"Thank God!" cried Tim, fervently, under his breath. "I remembered you'd
left your horse by this Joshua: it's the only landmark in the dark.
Saints!" he ejaculated in dismay as he saw us all. "Where's your horse?"

"Gone."

"We can't all ride this stallion----"

"Listen," I cut in, and I gave him the same directions I had previously
given Brower. He heard me attentively.

"I can beat that," he cut me off. He dismounted. "Get on here, Artie.
Ride down the _barranca_ two hundred yards and you'll come to an alkali
flat. Get out on that flat and ride like hell for Box Springs."

"Why don't you do it?"

"I'm going back and tell 'em how I was slugged and robbed of my horse."

"They'll kill you if they suspect; dare you go back?"

"I've been back once," he pointed out. He was helping Brower aboard.

"Where did you get that bag?" he asked.

"Found it by the rock where we were hiding: it's mine," replied Brower.

Westmore tried to get him to leave it, but the little jockey was
obstinate. He kicked his horse and, bending low, rode away.