As the whirl of dust drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two castaways were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of waggons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for the West.
But what a caravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon.
Right across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, waggons and carts, men on horseback, and men on foot.
Innumerable women who staggered along under burdens, and children who toddled beside the waggons or peeped out from under the white coverings.
This was evidently no ordinary party of immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been compelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country.
There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing of horses.
Loud as it was, it was not sufficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them.
At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave ironfaced men, clad in sombre homespun garments and armed with rifles. On reaching the base of the bluff they halted, and held a short council among themselves.
"The wells are to the right, my brothers," said one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
"To the right of the Sierra Blanco - so we shall reach the Rio Grande," said another.