ed. For a
mile it was distinct, and then disappeared as though the riders had
separated.

"Well," said Billy, as the others drew around him for consultation,
"they'd be goin' to the hills there. They was Pimans--Esteban's tribe.
They got her up there in the hills somewheres. Let's split up an'
search the hills for her. Whoever comes on 'em first'll have to do
some shootin' and the rest of us can close in an' help. We can go in
pairs--then if one's killed the other can ride out an' lead the way back
to where it happened."

The men seemed satisfied with the plan and broke up into parties of two.
Eddie Shorter paired off with Billy Byrne.

"Spread out," said the latter to his companions. "Eddie an' I'll ride
straight ahead--the rest of you can fan out a few miles on either side
of us. S'long an' good luck," and he started off toward the hills, Eddie
Shorter at his side.

Back at the ranch the Mexican vaqueros lounged about, grumbling. With no
foreman there was nothing to do except talk about their troubles. They
had not been paid since the looting of the bank at Cuivaca, for Mr.
Harding had been unable to get any silver from elsewhere until a few
days since. He now had assurances that it was on the way to him; but
whether or not it would reach El Orobo was a question.

"Why should we stay here when we are not paid?" asked one of them.

"Yes, why?" chorused several others.

"There is nothing to do here," said another. "We will go to Cuivaca. I,
for one, am tired of working for the gringos."

This met with the unqualified approval of all, and a few moments
later the men had saddled their ponies and were galloping away in the
direction of sun-baked Cuivaca. They sang now, and were happy, for they
were as little boys playing hooky from school--not bad men; but rather
irresponsible children.

Once in Cuivaca they swooped down upon the drinking-place, where, with
what little money a few of them had left they proceeded to get drunk.

Later in the day an old, dried-up Indian entered. He was hot and dusty
from a long ride.

"Hey, Jose!" cried one of the vaqueros from El Orobo Rancho; "you old
rascal, what are you doing here?"

Jose looked around upon them. He knew them all--they represented the
Mexican contingent of the riders of El Orobo. Jose wondered what they
were all doing here in Cuivaca at one time. Even upon a pay day it never
had been the rule of El Orobo to allow more than four men at a time to
come to tow