That picturesque sight did a deal to lighten my heart. Apache Kid, too, was mightily refreshed the rest of the afternoon, and spun many an Indian yarn which Donoghue heard without any suggestion of disbelief. But it was no picnic excursion we were out upon. We had come into the hollow of the hills. We were indeed at the end of the foothills, and across the valley before us the mountains rose sheer, as though shutting us into this vale. To right, the east, was a wooded hill, parallel with which we now rode; and to left cliffs climbed upwards with shelving places here and there on their front, very rugged and savage. Donoghue nodded in the direction of a knoll ahead of us, and said: "Shall we camp at the old spot? It’s gettin’ nigh sundown; anyway, I guess we’ve done our forty to fifty mile already." "Yes," said Apache Kid. "It’s a good spot." "You’ve been here before?" I inquired. My two companions looked in each other’s eyes with a meaning glance. "Yes, we ’ve been here before," said Donoghue, and I had the idea that there was something behind this. So there was; but I was not to hear it—then. Suddenly we all three turned about at the one instant for a far-off "Yah-ah-ah-ah!" came to us. There, behind us, we saw two riders, and they were posting along in our track at great speed. We reined up and watched them, Apache Kid drawing his Winchester across his saddle pommel, and Donoghue following suit, I, for my part, slackening my revolver in the holster. Nearer they came, bending forward their heads to the wind of their passage and the dust drifting behind them in two spiral clouds. Then I saw that one was a white man with a great, fluttering beard; the other an Indian, or half-breed. And just at the moment that I recognised the bearded man Apache Kid cried out: "Why! It’s the proprietor of the Half-Way-to-Kettle House." "What in hell do he want up here?" said Donoghue. "Lead?" They came down on us in the approved western fashion, with a swirl and a rush, stopping short with a jerk and the horses’ sides going like bellows. "Good day, gentlemen," said the man of the beard. "Are you gentlemen aware that there’s no less than seven gentlemen followin’ you up, thirstin’ for your money or your life-blood or something?" "Well, sir," said Apache Kid, "it does not surprise me to hear of it." "So," said the shaggy-bearded, whose name, by the way, was J. D. Pinkerton, for all who passed by to read above his hostel—"Half-Way-Rest Hotel—Prop.: J. D. Pinkerton," so ran the legend there.