bending over a dim track in the sand.

"My God! men," he shouted, "hit's a woman."

For a short way he followed the foot-prints, then, running back to
the wagon and springing to his seat, swung his long whip and urged
the team ahead.

"Hit's a woman," he repeated. "When the others went away and didn't
come back she started ahead in the storm alone. She had got this far
when the blow quit, leavin' her tracks to show. We may--" He urged
his mules to greater effort.

The prints of the woman's shoe could be plainly seen now. "Look!"
said Tex, pointing, "she's staggerin'--Now she's stopped! Whoa!"
Throwing his weight on the lines he leaned over from his seat.
"Look, men! Look there!" he cried, as he pointed. "She's carryin' a
kid. See, there's where she set it down for a rest." It was all too
clear. Beside the woman's track were the prints of two baby shoes.

The Seer, with a long breath, drew his hand across his sand-begrimed
face. "Hurry, Tex. For God's sake, hurry!"

The Irishman was cursing fiercely in impotent rage, clenching and
unclenching his huge, hairy fists. The boy cowered in his seat. But
not a change came over the mask-like features of Jefferson Worth.
Only the delicate, pointed fingers of his nervous hands caressed
constantly his unshaven chin, fingered his clothing, or--gripped the
edge of the wagon seat as he leaned forward in his place. Texas--
grim, cool, alert, his lean figure instinct now with action and his