He and Niltci started on down the granite, but Sid and Scotty tarried to look out once more over this lava land, iron-bound and torrid in the heat of midday. “Lord, what a country!” exclaimed Scotty, dejectedly. He was disturbed to find himself frankly afraid of it. Nothing here to exercise his constructive engineering instincts upon! Nothing--but Death! “To me it’s a challenge,” retorted Sid brightly. “It’s still another mood of grand old Dame Nature, of whose wonders there is no end! She cares nothing at all for Man; but each new aspect of her is a challenge to him to stay alive, if he dare. Doctor Hornaday”--Sid pronounced the name with all the fervor of boyish hero-worship--“he dared this country once, and discovered that mountain sheep and antelope had a refuge here. Those granite mountains across from us to the north of Pinacate are named after him. This lava looks good to me, for it makes a game sanctuary of this country forever. Except for your sake, old man, I’d rather there never _was_ a Red Mesa mine.” Scotty shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He was fast falling into a mood that had often been fatal to him before, that of trying to rush a thing through, jumping to a conclusion on presumptive evidence and then acting on that conclusion immediately, without trying out that homely old remedy known as “sticking around a bit.” “Well, le’s push through to Cerro Colorado and have it over with, Sid,” he urged. “If there’s no Red Mesa, the sooner we find it out and get away the better.” But by nightfall they had reached only Represa Tank. It was an enormous run that their tired horses had made, for that hot country, had Scotty’s impatience only admitted it. The tank was a muddy little hole with a small oasis of grass and a grove of mesquites surrounding it. Near by was the famous Camino del Diablo, the thirst-haunted road to Yuma, one hundred and thirty miles away to the west--all dry desert travel. Big John and the boys sauntered out to look at it after supper. Up through a gap in two red lava hills led the old trail, a sure-enough road, as good (or bad) as the day it was made. Looking southeast behind them, the thing lost itself in the bushes of the Tule Desert. Why or when it had been built, the boys had no idea. Big John regarded it solemnly for a while. “Injuns, Greasers, prospectors an’ sodjers--they all had a purple time of it along this trail, boys!” he exclaimed. “More’n four hundred people hev died along this Camino del Diablo, of thirst, exhaustion, an’ jist plumb discouragement.” Scotty shook his head ruefully. “Let’s make a break for that Cerro Colorado hill to-morrow, John,” he urged. “It’s about twenty miles northeast of Pinacate, so Red Mesa _can’t_ be more than five miles from it and directly between it and Pinacate. Ought to be a cinch to find it, if that plaque is O. K. And, if we don’t, we’ll clear out, pronto, and waste no more time on it, eh?”