ied by their lariats to drooping _pinon_ bough, stood fifty or
sixty Navajo ponies. The ponies were bridled and saddled. Upon some
were tied lances and on others arms. All were dripping with sweat and
heaving of flank, their knife-marked ears drooping with fatigue; not
more than five minutes could have elapsed since their murderous riders
had left them. Apparently it was an ambush laid for them, and they
were already surrounded. Even the cool Scot shook himself in surprise
to find that he was still alive.

Overcome with terror, the doctor cried: "Turn, Scot! Turn, for
Heaven's sake! It's our only chance to pull for Vegas."

But Scot had been reflecting. With wits sharpened by a thousand perils
and trained in scores of desperate encounters, he answered: "Doc,
you're wrong; dead wrong. We're safe as if we were in Fort Union. If
they were laying for us we'd be dead now. No, they are after bigger
game. They have sighted a big freight outfit coming up from the Pecos,
and are laying for that in the canon. We can slide through without
seeing a buck or hearing a shot. We'll go right on down Entoros, old
boy."

"Scot, you're crazy," said the doctor. "I will not go a step. Let's
run for Vegas. Any instant we may be attacked. Why, damn your fool
soul, they've no doubt got a bead on us this minute."

With a sharp stroke of his whip, Scot started the team into a smart
trot down into the canon. Then he turned to the doctor and quietly
answered: "Doc, you seem to forget that Joe Loving is dying, and that I
_promised_ to fetch you. Reckon you'll have to go!" And down they
went into what seemed the very jaws of death.

But Scot was right. It was a triumph of logic. The Navajos were
indeed lying for bigger game.

And so it happened that, come safely through the canon, out two miles
on the plain they met a train off eight freight teams travelling toward
Vegas. They stopped and gave the freighters warning, told what they
had seen, begged them to halt and corral their wagons. But it was no
use. The freighters thought themselves strong enough to repel any
attack, and drove on into the canon.

None of them came out.

And to this day the traveller through Enteros may see pathetic evidence
of their foolhardiness in a scattered lot of weather-worn and rusted
wheel tires and hub bands.

Before midnight Scot and the doctor reached Sumner, having changed
teams twice at Mexican _placitas_. Covering two hundred a