“Yes, there is,” said the captain. “There’s a tenaja that’s so high up and so hidden that it’s only known to one other man besides me, and he’s an Indian. It’s less than an hour from the tenaja that Richford will take his party to. And we’re sure of finding water there. It never dries up this early.”
“Get me to young Hoff, then, Captain. You’re in command from the moment we land.”
It was broad day when the keel pushed softly into the muddy bottom of a long, shallow arm of the lake. Captain Funcke rose, stretched the kinks out of his back, and jumped ashore.
“You say I’m in command?” he inquired.
“Absolute.”
“Then you roll up under that mesquite and fall asleep. I’m going to cast about for their trail.”
To the worn-out oarsman, it seemed only a few moments later that an insistent grip on his shoulder aroused him. But the overhead sun, whose direct rays were fairly boiling the sweat out of him, harshly corrected this impression.
“I’ve found their boat,” said Captain Funcke. “The trail heads for the Pintos. They’re traveling heavy. I don’t believe they’re twenty-four hours ahead of us.”
Average Jones stumbled to his feet. “I’m ready,” he said.
“It’s a case of travel light.” The hunter handed over a small bag of food and a large canteen full of water. He himself packed a much larger load, including two canteens and a powerful field-glass. Taking a shotgun from the boat, he shouldered it, and set out at a long, easy stride.