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Buck Johnson did his best, but it was like stopping with sand the innumerable little leaks of a dam. Did his riders watch toward the Chiricahuas, then a score of beef steers disappeared from Grant’s Pass forty miles away. Pursuit here meant leaving cattle unguarded there. It was useless, and the Senor soon perceived that sooner or later he must strike in offence.

For this purpose he began slowly to strengthen the forces of his riders. Men were coming in from Texas. They were good men, addicted to the grass-rope, the double cinch, and the ox-bow stirrup. Senor Johnson wanted men who could shoot, and he got them.

“Jed,” said Senor Johnson to his foreman, “the next son of a gun that rustles any of our cows is sure loading himself full of trouble. We’ll hit his trail and will stay with it, and we’ll reach his cattle-rustling conscience with a rope.”

So it came about that a little army crossed the drift fences and entered the border country. Two days later it came out, and mighty pleased to be able to do so. The rope had not been used.

The reason for the defeat was quite simple. The thief had run his cattle through the lava beds where the trail at once became difficult to follow. This delayed the pursuing party; they ran out of water, and, as there was among them not one man well enough acquainted with the country to know where to find more, they had to return.

“No use, Buck,” said Jed. “We’d any of us come in on a gun play, but we can’t buck the desert. We’ll have to get someone who knows the country.”

“That’s all right–but where?” queried Johnson.

“There’s Pereza,” suggested Parker. “It’s the only town down near that country.”

“Might get someone there,” agreed the Senor.

Next day he rode away in search of a guide. The third evening he was back again, much discouraged.

“The country’s no good,” he explained. “The regular inhabitants ‘re a set of Mexican bums and old soaks. The cowmen’s all from north and don’t know nothing more than we do. I found lots who claimed to know that country, but when I told ’em what I wanted they shied like a colt. I couldn’t hire ’em, for no money, to go down in that country. They ain’t got the nerve. I took two days to her, too, and rode out to a ranch where they said a man lived who knew all about it down there. Nary riffle. Man looked all right, but his tail went down like the rest when I told him what we wanted. Seemed plumb scairt to death. Says he lives too close to the gang. Says they’d wipe him out sure if he done it. Seemed plumb SCAIRT.” Buck Johnson grinned. “I told him so and he got hosstyle right off. Didn’t seem no ways scairt of me. I don’t know what’s the matter with that outfit down there. They’re plumb terrorised.”

That night a bunch of steers was stolen from the very corrals of the home ranch. The home ranch was far north, near Fort Sherman itself, and so had always been considered immune from attack. Consequently these steers were very fine ones.

For the first time Buck Johnson lost his head and his dignity. He ordered the horses.

“I’m going to follow that — — into Sonora,” he shouted to Jed Parker. “This thing’s got to stop!”

“You can’t make her, Buck,” objected the foreman. “You’ll get held up by the desert, and, if that don’t finish you, they’ll tangle you up in all those little mountains down there, and ambush you, and massacre you. You know it damn well.”

“I don’t give a –” exploded Senor Johnson, “if they do. No man can slap my face and not get a run for it.”