“Mexicano!” he ejaculated.
“Sho’ is!” agreed Big John. “I’ll bet my hoss it’s that bird who tried to steal your tablet, boys!”
Sid and Scotty fumbled for their hunting binoculars. A moment later they had trained them on the man.
“It’s him, John, all right!” cried Sid. “Now what do we do?”
The rider in the serapé answered that question himself, for, wheeling his horse, he galloped off at full speed.
“Ride, fellers! Burn it up!” roared Big John. “We got about no time to git in thar an’ water our hosses. He’ll be back, right sudden, with the hull b’ilin’ of drunken Injuns!”
CHAPTER IV
PINACATE
IN a lather of foam the four horses raced in to the deserted Papago village. ’Dobe houses with small blunt chimneys dotted the hillside, but there was not so much as a dog in sight. The well was easy to find—a cube of palings built around a curbstone to keep wandering burros from falling in. It topped a low knoll and had a primitive windlass lowering a bucket into its depths.
Ten minutes of sweating activity followed, Sid and Scotty scanning the hills anxiously while each horse drank his fill; the two dogs lapped up a hatful from Big John’s sombrero; then all the canteens were filled.
“Now roll yore tails, boys!” urged Big John, flinging himself up on the white mustang. Sid looked to his stirrups and mounted the pinto in a running jump. Blaze and Ruler barked excitedly as the horses clattered up a steep slope that led through a gap in the hills. What might be on the other side of that ridge!