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It is well known that quick, short rains followed by a burning sun tend to undermine the clay surface of the ground and to leave it with a hard upper shell, beneath which are cavities of various depths. Alfred and Tom, as experienced men, should have foreseen this, but they did not. Soon after entering the ravine the horse broke through into one of the underground cavities and fell heavily on his side. When he had scrambled somehow to his feet, he stood feebly panting, his nostrils expanded.

“How is it, Tom?” called Alfred, who was ahead.

“Shoulder out,” said Tom, briefly.

Alfred turned back without another word, and putting the muzzle of his pistol against the pony’s forehead just above the line of the eyes he pulled the trigger. With the body the two men improvised a breastwork across a little hummock. Just as they dropped behind it the Mexicans clattered up, riding bareback. Tom coolly reloaded his pistol.

The Mexicans, too, were dazzled from riding against the glow in the west, and halted a moment in a confused mass at the mouth of the ravine. The two cowboys within rose and shot rapidly. Three Mexicans and two ponies fell. The rest in wild confusion slipped rapidly to the right and left beyond the Americans’ line of sight. Three armed with Winchesters made a long detour and dropped quietly into the sage-brush just beyond accurate pistol-range. There they lay concealed, watching. Then utter silence fell.

The rising moon shone full and square into the ravine, illuminating every inch of the ascent. A very poor shot could hardly miss in such a light and with such a background. The two cowmen realised this and settled down more comfortably behind their breastwork. Tom cautiously raised the pony’s head with a little chunk of rock, thus making a loophole through which to keep tab on the enemy, after which he rolled on his belly and began whittling in the hard clay, for Tom had the carving habit–like many a younger boy. Alfred carefully extracted a short pipe from beneath his chaparajos, pushed down with his blunt forefinger the charge with which it was already loaded, and struck a match. He poised this for a moment above the bowl of the pipe.

“What’s the row anyway?” he inquired, with pardonable curiosity.

“Now, it’s jest fifteen mile to th’ cut,” said Tom, disregarding Alfred’s question entirely, “an’ of co’se they’s goin’ to send a posse down thar on th’ keen jump. That’ll take clost onto three hours in this light. Then they’ll jest pot us a lot from on top.”

Alfred puffed three times toward the moonlight, and looked as though the thing were sufficiently obvious without wasting so much breath over it.

“We’ve jest got to git out!” concluded Tom, earnestly.

Alfred grunted.

“An’ how are we goin’ to do it?”

Alfred paused in the act of blowing a cloud.

“Because, if we makes a break, those Greasers jest nat’rally plugs us from behind th’ minute we begins to climb.”

Alfred condescended to nod. Tom suspended his whittling for a reply.

“Well,” said Alfred, taking his pipe from his mouth–Tom contentedly took up whittling again–“there’s only one way to do it, and that’s to keep them so damn busy in front that they can’t plug us.”

Tom looked perplexed.

“We just got to take our chances on the climbing. Of course, there’s bound to be th’ risk of accident. But when I give th’ word, you mosey, and if one of them pots you, it’ll be because my six-shooter’s empty.”

“But you can’t expec’ t’ shoot an’ climb!” objected Tom.

“Course not,” replied Alfred, calmly. “Division of labour: you climb; I shoot.”

A light dawned in Tom’s eyes, and he shut his jaws with a snap.

“I guess not!” said he, quietly.

“Yo’ laigs is longer,” Alfred urged, in his gentle voice, “and yo’ll get to Peterson’s quicker;” and then he looked in Tom’s eyes and changed his tone. “All right!” he said, in a business-like manner. “I’ll toss you for it.”