were bandits who had robbed the paymaster of the Ortez Mines. To Waring
there was nothing complicated about the matter. It was his day's work.
The morning sun would be in their faces, but that was not his fault.

As Waring waited in the arroyo the faint clatter of shod hoofs came from
above. He drew close to a cutbank, leaning his shoulder against it
easily. With a slither of sand, the first horse took the pitch, legs
angled awkwardly as he worked down. The second rider followed, the led
horses pulling back.

At the bottom of the arroyo, the Mexicans reined up. The elder, squat,
broad of back, a black handkerchief tied round his thick neck, reached
into his pocket and drew out tobacco and cigarette papers. The other,
hardly more than a boy, urged that they hasten. Fear vibrated in his
voice. The squat Mexican laughed and began to roll a cigarette.

None had overtaken them, he said. And were they not now in the Land
Where No Man Lived?

"Si!" said Waring softly.

The half-rolled cigarette fluttered to the ground. The Mexican's heavy
lip sagged, showing broken teeth. His companion dropped the lead-rope
and turned to gaze at Waring with eyes wide, wondering, curious. The led
horses plunged up the back trail. Waring made no movement toward his
gun, but he eyed the elder Mexican sharply, paying little attention to
the youth. The horse of the squat Mexican grew restless, sidling toward
the other.

Waring's lips tightened. The bandit was spurring his horse on the off