The binocular was passed from hand to hand until all had had a turn, then the column set into motion again.
A few miles farther on, when all nature but a few streamers of cloud hanging low over the western horizon was enveloped in pearly grays, the horsemen drew rein in an amphitheater formed by low, rugged hills.
Portions of the valley floor were overrun with dense thickets, and on the gray, rocky ridges above were groups of cactus and other plants.
“A jolly nice place to spend the night,” exclaimed Don.
“Fine!” agreed Sam.
“Yes,” drawled Dave as he dismounted and stretched his weary limbs. “And I do hope that it will be a quiet and restful one.”
CHAPTER XII
RIFLE SHOTS
With all the skill and celerity which long experience had given them, the Rangers began their preparations for the long hours before them. The boys, too, got busy. Immediately after attending to the wants of their mustangs, the three, using the leather buckets they always carried, brought water from the river. Then fuel was gathered and a fire started.
It was Dave Brandon’s turn to cook for his companions. Though very often slow in his movements, the stout, round-faced historian always managed to cast aside this tendency when anything called for action. Now at work among the pots and pans he stepped about with a lightness and agility which scarcely seemed compatible with his avoirdupois.
“You’re a wonder, Dave,” declared Don.