[Illustration]
For a long moment the man surveyed with tired eyes the queer cleft in the
canon wall and the beaten trail that led into it.
Finally he addressed the nearest of his two burros in a listless, half
humorous voice:
“Well, Archibald, it looks interesting—what say we try it?”
Archibald made no reply. Archibald was asleep. Immediately upon the
halting of the little cavalcade the burro had sunk into a state of
dejection more apathetic than usual and had promptly gone to sleep. In
fact, it is doubtful if Archibald had not been asleep the greater part of
the afternoon.
“You don’t care, eh, Archibald? Well, for that matter, neither do I. But
let’s consider this matter, old timer. For the last hundred years, more
or less, we’ve been strolling around this accursed desert, and we have
made the acquaintance of a few cottontail rabbits, one or two coyotes,
and a rattlesnake. The rabbits showed their distaste for our society
by running away; the coyotes did nothing but deride us with mournful
voices; the rattlesnake certainly showed no desire to be friendly. We’ve
met no human being; we’ve discovered no fabulously rich gold mine; we’ve
had our fill of scenery.
“There lies a well-beaten trail, disappearing into the face of solid
rock. At its end lies mystery, adventure. Possibly romance. Also,
possibly, cattle rustlers, who may greet us with anything but enthusiasm.
In which case we’ll throw in our lot with them, and I’ll ride you across
the desert to eternal glory. The idea intrigues me, Archibald. I think we
shall investigate.”
At this moment an over-industrious flea must have launched a determined
attack on one of the few vulnerable parts of Archibald’s anatomy, for he
suddenly nodded his head vigorously.
“Ah, you agree with me? I knew you would. We will now follow the trail to
adventure—or a sheep herder’s camp. Let’s go!”
Percy, the second burro, was with difficulty herded into the narrow
trail. Archibald followed him with great reluctance, but finally the man
succeeded in driving his tiny pack train into concerted action, and they
slowly trudged up the narrow defile.
Stanley Ross had been exiled to the desert country because certain
eminent New York doctors had come to the conclusion that he had
contracted a disease which yields itself to treatment most readily in the
dry desert uplands.
Ross had not been breathing the dry air of the desert for a month before
he was as healthy as a prize fighter. The fact was that Stanley Ross
had over-indulged in a certain pastime known as “reading the tape,” and
Nature had gone on a strike. The New York doctors had provided the first
step toward recovery; the desert had done the rest.
But there had been another hurt that had not healed so readily—or at
least Ross had so convinced himself. Stanley Ross fondly believed that he
was heart-broken. The cause was a blonde bit of New York femininity who
had fancied Ross for a while, but in the end had fancied the millions of
an oil man more.
So he had stayed on in the West. A healthy restlessness had driven him
out to explore the uncharted wastes of the vast Red Desert, and the ever
changing wonders of rock, and sand, and sky, of sagebrush and cactus, of
sparkling night-heavens had beckoned him on. For months now he had been
wandering up and down this immeasurable wonderland, obeying every vagary
of mind, exploring every nook and cranny that caught his itinerant fancy,
his only companions the two burros which he had so whimsically named.
Mirages had beckoned. Colors so bizarre that no artist had dared to give
them to canvas had soothed his soul. Grotesqueries of rock and sand and
canon had intrigued him.
Ross still believed that the old hurt was still present in his bosom.
Actually he had been having a capital time for months, and the girl no
longer mattered. However, he had allowed himself gradually to fall into
a state of whimsical melancholy. What he needed was adventure. He was
bored, but had he known what lay at the end of the thin twisting trail
before him his boredom might not have been so acute.
The rock defile, through which the trail led, was narrow, and the walls
were nearly perpendicular. The passage was twisting, but a tiny trickle
of water gave promise of a broader canon farther up. The trail, while
very narrow, was well-defined and worn deep. It looked as though it had
been in constant use for years.
Ross had progressed along this strange passage for about a quarter mile
when his attention was suddenly arrested by something on the canon wall.
Involuntarily, he stopped. Instantly the burros halted as though their
motive power was automatically turned off whenever their master stopped
walking.
“Great Horned Toads!” ejaculated Ross in a low voice. “Archibald, do you
see what I see, or has the sun gone to my head? Has the world slipped
back three centuries, or is it actually nineteen-twenty-three? ’Tain’t
possible, Archibald, but nevertheless I see what I see!”
There, not thirty feet distant, was a girl—a pretty girl—and she was
shackled to four great iron rings, fastened in the canon wall, by means
of handcuffs, ankle fetters, and four heavy chains!
_CHAPTER TWO_