which led to others ahead, and kept them from dangerous sky lines. When the last hard-floored valley lay behind and sloping hollows of sand lay ahead, the trail-boss dropped back, uncorked his canteen of black coffee tempered with brandy, and drank long and deep. It was interpreted by his men to mean that the danger zone had been left in the rear, and they smilingly followed his example, and then leisurely and more critically looked over the herd to see what they had gained. The entire SV trail herd was there, a large number of Question-Mark cattle and a score or more miscellaneous brands, which Ridley from time to time had purchased at bargain prices from needy owners. The trail-boss grinned broadly and waved his hand. It was a raid which would go down the annals of rustler history and challenge strongly for first honors. At noon the waiting caviya was picked up, and Miguel and his three friends added four more riders to the ranks. He took his place well ahead of the hurrying cattle, and remained there until the first, and seldom visited, water-hole was reached, where a short rest was taken. Then he led the way again, abruptly changing the direction of the herd's course and, following depressions in the desert floor, struck for Bitter Spring, which would be reached in the early morning hours. By now the raid was a successful, accomplished fact, according to all experience, and the matter of speed was now decided purely upon the questions of water and food, which, however, did not let it diminish much.
The trail-boss dropped back to his segundo and smiled. "Old Twitchell's got somethin' to put up a holler over now."
