wading to their waists in the water, their
horses left bunched on the south bank, and finally crawled out into a
bunch of mesquite. As they crept along through the darkness, whatever
doubts Keith might have previously felt regarding the presence on the
island of the party sought, were dissipated by the unmistakable noise
made by numerous horses in the corral. Slowly, testing each step as
they advanced, so no sound should betray them, the four men reached the
shelter of the stockade. The older of the "Bar X" men lifted himself by
his hands, and peered cautiously over.

"Eight hosses in thar," he announced soberly; then turned to Keith.
"Say, Jack, what do you figure this shebang to be, anyhow? You don't
reckon it's old Sanchez's outfit, do yer?"

"Likely as not, Joe, though I never saw him around here."

Joe filled his cheek with tobacco, staring about through the darkness.

"Wall, if that ol' cuss is yere now we'uns is sure in fer a fight," he
commented positively.

They rounded the corral fence on hands and knees, crawled into a bunch
of bushes somewhat to the rear of the silent, desolate-appearing cabin,
and lay down flat behind a pile of saddles, from which position they
could plainly discern the rear door. There was no movement, no evidence
anywhere that a living soul was about the place. Keith could barely
distinguish that it was Bristoe lying next to him.

"Had their camp over there in the corner of the corral when I was here
before," he said in a whisper. "Where do you suppose they can be now?"

The wary scout lifted his head, sniffing into the darkness like a
pointer dog.

"West o' ther cabin thar, out o' ther wind, most likely. I smell
tobacco."

Even as the words left his lips a man came sauntering slowly around the
eastern corner, his outlines barely visible, but the red glow of a
pipe bowl showing plainly. He stopped, directly facing them, yawning
sleepily, and then turned the other corner. Another moment, and they
distinctly heard a voice:

"Hustle up thar now, Manuel, an' turn out; it's your watch; wake up,
damn yer--maybe that'll bring yer ter life."

The remedy applied to the sleeper must have been efficacious, as,
an instant later, another figure slouched into view, the new arrival
rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other clutching a short-barrelled
gun. From the high peak of his hat it was evident this new guard was
a Mexican. He walked to the corner, glanced along the east side wall
to