“What are you going to do?” John Whitley asked as Bill threw a fresh shell into the magazine of his rifle and offered the weapon to him.
“You stand guard till dawn,” Bill replied, “Don’t let one of these hombres leave. The rifle is only to scare them—I don’t expect you to use it. I’m going after that Whackey and get that map back.”
Tom, who had been very thoughtful, spoke up.
“Are you certain that you can trail him?” he asked.
Bill grinned in the light of their rekindled campfire. “He may go a roundabout way,” he stated, “But he is bound to end up at the Spaniard’s camp. That’s where I’ll go. I can locate it. That party must be somewhere behind us, maybe in a cut that’s out of sight of the main pass.”
“What Tom is thinking is that it might not be the Spaniard’s party, I believe,” Cliff said. Tom nodded.
“There is the man—or the men—that runner was sent to find,” Tom suggested.
“That is so,” said Mr. Whitley, “How can you know which party is behind this affair?”
“I don’t,” Bill admitted, “But the Spaniard’s crowd stopped dogging us just before this happened.”
“Perhaps his natives have started trouble—or deserted,” Mr. Whitley hinted.