“There won’t be much treasure, even if we find the cache,” smiled Tex.  “Horse thievin’ had got onpopular to the extent there wasn’t hardly a livin’ in it long before this specimen took it up as a profession.  We’ll be lucky if we find any grub in it.”

A few moments later Bat unearthed the cache and, as the others crowded about, began to draw out its contents.

“Field mice,” growled Tex, as the half-breed held up an empty canvas bag with its corner gnawed to shreds.  Another gnawed bag followed, and another.

“We don’t draw no flour, nor rice, not jerky, anyhow,” said the puncher, examining the bags.  “Nor bacon, either.  The only chance we stand to make a haul is on the air-tights.”

“What are air-tights?” asked the girl.

“Canned stuff—­tomatoes are the best for this kind of weather—­keep you from gettin’ thirsty.  I’ve be’n in this country long enough to pretty much know its habits, but I never saw it this hot in June.”

“She feel lak’ dat dam’ Yuma bench, but here is only de rattlesnake.  We don’ got to all de tam hont de pizen boog.  Dat ain’ no good for git so dam’ hot—­she burn’ oop de range.  If it ain’ so mooch danger for Win to git hang—­” He paused and looked at Tex with owlish solemnity.  “A’m no lak we cross dem bad lands.  Better A’m lak we gon’ back t’rough de mountaine.”

“You dig out them air-tights, if there’s any in there, an’ quit your croakin’!” ordered the cowboy.

And with a grin Bat thrust in his arm to the shoulder.  One by one he drew out the tins—­eight in all, and laid them in a row.  The labels had disappeared and the Texan stood looking down at them.

“Anyway we have these,” smiled the girl, but the cowboy shook his head.

“Those big ones are tomatoes, an’ the others are corn, an’ peas—­but, it don’t make any difference.”  He pointed to the cans in disgust:  “See those ends bulged out that way?  If we’d eat any of the stuff in those cans we’d curl up an’ die, pronto.  Roll ’em back, Bat, we got grub enough without ’em.  Two days will put us through the bad lands an’ we’ve got plenty.  We’ll start when the moon comes up.”

All four spent the afternoon in the meagre shade of the bull pine, seeking some amelioration from the awful scorching heat.  But it was scant protection they got, and no comfort.  The merciless rays of the sun beat down upon the little plateau, heating the rocks to a degree that rendered them intolerable to the touch.  No breath of air stirred.  The horses ceased to graze and stood in the scrub with lowered heads and wide-spread legs, sweating.

Towards evening a breeze sprang up from the southeast, but it was a breeze that brought with it no atom of comfort.  It blew hot and stifling like the scorching blast of some mighty furnace.  For an hour after the sun went down in a glow of red the super-heated rocks continued to give off their heat and the wind swept, sirocco-like, over the little camp.  Before the after-glow had faded from the sky the wind died and a delicious coolness pervaded the plateau.