The fires were made, grub cooked and as night settled down all prepared for much-needed rest.
"Well, another day or two and we ought to catch up to 'em," observed
Bud, as he prepared to turn in with the others.
"That's right," agreed Yellin' Kid. "They can't have traveled any faster than we did, and we took a shorter trail."
The night passed without any incidents of moment, though Nort nearly gave a needless alarm when he sprang up, declaring that he was being "roped" in the darkness.
But a light revealed that only a harmless snake was crawling over his neck, an unpleasant enough sensation as you doubtless will admit, but one not necessarily disastrous.
"Burr-r-r-r!" shuddered Nort, when he saw that it was a snake, and not a lariat that had rasped him. "I'd almost rather it was a lasso! I hate snakes!"
Then sleep was resumed.
The gray, cold and somewhat cheerless dawn was breaking over the temporary camp when, as Buck Tooth toddled over to replenish the fire for breakfast, there came sharp cracks of rifles from the surrounding rocks and scrub underbrush, and the old Indian fell.
"Yaquis!" yelled Nort, springing for his gun.
"Ambushed!" cried Bud.