Shannon Burke did not ride to her home after she left Custer. She
turned toward the west at the road above the Evans place, continued on
to the mouth of Horse Camp Cañon, and entered the hills. For two miles
she followed the cañon trail to El Camino Largo, and there, turning
to the left, she followed this other trail east to Sycamore Cañon.
Whatever her mission, it was evident that she did not wish it known
to others. Had she not wished to conceal it, she might have ridden
directly up Sycamore Cañon from Ganado with a saving of several miles.
Crossing Sycamore, she climbed the low hills skirting its eastern
side. There was no trail here, and the brush was thick and oftentimes
so dense that she was forced to make numerous detours to find a way
upward; but at last she rode out upon the western rim of the basin
meadow above Jackknife. Thence she picked her way down to more level
ground, and, putting spurs to Baldy, galloped east, her eyes constantly
scanning the ground just ahead of her.
Presently she found what she sought--a trail running north and south
across the basin. She turned Baldy into it, and headed him south toward
the mountains. She was nervous and inwardly terrified, and a dozen
times she would have turned back had she not been urged on by a power
infinitely more potent than self-interest.
Personally, she had all to lose by the venture and naught to gain. The
element of physical danger she knew to be far from inconsiderable,
while it appalled her to contemplate the after effects, in the
not inconceivable contingency of the discovery of her act by the
Penningtons. Yet she urged Baldy steadily onward, though she felt her
flesh creep as the trail entered a narrow barranco at the southern
extremity of the meadow and wound upward through dense chaparral, which
shut off her range of vision in all directions for more than a few feet.
At the upper end of the barranco the trail turned back and ascended a
steep hillside, running diagonally upward through heavy brush--without
which, she realized, the trail would have appeared an almost impossible
one, since it clung to a nearly perpendicular cliff. The brush lent a
suggestion of safety that was more apparent than real, and at the same
time it hid the sheer descent below.
Baldy, digging his toes into the loose earth, scrambled upward,
stepping over gnarled roots and an occasional bowlder, and finding,
almost miraculously, the least precarious footing. There were times
when the girl shut her eyes tightly and sat with tensed muscles, her
knees pressing her horse’s sides until her muscles ached. At last the
doughty Morgan topped the summit of the hogback, and Shannon drew a
deep breath of relief--which was alloyed, however, by the realization
that in returning she must ride down this frightful trail, which now,
as if by magic, disappeared.
The hogback was water-washed and gravel-strewn, and as hard-baked
beneath the summer’s sun as a macadam road. To Shannon’s unaccustomed
eyes it gave no clew as to the direction of the trail. She rode up and
down in both directions until finally she discovered what appeared to
be a trail leading downward into another barranco upon the opposite
side of the ridge. The descent seemed less terrifying than that which
she had just negotiated, and as it was the only indication of a trail
that she could find, she determined to investigate it.
Baldy, descending carefully, suddenly paused and with uppricked ears
emitted a shrill neigh. So sudden and so startling was the sound that
Shannon’s heart all but stood still, gripped by the cold fingers of
terror. And then from below came an answering neigh.
She had found what she sought, but the fear that rode her all but sent
her panic-stricken in retreat. It was only the fact that she could not
turn Baldy upon that narrow trail that gave her sufficient pause to
gain mastery over the chaos of her nerves and drive them again into the
fold of reason. It required a supreme effort of will to urge her horse
onward again, down into that mysterious ravine, where she knew there
might lurk for her a thing more terrible than death. That she did it
bespoke the greatness of the love that inspired her courage.
The ravine below her was both shallower and wider than that upon the
opposite side of the ridge, so that it presented the appearance of a
tiny basin. From her vantage point she looked out across the tops of
spreading oaks to the brush-covered hillside that bounded the basin on
the south; but what lay below, what the greenery of the trees concealed
from her sight, she could only surmise.
She knew that the Penningtons kept no horses here, so she guessed that
the animal that had answered Baldy’s neigh belonged to the men she
sought. Slowly she rode downward. What would her reception be? If her
conclusions as to the identity of the men camped below were correct,
she could imagine them shooting first and investigating later. The idea
was not a pleasant one, but nothing could deter her now.
After what seemed a long time she rode out among splendid old oaks,
in view of a soiled tent and a picket line where three horses and a
half dozen burros were tethered. Nowhere was there sign of the actual
presence of men, yet she had an uncanny feeling that they were there,
and that from some place of concealment they were watching her.
She sat quietly upon her horse for a moment, waiting. Then, no one
appearing, she called aloud.
“Hello, there! I want to speak with you.”
Her voice sounded strange and uncanny in her ears.
For what seemed a long time there was no other sound than the gently
moving leaves about her, the birds, and the heavy breathing of Baldy.
Then, from the brush behind her, came another voice. It came from the
direction of the trail down which she had ridden. She realized that she
must have passed within a few feet of the man who now spoke.
“What do you want?”
“I have come to warn you. You are being watched.”
“You mean you are not alone? There are others with you? Then tell them
to go away, for we have our rifles. We have done nothing. We’re tending
our bees--they’re just below the ridge above our camp.”
“There is no one with me. I do not mean that others are watching you
now, but that others know that you come down out of the hills with
something each Friday night, and they want to find out what it is you
bring.”
There was a rustling in the brush behind her, and she turned to see
a man emerge, carrying a rifle ready in his hands. He was a Mexican,
swarthy and ill-favored, his face pitted by smallpox.
Almost immediately two other men stepped from the brush at other points
about the camp. The three walked to where Shannon sat upon her mount.
All were armed, and all were Mexicans.
“What do you know about what we bring out of the hills? Should we not
bring our honey out?” asked the pock-marked one.
“I know what you bring out,” she said. “I am not going to expose you. I
am here to warn you.”
“Why?”
“I know Allen.”
Immediately their attitude changed.
“You have seen Allen? You bring a message from him?”
“I have not seen him. I bring no message from him; but for reasons of
my own I have come to warn you not to bring down another load next
Friday night.”