“Senor, the rurales!” he gasped.

“How far behind?”

“The railroad!  They are ahead!  They have shipped their horses to Magdalena, to Nogales!”

“How do you know that?”

“Pedro Salazar is dead.  You were gone.  They say it was you.”

“So they shipped their horses ahead to cut me off, eh?  You’re a good boy, Ramon, but I don’t know what in hell to do with you.  Your cayuse is played out.  You made a good ride.”

“Si, senor.  I have not stopped once.”

“You look it.  You can’t go back now.  They would shoot you.”

“I will ride with the senor.”

Waring shook his head.

Ramon’s eyes grew desperate.  “Senor,” he pleaded, “take me with you!  I cannot go back.  I will be your man—­follow you, even into the Great Beyond.  You will not lose the way.”

And as Ramon spoke he touched the little crucifix on his breast.

“Where did you find that?” asked Waring.

“In the Placeta Burro; near the house of Pedro Salazar.”

Waring nodded.  “Has your horse had water?”

“No, senor.  I did not stop.”

“Take him back to the water-hole.  Or, here!  Crawl in there and rest up.  You are all in.  I’ll take care of the cayuse.”

When Waring returned to the chaparral, Ramon was asleep, flat on his back, his arms outspread and his mouth open.  Waring touched him with his boot.  Ramon muttered.  Waring stooped and pulled him up.

Within the hour five rurales disembarked from a box-car and crossed to the water-hole, where one of them dismounted and searched for tracks.  Alert for the appearance of the gringo, they rode slowly toward the chaparral.  The enclosure was empty.  After riding a wide circle round the brush, they turned and followed the tracks toward the eastern hills, rein-chains jingling and their silver-trimmed buckskin jackets shimmering in the sun.

* * * * *

“I will ride back,” said Ramon.  “My horse is too weak to follow.  The senor rides slowly that I may keep up with him.”

Waring turned in the saddle.  Ahead lay the shadowy foothills of the mother range, vague masses in the starlight.  Some thirty miles behind was the railroad and the trail north.  There was no chance of picking up a fresh horse.  The country was uninhabited.  Alone, the gunman would have ridden swiftly to the hill country, where his trail would have been lost in the rocky ground of the ranges and where he would have had the advantage of an unobstructed outlook from the high trails.

Ramon had said the rurales had entrained; were ahead of him to intercept him.  But Waring, wise in his craft, knew that the man-hunters would search for tracks at every water-hole on the long northern trail.  And if they found his tracks they would follow him to the hills.  They were as keen on the trail as Yaquis and as relentless as wolves.  Their horses, raw-hide tough, could stand a forced ride that would kill an ordinary horse.  And Ramon’s wiry little cayuse, though willing to go on until he dropped, could not last much longer.