He swung down and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard, then moved over to the crotch in the wall. Even for one of his height it was a strain to level the barrel with butt at shoulder. He nodded again and set the rifle down. From a shirt pocket he brought Durham and papers and shook tobacco onto the brown leaf, somber black eyes roving. Ware’s Kid slipped from the saddle and came swiftly over to where Rutter stood. He stopped and dug into the sand at the rancher’s feet, then straightened. “What’s it?” asked Rutter. It was a large, pearl-handled pocketknife, tarnished from much carrying, with four good blades and one broken blade stump. Rutter licked his cigarette, jambed it into his mouth and took the knife from the Ranger’s hand, staring thoughtfully. “See it before?” asked Ware’s Kid. Rutter shook his head. “Umm--no, reckon not. Not many like that carried in this country. But somebody ought to know it. We’ll ride into Carwell pretty soon. See. But right now I want to ride Eph Carson’s back-trail. Got a idee. Mebbe she won’t pan out.” They could only guess that Eph Carson had come along the regular trail and follow through the dim lane between the greasewood and cacti. They rode silently, with eyes roving from trail to skyline and back again. The afternoon wore on; evening came. To westward, up-thrusting hulls, jagged, fantastic, drew nearer. “Huecos!” grunted Rutter, and Ware’s Kid nodded. He knew this ancient watering place of the desert people red and brown and white. A good many times, with a Ranger detachment from Ysleta, hunting Apache sign, he had camped there. “Guess we better hole up there t’night,” Rutter grunted, staring across the flat to the beginning of that welter of arroyo-cut hillocks. “Mawnin’ we can head back to Carwell an’ see ’bout that frogsticker. Or, we can look over some more trail.” “Yo’ idee?” queried Ware’s Kid. “Yuh said yuh had one.” “Tell yuh about it come mawnin’,” said Rutter. Far back in the grim black eyes lurked a shadowy amusement. “Ain’t quite ready to back her up clean to the tailgate. Got anything to eat?” “Dried beef, _tortillas_, coffee, can o’ plums.” “Dried beef an’ _tortillas_ is a meal,” grinned Rutter. “Le’s head for the Tanks an’ camp.” “Better hole up in the old Butterfield station,” counseled Ware’s Kid. “Healthier’n sleepin’ ’longside the main _tinaja_ (Tank). Apaches don’t stick no closer to the reservation than ever, I reckon.” “Not so close, by God!” swore Rutter. “Yuh’re right, Kid. Them dam’ feather dusters stops here or at Crow Springs or the Comudas, reg’lar, comin’ from Mescalero to Chihuahua. Stage station she is. We’ll make it.” They nodded mutual agreement and spurred the horses on through the dark. At the deserted stage station--a rude dwelling made by walling in the mouth of a natural cavern--they swung down. The Ranger sniffed like a hunting dog.