"None, señor; but there were many hoof-trails leading to Ceralvo's,"
was the answer, in the Spanish tongue.

"Then you'll need water here, Mr. Harvey. It's a ten-mile pull across
to Moreno's," said Wing, as the four-mule team came laboring up to
the spot and willingly halted, the lantern at the forward axle slowly
settling into inertia from its pendulum-like swing.

"Where are we, Ned?" hailed a blithe young voice. Sweet and silvery it
sounded to the trooper's unaccustomed ears. "Surely not at Moreno's
yet?"

"Not yet, Paquita mia. Is Ruth awake? Tell her to poke that curly pate
of hers out of the door. I want you to know Mr. Wing, Sergeant Wing,
who has charge of the signal-station here."

Almost instantly a slender hand, holding a little brass hurricane
lantern, appeared at the opening, followed by a sweet, smiling face,
while just behind it peered another, only a trifle older and more
serious, yet every whit as pretty. Wing raised his old felt hat and
mentally cursed the luck that had sent him down there in his ragged
shirt-sleeves. Pike, the cynic, busied himself in getting the buckets
from underneath the stout spring wagon, and bumped his head savagely
against the trunk-laden boot as he emerged.

"I never dreamed of seeing ladies to-night," laughed the sergeant.
"It's the rarest sight in all the world here; but I remember you well
when you came to Yuma last year. That was when you were going to
school at San Francisco, I believe."