Frawley returned to consciousness to find himself in the hut of a half-breed Indian, who was forcing a soup of herbs between his lips.
Two days later he regained his strength sufficiently to reach a ranch owned by Englishmen. Fitted out by them, he started at once to return to El Paso; to take up the unending search anew.
In the late afternoon, tired and thirsty, he arrived at a shanty where a handful of Mexican children were lolling in the cool of the wall. At the sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shrieking for assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, his hand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled in the doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following her glance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. He took a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield.
At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry:
"Who's that?"
Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying:
"Hands up. It's me, Bucky, and I've got you now!"
"Frawley!"
"That's it, Bucky—Hands up!"
Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly.