yo. He had had excuse enough.

Would he take them to Sonora--to the prison? Or would he wait until they
were in some hidden fastness of the Agua Fria, and there kill them and
leave them to the coyotes? The youth Ramon knew that the two little
canvas sacks of gold were cleverly tied in the huge tapaderas of his
uncle's saddle. Who would think to look for them there?

The gringo had said that they would ride to the ranchito of Juan Armigo.
How easily the gringo had tricked them at the very moment when they
thought they were safe! Yet he had not asked about the stolen money. The
ways of this gringo were past comprehension.

Waring paid scant attention to the Mexicans, but he glanced continuously
from side to side of the canon, alert for a surprise. The wounded man,
Vaca, was known to him. He was but one of the bandits. Ramon, Vaca's
nephew, was not of their kind, but had been led into this journey by
Vaca that the bandit might ride wide when approaching the ranchos and
send his nephew in for supplies.

The pack on Ramon's saddle rode too lightly to contain anything heavier
than food. There was nothing tied to Vaca's saddle but a frayed and
faded blanket. Yet Waring was certain that they had not cached the gold;
that they carried it with them.

At noon they watered the horses midway up the canon. As they rode on
again, Waring noticed that Vaca did not thrust his foot clear home in
the stirrup, but he attributed this to the other's condition. The
Mexican was a sick man. His swarthy face had gone yellow, and he leaned
forward, clutching the horn. The heat was stagnant, unwavering. The pace
was desperately slow.

Despite his vigilance, Waring's mind grew heavy with the monotony. He
rolled a cigarette. The smoke tasted bitter. He flung the cigarette
away. The hunting of men had lost its old-time thrill. A clean break and
a hard fight; that was well enough. But the bowed figures riding ahead
of him: ignorant, superstitious, brutal; numb to any sense of honor. Was
the game worth while? Yet they were men--human in that they feared,
hoped, felt hunger, thirst, pain, and even dreamed of vague successes to
be attained how or when the Fates would decide. And was this squalid
victory a recompense for the risks he ran and the hardships he endured?

Again Waring heard the Voice, as though from a distance, and yet the
voice was his own: "You will turn back from the hunting of men."

"Like hell I will!" muttered Waring.

Ramon, w