Presently Monty gave voice to a shrill neigh, and to Whitey's surprise it was answered from the gully. "Look out!" Whitey called softly to Injun. "They haven't gone. There's one of their horses."

But to Whitey's further surprise Injun paid no heed, but kept calmly on his way, and there was nothing for Whitey to do but to follow. The gully, or little canyon, was about fifty feet deep, and the creek that ran through it about that many feet wide. At the lowest part, near the stream, Injun paused.

"Where are their horses?" Whitey whispered.

"No tied here," Injun answered, which was plainer to see than his reason for knowing that they were not.

Whitey was now greatly puzzled and, he had to confess to himself, not a little alarmed. But as the next impatient question was on his lips he stopped short. A cool breeze had sprung up, and was wafting aside the cloud-like fog. A rift in the fog disclosed a portion of the trestle bridge. And, hanging from it, with noosed lariats around their necks, were three limp, ghastly figures.

In horror, Whitey clutched Injun's arm, and gasped, "The bandits!"

Injun looked stolidly at the horrible sight, as for thousands of years his people had looked on death. "Uh," he said and pointed toward the water tank. "Walk marks go that way. No come back."