"The scoundrels!" cried General Manager Ellsworth.

He was a man who believed in working along easy lines when possible.
His career as a railroad man had taught him the value of meeting other
people half way. Now the general manager's white face and flashing eyes
revealed the fighter in him.

From off to the south, beyond the quicksand, came a chorus of sharp,
shrill, gleeful whoops.

"There go the curs!" flared Harry.

Another volley of jeers reached the camp officials.

"They are mounted on horses," spoke Tom judicially. "They couldn't
travel as fast on foot and yell at the same time."

A third taunting chorus traveled over the desert. But Tom and his
friends, in the darkness of the night, could not make out the horsemen
nor judge how many there were of them.

"You'd better turn out the camp, Mr. Hawkins," directed Tom in a calmer
voice.

The superintendent ran over to where a night engineer almost dozed at
his post beside a stationary engine.

Half a minute later a series of shrill blasts rang out over the camp.