from side to side of the cañon, 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 cañon. 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."