Thus far Hano’s plan had reached only the point of determining to watch both parties and to act for the best. If one party of whites killed the other it would be a fine thing, for that would leave this white boy alone in Red Mesa, and he would never be allowed to leave it alive. Hano hoped that he would eventually consent to adoption into the tribe, for he seemed a fine youth and his heart was good, too, or he would not have remembered his pony’s thirst and brought that water jug. His name, too, was in his favor. _Col-vin!_ How often had Hano heard that name on his father’s lips when the story of that young white officer of long ago had been told! It was a sacred name in the clan. Because of it alone Honanta’s entire attitude toward this white youth had changed, Hano knew, before he himself had been led away to the medicine lodge. This young Colvin, too, had set _him_ free and begged him to bring his friends to Red Mesa because the Mexicanos were coming. That was all very well, but Hano decided that he would _not_ do that, except as a last resort. Better let them all kill each other; then there would be no one but the white youth to deal with. By this time Hano had climbed down the mountain on Sid’s trail and found the pony. It was after dusk, and the familiar plain of giant cactus and creosote bush, of choyas and mesquites was dark in the shadows cast by the surrounding mountains, but the pony, a piebald, was easily distinguishable, picketed in a trampled ring of galleta grass. He had scented Hano, for an eager whinny came from him and Hano met the pony tugging at his lariat and thrusting out bared teeth and thirsty lips toward him in dumb appeal. Pinto drank the water in that jug down in one huge suck. Then Hano untethered him, coiled the lariat and rode off, following his tracks back to the main party. Darkness fell as he followed the pony prints to the kill of the mule deer. Two hours of slow trailing under the stars led him to the huge, bare craters where, up the eastern one, the tracks now led. Hano walked the horse up the steep slopes, listening in the dark constantly for a sign of these other white men. He paused at the crater edge and looked down. A vast mysterious black cistern was that crater well! Hano halted the pony and listened, for faint voices were coming up to him from below. They were down there! Presently the _Hoo-ooo!_ of a hound’s throaty challenge rang out. The dog was below and facing him, Hano knew instinctively from the direction of that sound. He drew back and waited. More voices; words in the white man’s tongue. After a time he heard them climbing out slowly through the other gap. They stood on the opposite brink, one voice talking excitedly, audible in the dead of night even across the crater. Then they rode on.