"Nearly there!" commented the Kid. No one was wasting words now. Breath was too precious. The only sounds heard were the even beats of the ponies' feet on the earth, and the creaking of the saddles. Hawkins was riding well, the Kid saw, even though he did come from the east. To the cowboy all places not west are "east," and so it was that the Kid looked upon Washington.
"Make it?" Nort called to the Kid.
"Sure! Coming to the water hole now."
The Kid's thoughts were racing along, keeping pace with the horses' flying feet. As is the case when one is engaged in work of a monotonous nature, such as riding, one's thoughts seem to whirl about in a circle, the same subjects recurring with regularity. The Kid was thinking about his lost bronco. Then Delton. Then the reward. Then back to the bronco again. And all the while the miles were disappearing behind him.
Suddenly the Kid pulled his mount to a stop.
"Wait!" he cautioned. "Isn't that where we left Bud, just ahead?"
A group of trees rose in front. They had a familiar aspect.
"Sure looks like it!" Hawkins agreed.
"Let's take it easy. Kid, you lead, and go slow."
The three walked their horses toward the trees. As they came nearer, they made certain that they had reached their destination. And just in time. The sky was graying rapidly.