"I am on my way from Muletown to Las Plumas, but I lost the road this afternoon and I've no idea where I am now. As soon as I saw your camp-fire I came straight for it, for my horse needs water mighty bad." There was a moment of silence. The moon was well above the mountains, and in its brightening light the form of the traveler stood out in ridiculous silhouette, his hands held high above his head. He could see plainly the figure of the man and the gun leveled at his breast. "How long had you been in Muletown?" "I got in this forenoon, and I guess I stopped an hour. I left about noon." "Where from?" "I started yesterday morning from Millbank. I had been there two days. I went there from Santa Fe. I've been in New Mexico about ten years, and I was born--" "Never mind about that. You can have some supper. Unfasten your belt with your left hand, and be sure to keep your right hand where it is." Tuttle's left hand fumbled a moment with his cartridge belt, and revolver and belt dropped to the ground. "Anything else?" "No." "Put up your hands again until I fix these things." Again the traveler lifted his hands above his head, while the other buckled the belt around his own body, which it circled above another already heavy with cartridges and revolver. This latter weapon he drew from his holster, and, coming close beside Tuttle, held it at cock while he passed his hand lightly over the rider's person. "I guess you spoke the truth," he said, returning the pistol to his belt, and again leveling the shot-gun. "Now, Mr. Thomson Tuttle, you've been a gentleman so far, and as long as you keep up that play you'll be all right. You won't be hurt if you don't make any breaks. Take down your hands and we'll go into camp and have some supper." Tuttle held his hands motionless in the air a moment longer as he said: "Any objection to my askin' who you are?" "You said yourself that the drop's mine." "All right, pard." As they neared the camp, the man called to him to dismount, walk forward and sit down in a wagon seat near the fire. Tuttle could see the wagon from which the seat had been taken, a small, light affair, standing back in the shadow, and near it two horses feeding. Another man stood a little way off with leveled gun, apparently relieving guard for the first. He was in the shade of a tall mesquite bush, but Tuttle could see that he was of medium height and build and was dressed in a Mexican suit of closely fitting, braided trousers and jacket. The wide brim of his Mexican sombrero was pulled low over his eyes, so that only the lower part of his face could be seen, and that dimly. But it was evidently dark-skinned, and the mouth was shaded by a black mustache. "Some Greaser scalawag," was Tuttle's immediate decision. The other unsaddled, watered and fed the horse, and then returned to the fire and began making coffee. "We haven't much to eat," he said apologetically, "but you're welcome to a share of whatever we've got."