Black Barr meets up with the “devil’s deputy.”
Fate stood at the forks of the trail.
At least that is the only way by which I can explain why I took the turn
to the left when the choice of either directions meant nothing to me.
For a mile we followed the left-hand trail, my black and myself,
swinging forward at a fast trail-walk, the high chaparral shutting out
all but occasional glimpses of the view. We were working down the side
of a long ridge, approaching a valley. The main trail, from which I had
turned, kept to the summit and went on. This left-hand fork was headed
toward a plateau-like valley, where it probably ended.
A white signboard hung at an angle from a small tree, fastened by a
rusty nail, bleached by sun and wind, cracked and checked, and yet it
still bore its message “_Caliente Flats 10 M._” It was a sign such as is
used by the Forestry Service to mark mountain fire trails. Yet the
printing was not that of a government stencil. It was crude
hand-lettering.
Another mile and a rider approached, coming up the trail, pressing his
horse.
I stopped, swung to one side, and waited, hands ready, poised over my
pistols. In the mountains of the West, particularly in those communities
where the main means of communication are over horseback trails, it is
well to be prepared for trouble when one meets another on the trail.
He saw me, scowled, averted his glance and passed in sullen silence.
That, of itself, was unusual. The code of the West calls for a brief
exchange of courtesies when two riders meet. More, there was a
blood-stained bandage on his shoulder, and the blood was a bright
scarlet, not the rusty red of dried blood. The man had been wounded, and
the wound was bleeding even as he urged his mount up that trail, away
from Caliente Flats.