The east was streaked with pink and orange when The Kid and Harry Thomas rode into the sleeping town of Mariposa. The little Mexican city, they discovered, however, was not entirely asleep.
At the northern edge of the city, on the stretch of sand between the huddled adobes and the sandy waters of the Rio, things had taken place.
Harry and The Kid rode up to see a camp fire twinkling in the bottom of an arroyo just out of sight of Mariposa. Near it was the herd of six hundred steers, some down and resting, others milling restlessly about under the watchful eyes of three shadowy riders.
"Are those the don's men?" asked Harry in astonishment.
"Too far north," chuckled The Kid. "Look down by the fire!"
Tied securely with lariat rope, four figures reclined near the smoking embers. They were not Americans. The two grinning newcomers saw that, even before they made out their swarthy faces. The prisoners wore the dirty velvet jackets and big sombreros of Mexico.
"Theah's the don's men," said The Kid, laughing. "Come on!"
He rode toward one of the mounted shadows and whistled softly. The man turned. It was just light enough to make out his features. It was Anton.
"By golly, Kid," he yelped out. "Yo're here at last! We'd about give yuh up!"
"I see that yo' didn't wait fo' me," returned the Texan, smiling.