lder, they journey till near
noon, when a dark object, seen a little to the right, attracts them.
Not to surprise, for they well know what it is--a grove. They can tell,
too, that the trees composing it are oaks, of the species known as
black-jack. Notwithstanding their stunted growth, the black-jacks are
umbrageous, and give good shade. Though the sun has not yet reached
meridian, its rays are of meridian heat, and strike down with fiery
fervour on the surface of the parched plain.

This determines them to seek the shelter of the grove, and there make
their noontide halt. It is a little but of their way; but, far as they
can see ahead, no other spot offers a chance of protection against the
burning beams.

The grove is a mere copse, covering scarce half an acre, and the topmost
branches rise but a few feet above their heads. Still is there shade,
both for them and their animals; and cover, should they require to
conceal themselves--the last a fortunate circumstance, as is soon
proved. Equally fortunate their not having need to kindle a fire. In
their haversacks they carry provisions already cooked.

Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make
them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves
along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and
follow it with a smoke.

With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which
remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort
them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his
stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this.

As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the
black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not
the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so,
there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte
or leaving the Llano Estacado alive.

Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place--at least none caused by
human kind--they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now
conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the
future.

Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins
to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of
continuing their journey. They have "unhitched" the mules, led them out
to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to
remount, w