ns and valleys of the great South-west.

Just such ruins are to be found in a great many places. We do not even
know how many, and nobody has been able yet to more than guess by whom
they were built or when.

Mere ravines and gorges and canyons would not do for this party. They
must find a regular "pass," down which they could manage to take their
horses and mules and wagons. Even before they halted, several of them
had been looking and pointing toward what Murray had spoken of as "the
western gap."

That was the opening through the ranges which had been for a moment
such a temptation to Steve Harrison.

"It's west'ard, Bill, but it may hev to do for us."

"It may take us down to some lower level, or it may show us a way
south."

"The great Southern Pass is down hereaway, somewhar."

"Farther east than this. We ort to strike it, though, before we cross
the border."

"Mexico ain't a country I'd choose to go inter, ef I hed my own way;
but we've got to go for it this time."

But whatever may have been their reason for seeking Mexico, they were
just now a good deal puzzled as to the precise path by means of which
they might reach it. It was getting late in the day, too, for any kind
of exploration, and the mule-teams looked as if they had done about
enough.

So it came to pass that the ruined village of the forgotten people was
once more occupied.

Did they go into the houses? No, it was the man called Bill who said
it, but all the rest of them seemed to feel just as he did, when he
remarked:

"Sleep in one of them things? No, I guess not. Not even if it was
roofed in. They were set up too long ago to suit me."

That stamped him as an American, for there is no other people in the
world that hate old houses. No real American was ever known to use an
old building of any kind a day longer than he could help. He would as
soon think of wearing old clothes just because they were old.

The ground near the ruins was covered with fragments of stone and
fallen masonry, but there was a good camping-ground between that and
the trees from which Murray and Steve had fired at the buck.

"It's the loneliest kind of a place, Captain Skinner," said Bill, just
after he had helped turn the mules loose on the grass.

"I wish I knew just how lonely it is. I kind o' smell something."

"Do ye, Cap?"

Every such band of men has its "Captain" of some kind, and sometimes
very good discipline and order is kept up.