“I hope everything is all right with Jimmy,” declared Bob. “He’s too jolly nice a chap to be in any serious scrape.”
“That’s so, Bob, but the Rangers are going to hear all about him from me.”
Owing to the hard traveling the two relapsed into silence. The ponies climbed slowly over a series of rounded hills, and in single file pushed their way through deep ravines choked up with vegetation.
The heat and sultriness seemed to be increasing, though the strata of cloud on the horizon, so faint as to be scarcely discernible, remained practically stationary.
“Oh, for a nice breath of air,” said Tom at last. He looked at the steaming mustangs compassionately. “Honest, it seems to be harder on these poor beasts than it is on us.”
At the same point where they had reached the boundary of Mexico, they crossed the Rio Grande and entered the United States.
After taking a good rest under the pleasant shade of a grove of cottonwoods the two headed in a northwesterly direction, riding over a rugged, barren country.
On one of the hills they halted to look back in the direction of the little border settlement situated at the terminus of the railroad. It was hidden from view, however, by intervening ridges, though its presence could be easily detected by faint clouds of smoke hovering above it.
“That’s the last sign of civilization for a few days, Tom,” remarked Bob.
Once more they jogged along in silence, taking many a glance at the threatening-looking sky.