o scramble across a
_barranca_.

"He went back into the ranch the way we came," replied Artie with some
bitterness.

It was, nevertheless, the wisest thing he could have done. He had not
been identified with this outfit except by Cortinez, and Cortinez was
safe for twelve hours.

We found the Joshua-tree without difficulty.

"Now," said I, "here is the plan. You are to take these papers to Senor
Buck Johnson, at the Box Springs ranch. That's the next ranch on the
fork of the road. Do you remember it?"

"Yes," said Brower, who had waked up and seemed quite sober and
responsible. "I can get to it."

"Wake him up. Show him these papers. Make him read them. Tell him that
Miss Emory and I are in the Bat-eye Tunnel. Remember that?"

"The Bat-eye Tunnel," repeated Artie.

"Why don't _you_ go?" inquired the girl, anxiously.

"I ride too heavy; and I know where the tunnel is," I replied. "If
anybody else was to go, it would be you. But Artie rides light and sure,
and he'll have to ride like hell. Here, put these papers inside your
shirt. Be off!"

Lights were flickering at the ranch as men ran to and fro with lanterns.
It would not take these skilled _vaqueros_ long to catch their horses
and saddle up. At any moment I expected to see the massive doors swing
open to let loose the wolf pack.

Brower ran to my horse--a fool proceeding, especially for an experienced
horseman--and jerked loose the tie rope. Badger is a good reliable cow
horse, but he's not a million years old, and he's got some natural
equine suspicions. I kind of lay a good deal of it to that fool
hard-boiled hat. At any rate, he snorted and sagged back on the rope,
hit a yucca point, whirled and made off. Artie was game. He hung on
until he was drug into a bunch of _chollas_, and then he had to let go.
Badger departed into the distance, tail up and snorting.

"Well, you've done it now!" I observed to Brower, who, crying with
nervous rage and chagrin, and undoubtedly considerably stuck up with
_cholla_ spines, was crawling to his feet.

"Can't we catch him? Won't he stop?" asked Miss Emory. "If he gets to
the ranch, won't they look for you?"

"He's one of my range ponies: he won't stop short of the Gila."

I cast over the chances in my mind, weighing my knowledge of the country
against the probabilities of search. The proportion was small. Most of
my riding experience had been farther north and to the west. Such
obvious hole-ups as the one I had