.
"Guess so," grinned Buck; "if he ain't, it'll be the worse fer him."
As he spoke they topped a little rise. Over in front of them, and on all sides—the desert, vast, illimitable, untrod of man, lay, a desolate expanse of nothingness.
Far, far off could be seen a tiny blue cloud, resting on the horizon—the desert range.
"Thar's whar Jim Bell's mine is, I'll bet a hoss and saddle," said
Bellew reining in his horse and pointing to the distant azure mass.
"Guess you'd win," nodded Red Bill Summers, "and," he added, his keen eyes narrowing to slits he gazed straight ahead, "and thar, I reckon, is Jim Bell himself and his party."
They followed the direction of his gaze. Far off across the glittering ocean of sand and alkali a yellowish cloud—almost vaporish, arose. It seemed to be a sort of water spout on land. It drifted lazily upward. The experienced desert hawks knew it for what it was. The dust cloud raised by a company of travelers.
As their glances rested on it intently, not one of the three figures toping the crest of the little rise, spoke.