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N THE clear light of dawn four strangers straggled into Mesquite town—two weary and haggard men, two footsore and bedraggled women. One of these last was dressed in a suit of man's clothing, much the worse for wear. The other members of the party, one and all, wore the look of people who have escaped the jaws of death by the narrowest of imaginable squeaks. Their clothing, of the most rough-and-ready description though it was, had evidently at some quite recent time been sopping wet, then rough dried on its wearers; every garment was warped out of shape and caked with mud and dust. Even their hands and faces were none too clean; abortive efforts had evidently been made to erase some of the grime at a mountain stream, but lacking soap and towels the outcome had not been altogether happy.

At sight of the Mountain House—Mesquite's one carvanserai—the party betrayed slight symptoms of a more cheerful spirit: rejoicing in its promise of food and drink, and beds withal wherein to sleep, the four quickened their steps. 244