"There he is now," said the gratified Barker, "just abreast of us on the
cut-off. He started just after we did, and he's got a horse that could
have brought him into Boomville hours ago. It's just his kindness."

He pointed to a distant fringe of buckeye from which Jack Hamlin had
just emerged. Although evidently holding in a powerful mustang, nothing
could be more unconscious and utterly indifferent than his attitude. He
did not seem to know of the proximity of any other traveler, and to care
less. His handsome head was slightly thrown back, as if he was caroling
after his usual fashion, but the distance was too great to make his
melody audible to them, or to allow Barker's shout of invitation to
reach him. Suddenly he lowered his tightened rein, the mustang sprang
forward, and with a flash of silver spurs and bridle fripperies he had
disappeared. But as the trail he was pursuing crossed theirs a mile
beyond, it seemed quite possible that they should again meet him.

They were now fairly into the Boomville valley, and were entering a
narrow arroyo bordered with dusky willows which effectually excluded the
view on either side. It was the bed of a mountain torrent that in winter
descended the hillside over the trail by which they had just come, but
was now sunk into the thirsty plain between banks that varied from
two to five feet in height. The muleteer had advanced into the narrow
channel when he suddenly cast a hurried glance behind him, uttered a
"Madre de Dios!" and backed his mule and his precious freight against
the bank. The sound of hoofs on the trail in their rear had caught his
quicker ear, and as the three partners turned they beheld three horsemen
thundering down the hill towards them. They were apparently Mexican
vaqueros of the usual common swarthy type, their faces made still darker
by the black silk handkerchief tied round their heads under their stiff