l waste.

"But there is a trail; you could not become lost?"

"Well, yer might call it a trail, tho' thar ain't much left of it after
a sand storm. I reckon thar ain't so many as could follow it any time
o' year, but Matt knows the way all right--you don't need to worry none
about that. He's drove many a load along yere--hey, Matt?"

"You bet; I've got it all marked out, the same as a pilot on the
Missouri. Ye see that sway-back ridge yonder?" pointing with his whip
into the distance ahead. "That's what I'm headin' for now an' when I
git thar a round rock will show up down a sorter gully. Furst time I
came over yere long with Lacy, I wrote all these yere things down."

Conversation ceased, the drear depression of the scene resting heavily
on the minds of all three. Moore sat humped shapelessly in his seat,
permitting the horses to toil on wearily, the wagon rumbling along
across the hard packed sand, the wheels leaving scarcely a mark behind.
Sikes stared gloomily out on his side, the rifle still between his
knees, his jaws working vigorously on a fresh chew of tobacco. Stella
looked at the two men, their faces now clearly revealed in the
brightening dawn, but the survey brought little comfort. Sikes was
evidently of wild blood--a half-breed, if his swarthy skin and high
cheek bones meant any characteristics of race--scarcely more than a
savage by nature, and rendered even more decadent by the ravages of
drink. He was sober enough now, but this only left him the more morose
and sullen, his bloodshot eyes ugly and malignant. The girl shrank
from him as a full realisation of what the man truly was came to her
with this first distinct view.

Moore was a much younger man, his face roughened, and tanned, to almost
the colour of mahogany, yet somehow retaining a youthful look. He was
not unprepossessing in a bold, daring way; a fellow who would seek
adventure, and meet danger with a laugh. He turned as she looked at
him, and grinned back at her, pointing humorously to a badly
discoloured eye.

"Friend o' yours gave me that," he admitted, quite as a matter of
course. "Did a good job, too."

"A friend of mine?" in surprise.

"Sure; you're a friend o' Jim Westcott, ain't yer? Lacy said so, and
Jim's the laddy-buck who whaled me."

"Mr. Westcott! When?"

"Last night. You see it was this way. I caught him hanging round the
office at La Rosita, an' we had a fight. I don't just know what I did
to him,