At a touch of hand Modoc raised himself cautiously and turned his head to one side. “Ugh!” he whispered.

Nevada was harder to awaken, and noisy when he did rouse himself. “My Gawd! I dreamed I roped California Red an’ gave him to Hettie an’ you shot me!”

“Quiet! you big cowpuncher!” said Ben, bending low over him. “The wild horses are coming.”

Instantly Nevada’s lax length stiffened, and he rolled over noiselessly. “Now you’re talkin’, pard,” he whispered. “Aha! I hear them. Steppin’ along right pert.”

“Wind good. No scare. We have luck. Catch lot,” whispered the Modoc.

Ben had not yet been able to get the exact direction from which the horses were coming, but he kept his gaze riveted on the gray depression where the trail ran. The sound of hoofs came faintly, then distinctly, and all but ceased—to begin again. Gradually the faint clip–clops, the sharp cracks, the clear rings augmented into a steady rhythm. Then as it ceased near at hand it seemed to move away to die in the distance. Ben knew this happened when the leaders halted and the others strung out behind gradually followed suit.

“Ugh! See ’em,” whispered Modoc.

Dark shadows began to form in the gray obscurity. Ben felt thrilling expectation and satisfaction. Who would not be a wild–horse hunter? He preferred his state to that of kings. Yet on the instant a pang pierced his joy. No chance of California Red being leader of this band! The great stallion was not to be caught in caves.

Nevada laid a clutching hand on Ben. “Look! way over heah!” he whispered.

Ben withdrew his gaze from the gray depression out of which the dark forms were coming, and looked down upon the moon–blanched lava. A noble black stallion stood shining in the moonlight. He had come around a huge abutment ahead of the string of horses Ben had been watching. Obviously he was the leader. He looked rough and wild. But evidently his halt was only the caution of leadership. He stood motionless until a string of horses filed from behind the lava bank and another column filed up out of the gray depression, then proceeded toward the cave and disappeared over the rim. Long lines of horses followed him, blacks and grays, spotted and light, to mass in a dark group at the head of the trail. Ben heard the rattling and cracking of pieces of lava, the uneasy tramp of many hoofs. He crouched there transfixed with the excitement of the moment. Nevada was whispering to himself. The Indian rose noiselessly to his feet.

“Get ready to run!” whispered Ben, also rising.

“Give them time,” said Nevada. “Nothin’ on their minds but a nice cold drink.”

It seemed long to Ben before the last of that black mass of horses melted over the rim. He waited in a tingling suspense until the crackling, rolling, rattling sounds became fused by distance, then gave the word to run. Ben was a swift runner and Nevada had long legs, but the Indian beat both of them to the rim and was dragging at the heavy gate when they arrived.