‘A Mexican job,’ repeated Letchie Welton, his jaw getting harder and whiter. ‘We’ll just go over to Dobe-town right now and see who’s missing.’ They routed out the shacks across the river. Two Mexicans, Marguerin and Rueda, couldn’t be accounted for; also a boy, called Palto around the diggings, was gone. About this time Bob Leadley noticed that Bart hadn’t done what he was told, but had come over the stream with the rest. ‘I told you to get out of here. Go home and wait till I come.’ Now Bob recollected that Bart and Palto had been thick at times. No work on the mines that day. The ‘Damask Cheek’ filled early. Ten men chosen by Letchie Welton took the trail after the three Mexicans--a trail that showed clear--three ponies headed toward the Border, six or seven hours’ start. All were thinking, as they rode, of that old white head; ten men and the marshal, still keyed to that sentence which Mort Cotton had spoken. The thoughts of the posse working together this way made the purpose deadly. Each man grew painfully fond of old Batten, and the other side of the fondness was rising hate for the Mexicans ahead. Every little while some one said: ‘Poor old Batten, he wouldn’t have hurt a toad.’ They were several miles out, before Bob Leadley noticed that Bart was overtaking them from behind. At first he thought Bart was bringing a message from the town, but it proved he merely wanted to go. ‘You turn around and ride back, just as fast as you can, young man!’ the father said. Those were the words which fixed it the other way. ‘Let him stick. Good chance to see what he’s made of,’ Letchie Welton laughed, just as he would have said: ‘Send him home,’ if Bob had asked to let him stay.... The next day the posse was pressing the three Mexicans a lot closer. They didn’t seem more than three hours ahead. It was desert work now, hot and grim. Toward nightfall, they came to a fork where the fugitives had broken apart, two turning to the left, one to the right. Letchie Welton sent four men after the lone pony to the right, and kept on with seven after the other two. On the third noon the two Mexicans, hard pressed, made their final split. This broke up the pursuing party a second time; Letchie Welton, Mort Cotton, Bob Leadley and Bart keeping on straight south, the other four turning east. Toward sundown that third night, over a hundred miles from Bismo, only Bart was riding light and easy; his pony with a reserve left, the other three horses done for, and their riders as well. Canteens were empty; desert country, here and there a big solitary cactus, rising like a shade tree gone crazy. ‘There’s water ahead,’ Bart told his father. ‘I can tell by my pony’s ears.’