And this longing was soon gratified. Clumps of cottonwood began to be encountered and beyond the horsemen could see a line of timber stretching off in a northeasterly direction. This they knew marked the course of one of the tributaries of the Rio Grande.
Even Cranny Beaumont uttered a sigh of satisfaction when the mustangs, their shaggy brown-patched coats flecked with foam, finally threaded a passageway leading into this thick brake, where grateful shade at last shielded them from the sun’s hot rays.
“Ah, this is a jolly nice change!” he remarked, wiping his perspiring face.
“I should say so,” murmured Don Stratton, still too much of a tenderfoot to be enjoying the situation with as keen a relish as his companions.
“We’ll give our nags a chance to rest at the first likely place, boys,” announced Alvin.
To the lads it didn’t look as though any “likely place” could be found. The cottonwoods, willows, prickly pears and mesquite were so densely matted together that progress became slow and difficult. Occasionally a streak of light trailed over the ground, touching up with a golden luster vegetation which lay in its path.
Had the boys been alone it is doubtful if they could have found their way through the depths of the lonely haunts at this particular point. The Rangers, however, thoroughly familiar with the locality, led the way in single file, following winding paths which only an experienced eye could have detected. It was difficult work, for treacherous roots trailed over the ground, and often low-hanging boughs, pushed aside by riders in advance, snapping back into place smartly lashed those following close behind.
“Well, this is some job, sure enough!” declared Cranny, after a particularly violent impact.
“Never mind, lad,” Alvin called back. “We’ll have it easier in another minute.”
“Thank goodness!” murmured Don.