There was a vague familiarity to him, and moving nearer, I saw his skull bore a swelling. This had been the rider with Slade whom I had slugged on the trail.
The bullet had struck over the eye and ranged downward, which indicated he had been shot from ambush, perhaps from somewhere on the canyon wall. Lining up the probable position, I sighted a tuft of green on the wall that might be a ledge.
At my low call, Mulvaney approached. He studied the man.
“This wasn’t the man we followed.”
“One of the Slade crowd,” I told him.
We started on, but no longer were the tracks disguised. The man we followed was going more slowly now.
Suddenly, there was a boot print, sharp and clear. Something turned over inside me.
“Mulvaney, that’s the track of the man who shot Maclaren!”
“But Morgan Park’s in jail,” he protested, studying the track. He knew that I had ridden by to see the track Canaval had mentioned.
“He was—”
My buckskin’s head came up, his nostrils dilated. Grabbing his nose, I stifled the whinny. Then I followed his gaze.
Less than a hundred yards away a strange dun horse was picketed near a clump of bunchgrass.
“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “whoever we followed may think he has killed whoever followed him. He may think he’s safe now.”
We hid our horses in a box canyon and climbed the wall for a look around. From the top of the mesa we could see all the surrounding country. Under the southern edge of the wall opposite was a cluster of ancient ruins, beyond them deep canyons.
I studied the terrain ahead, and suddenly saw a man emerge from a crack in the earth, carrying a heavy sack. He placed it on the ground and removed his coat, then with a pick and a bar he began working at a slab over the crack from which he had come.
Mulvaney could see the man, but not what he was doing.
Explaining as I watched, I saw him take the bar and pry hard at the slab. The rock slid, then came all the way, carrying with it a pile of debris. The dust rose, settled. The crack was invisible.
After carefully looking to either side, the man concealed his tools, picked up his rifle and the sack, and started back toward us. Studying him as he walked, I could see he wore black jeans, very dusty now, and a small hat. His face was not visible, but he bore no resemblance to anyone I knew.
He disappeared from sight, and for a long time we heard no sound.
We had been concealed from sight, or so we believed, but now we climbed back down to the canyon floor. We were turning toward the box canyon where our horses were hidden when we heard two shots in quick succession.
We stared at each other, puzzled. But there was no other sound as we uneasily worked our way back to the box canyon.
Mulvaney saw it first, and he swore viciously. It was the first time I had ever heard him swear.
My horse and his mule lay sprawled in pools of their own blood. Our canteens had been emptied and smashed with stones. We were thirty miles from the nearest ranch, and our way lay through some of the most rugged country on earth.
“There’s water, but no way to carry it. Do you think he knew who we were?”
“If he lives in this country he should know that buckskin of mine,” I said bitterly. “He was the best horse I ever owned.”
It told me something else about our man, whoever he was. He was utterly ruthless. This man had not driven the horses off, he had shot them down. He was cautious, too. To have hunted us down might have exposed himself to danger.
“Well have a look at the place he covered up. No use leaving without that.”
It was almost dark before we had dug enough behind the slab of rock to get at the secret. Mulvaney cut into the rock with his pick. Ripping out a chunk he showed it to me, his eyes glowing with excitement.
“Silver! The biggest strike I ever saw! Better than Silver Reef!”
The ore glittered in his hand as he turned it. This was what had killed Rud Maclaren and the others.
“It’s rich,” I said, “but I’d settle for the Two-Bar.”
“But it’s a handsome sight!”
“Pocket it then. We’ve a long walk.”
“Tonight … while it’s cool.”
The shadows grew long while we walked, and thick blackness came down to choke the canyons and cover the mountains. We walked on, with little talk, up Ruin Canyon and over a saddle of the Sweet Alice Hills and down to a spring on the far side.
There we rested and drank, and I was remembering, and thinking ahead.
The camp where I had seen Slade’s gang was not many miles away, it had water and shelter, and so far as they knew only Morgan Park knew about it. Outlaws are rarely energetic men, and I doubted that they had moved. Where outlaws were, there would be horses also.
It had taken us five hours to walk ten miles, and it was well into the night. Most of our walking had been along the canyon’s bottom. Now we would be crossing Dark Canyon Platau … but no, this was the canyon they were in!
Dark it was as we walked, doing no talking. There was water rustling over stones and the dampness in the canyon was good after the heat of the long day.
We heard singing before we saw the light of the fire. The canyon walls caught and magnified the sound. A few yards further along, we spotted the fire, and the reflection of it on a face. Three men were there, and one sang as he cleaned his rifle.
We were at the edge of the firelight before they saw us, and I had my Winchester on them, and Mulvaney his cannon-like four-shot pistol.
Slade was no fool. He sat very still, with his hands in sight. His face was pale, as well it might be, with a hanging waiting for him. “Who is it?”
Our faces were shielded by the brims of our hats, and we stood partly concealed by the brush.
“The name is Matt Brennan, and I’m not asking for trouble. We want two good horses. You can lend them or well take them.
“Our horses,” I added, “were shot by the same man who killed your partner.”
“Lott killed?”
Slade studied me, absorbing that news. None of them seemed in the mood for trouble. Nevertheless I discouraged any such idea with my Winchester.
“He met up with a man we were trailing. He caught a slug between the eyes.” I pushed my hand up and moved my hat back. “Then he shot both our horses.”
“Damn a man who’ll kill a horse. Who was it?”
“He leaves a track like Morgan Park, but Park’s in jail.”
“Not now,” Slade said. “He broke jail within an hour after dark last night. Pulled an iron bar out of that old wall, stole a horse, and disappeared.”
But the man we had seen had not been big enough for Park. Nevertheless, it was a thing to remember.
“How about the horses?”
“Take them. We’re clearing out.”
“Are they spares?”
“We’ve got a dozen extras. In our business it pays to keep fresh horses.” He grinned up at me and slowly leaned back on his elbow. “No hard feelin’s, Brennan?”
“None … only be careful.”
“With two guns on us? Sure … What kind of a cannon is that your partner’s got? A man could ride into that barrel with his hat on.”
Mulvaney went after the horses, then returned with them. They were saddled and bridled. Slade’s mouth twisted when he saw the saddles. But he had nothing to say.
“Any other news?”
He smiled maliciously at me. “Yeah. Bodie Miller’s talking it big around town. Says you’re his meat.”
“He’s a heavy eater, that boy. Hope he doesn’t tackle anything that’ll give him indigestion.”
We mounted up. “The horses will be at the livery stable in town.”
“Better not,” Slade said. “There’s a corral in the woods back of Armstrong’s. You might leave them there.”
The horses were fresh and ready to run, and we let them go. It was good to be in the saddle again, but both of us were hanging heavy before many miles.
We rode and we did not talk, for neither of us had words to say. The stars faded and the sky turned gray in the east, and then a pale yellow showed above the mountains behind us. The rosy color of dawn tipped the mountains before us, and we slowed our pace and cantered down the trail and watched the sun pick out the roofs ahead of us.