racking looseness of sand that interminably sank away from foothold.
At midnight the wearied pursuers dropped down from a high plateau to
a narrow arroyo. Here again was sand. Fortunately, this time, for
in it footprints stood out clear, illuminated by the white
moonlight. They led direct to a side barranca. There the pursuers
found the camp. It was deserted.

Like a hound on the trail, Captain Funcke cast about him.

"Here's where they came in. No--yes--this is it. Confound the
cross-tracks! . . Here one of them cuts across the ridge to the
tenaja for water.

"Wait! . . . What's this? Coyote trail? Yes, but . . . Trail
brushed over, by thunder! They didn't do it carefully enough . . .
Straight for the rocky mesa. . . . That's it! They made their
sneak while Hoff was asleep, probably covering trail behind them,
and struck out for the inside desert route to the Tenaja Poquita."
He took a quick look about the camp and picked up an empty canteen.
"Of course, they wouldn't leave him any water."

"Then he's gone to hunt it," suggested Average Jones. "Which way?"

"You can't tell which way a tenderfoot will go," said the hunter
philosophically. "If he had any savvy at all he'd follow the old
beaten track around by the arroyo to the water-hole. We'll try it."

On the way, Average Jones noticed his companion stop frequently to
examine the sand for something which he evidently didn't find.