“Say, Dick!” exclaimed Reddy, “them Mexicans down on the river are comin’ out to run mustangs. I saw that Black Joaquin an’ his brother yist’day, an’ told ’em if they wanted to run ’em anywheres out on our lay-out, that we wouldn’t make no kick if they’d let us in for a share. See? They think they c’n run in about a hunderd an’ fifty head, anyway. An’ they’ll furnish the manada, an’ the saddle horses, an’ all, for the whole crowd. So, I told ’em. ‘All right! go ahead, as far as me an’ my pardner are concerned.’ He says Austin’s agreed. How are you an’ Johnny? Willin’?” “Oh, yes; I’m willin’,” answered Dick, as he jerked at the bridle-rein, disturbing the buckskin’s doze. “Well, good luck to you! See you again!” “Same to yourself. So long!” answered Reddy. The saddle-horse fell into a jog trot again to the pricking of the spur; and the sorry span started the wagon groaning and rattling on its way up the road whose furrows were cut deep by the great teams that hauled sulphur and borax from the furthest mountains down to the railroad in the valley. The creaking and rattling of the wagon had only just recommenced, when Reddy stopped his team to call back. “Oh, Dick!” “Hello!” The little burros that had returned to nibbling on the brush, again lifted their heads at this second interruption. “Say! Austin ast me to git him a San Fr’ncisco paper so as he could see what hides is quoted at; an’ I plum clean forgot it. Wisht you’d bring out one to him when you come!” “All right! So long!” “So long!” The men moved on again. And the two streamers of white dust grew farther and farther apart, till they had faded out of sight in the hazy distance. The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the mesa the rest of the stifling hot day, while they browsed along on the greasewood. Late in the afternoon their little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail which led them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy muzzles were plunged into the swift, muddy current for a drink. But while they had been munching the uninviting brush and sage, and flicking the flies away with their absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey Austin, over on the foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which was now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned the face of the one whom the horse-hunters had named “The Kid.” The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but the flushed cheeks, and parched lips that were always calling for water, were cause enough for the fear that came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were but the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should be a serious illness for him?