drifted to the purpose in hand, and a dry humor
lit his eyes.

"Eh, man, but it's a shameful waste, spilling good spirit," he said,
addressing no one in particular. "Governments are always
prodigal--except with pay."

One of the troopers sniggered.

"Guess we could spill some of it, sergeant," he declared meaningly.

"Spill it!" The sergeant grinned. "That isn't the word, boy. Spill
don't describe the warm trickle of good liquor down a man's throat.
Say, I mind----"

The other trooper broke in.

"Fyles 'ud spill champagne," he cried in disgust. "A man like that
needs seeing to."

The sergeant shook his head.

"Fyles would spill anything or anybody that required spilling, so he
gets his nose to windward of the game. He's right, too, in this
God-forgotten land. If we didn't spill, we'd be right down and out,
and our lives wouldn't be worth a second's purchase. No, boys, it
breaks our hearts to spill--but we got to do it--or be spilt
ourselves."

The man shook his reins and bustled the great sorrel under him. The
animal's response was a lengthening of stride which left his
companions hard put to it to keep pace.

The brief talk was closed. It had been a moment of relaxed tension.
Now, once more, every eye was fixed on the shimmering skyline. They
were eagerly looking out for the southern trail.

Half an hour later its yellow, sandy surface lay beneath their feet,
an open book for the reading.

All three leaped from the saddle and began a close examination of it,
while their sweating horses promptly regaled themselves with the ripe,
tufty grass at the trail side.

Sergeant McBain narrowly scrutinized the wheel tracks, estimating the
speed at which the last vehicle to pass had been traveling. The
blurred hoofmarks of the horses warned him they had been driven hard.

"We're behind 'em, boys," he declared promptly, "an' their gait says
they're taking no chances."

Further down the trail one of the troopers answered him:

"There's four saddle horses with 'em," he said thoughtfully. "Two
shod, and two shod on the forefeet only. Guess, with the teamster,
that makes five men. Prairie toughs, I'd guess."

The sergeant concurred, while they continued their examination.

Then the third man exclaimed sharply--

"Here!" he cried, picking something up at the side of the trail.

The others joined him at once.

He was quietly tearing open a half-burned cigarette, the tobacco
inside of which was still moist.