ed Nagger and himself
simultaneously. Evidently he expected a long chase, one from which he
would not return, and light as his outfit was it would grow too heavy.

Then he mounted and rode down the gradual slope, facing the valley and
the black, bold, flat mountain to the southeast. Some few hundred yards
from camp he halted Nagger and bent over in the saddle to scrutinize
the ground.

The clean-cut track of a horse showed in the bare, hard sand. The
hoof-marks were large, almost oval, perfect in shape, and manifestly
they were beautiful to Lin Slone. He gazed at them for a long time, and
then he looked across the dotted red valley up the vast ridgy steps,
toward the black plateau and beyond. It was the look that an Indian
gives to a strange country. Then Slone slipped off the saddle and knelt
to scrutinize the horse tracks. A little sand had blown into the
depressions, and some of it was wet and some of it was dry. He took his
time about examining it, and he even tried gently blowing other sand
into the tracks, to compare that with what was already there. Finally
he stood up and addressed Nagger.

"Reckon we won't have to argue with Abe an' Bill this mornin'," he
said, with satisfaction. "Wildfire made that track yesterday, before
sun-up."

Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horse
followed with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness.

As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor
of the valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for
water. Slone had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washes
in the red earth, but if there had been any water there Wildfire would
have scented it. He had not had a drink for three days that Slone knew
of. And Nagger had not drunk for forty hours. Slone had a canvas
water-bag hanging over the pommel, but it was a habit of his to deny
himself, as far as possible, till his horse could drink also. Like an
Indian, Slone ate and drank but little.

It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of
that wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of
it, and they were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had
only to keep Wildfire's trail. And it was proof of Nagger's quality
that he did not have to veer from the stallion's course.

It was hot down in the lowland. The heat struck up, reflected from the
sand. But it was a March sun, and no more t