That night was years long to Nan and Rex. She slept fitfully, but Rex
did not sleep at all. Briggs had not moved. At times he groaned softly,
and several times he babbled incoherently. There was plenty of wood, and
Rex kept the fire going briskly.
It was fully daylight before Rex moved from the fire. He was stiff and
sore in every joint. His left shoulder pained him greatly, and his right
hand was badly swollen. Nan followed him out of the mouth of the cave.
She limped as badly as he, and together they stood on the sandstone
ledge, looking up at the sunlight on the high peaks.
‘It won’t shine down here much before noon,’ she said, placing a hand on
his shoulder. ‘This cañon is so deep that the sun doesn’t reach it
quickly.’
Rex nodded gloomily. ‘What a night! And what next? I’m so hungry I could
almost eat that piece of burned horse meat.’
‘Same here,’ Nan tried to smile. ‘But we’ll have to go without food, I
suppose. Which way was that spring?’
‘Down there,’ Rex pointed to the right. ‘I wonder if my old hat will
hold water? I believe it will, Nan. You stay here and I’ll bring you
some.’
He made his way down among the boulders, sliding the last few feet to
the bottom of the cañon, where he picked up a sizable club. His steps
made little sound in the yielding sand, as he made his way down the
bottom to where he circled the big boulder, and where they had built
their fire.
Clustered around the little spring were dozens of quail, getting their
morning drink. Rex did not know what they were, except that they were
birds, and birds meant food. Perhaps they had never before seen a human
being, because they merely squatted and looked at him. With a side swing
of his hand he flung the club into them, killing three and sending the
rest in a whirring, curving flight down the cañon.
He secured his birds, filled his hat with water, and started on his
return journey to the cave. Nan had dressed and cooked many quail, and
she fairly danced with joy at the sight of the three birds.
‘I didn’t know what they were,’ confessed Rex. ‘But they looked good to
eat, so I hit them with a club.’
Nan skinned the birds and they went back into the cave to build up the
fire. Briggs had not moved yet, and Rex was afraid he was dead, but he
muttered brokenly, as Rex leaned over him.
He did not look so formidable now; more like an oldish man who had been
badly mistreated. It seemed as though his head had been battered until
it was all out of shape.
‘He is wearing a dress shirt,’ said Rex. ‘Isn’t it queer for a man down
here to be wearing a stiff-bosom shirt? Did you ever see him before,
Nan?’
‘No, I never have. See if you can find a couple of green sticks, Rex;
about a yard long and as big as your finger, to broil these quail on.’
‘But what are we going to do with this man, Nan? He’s in awful bad
shape. Shouldn’t we tie him up, or something?’
‘I don’t know, Rex. We haven’t any ropes. Oh, I don’t think he can hurt
anybody. He’s just an old man.’
Rex secured the sticks and came back to the entrance of the cave, where
he stopped and looked at the sky. The buzzards were coming for their
breakfast; a whole cloud of them, zooming down, like a great fleet of
black aeroplanes. Rex called Nan to the entrance to watch the birds.
Some of them sailed within a few yards of them, croaking harshly. One
tried to alight on the sandstone shelf, where Rex had wasted his stone
on a lion, but caught sight of the two human beings, and went away with
a great flapping of wings.
Their objective seemed to be just across the cañon from the cave.
‘Horrid, dirty things!’ exclaimed Nan. ‘Always looking for carrion.’
‘I suppose,’ sighed Rex. ‘Still, they might be our salvation, Nan. I
remember what Hashknife said to me the night we found that horse. He
said, “Sometimes it’s a good thing to follow the buzzards. You never can
tell what you might find.”’
‘But do you suppose he might see the buzzards down here?’
‘He might see them as they come down, Nan. He’ll know to-day that we
never reached Cañonville, and he will start a search.’
‘Oh, I hope so, Rex. But after breakfast we’ll see if there isn’t a way
out of here. Come on and help cook it.’
They each ate a half-cooked quail. Without any seasoning it was far from
delicious, but they ate it and pronounced it good.
‘I think you are a very brave girl, Nan,’ said Rex. ‘In fact, you are
rather wonderful in every way, but you’ve got a lot of burned quail on
your nose and a black smudge on one cheek. I suppose I’m a sight. But I
don’t really care, do you?’
‘I don’t care how you look, Rex.’
‘Well, that’s fine. Now, I think we better look around and see if there
isn’t a way out.’
They worked their way down through the brush and crossed the bottom of
the cañon above the cave, where they were able to climb to a wide shelf.
It was here that they disturbed the buzzard host, and they went flapping
and croaking their way up the side of the cliffs, only to soar in vast
circles, halfway up the height of the cañon, watching with their keen
eyes for those two human beings to disappear.
It was this flight of buzzards that Hashknife, Sleepy, and Lem saw from
the grades.
‘They were eating a horse!’ exclaimed Nan. ‘Why, your horse never fell
this high up the cañon, Rex.’
They walked over and inspected the almost obliterated carcass of a
horse, which still bore a saddle. It had been a roan horse, and a strip
of the skin still bore the brand of the 6X6.
‘That was one of Peter Morgan’s horses,’ declared Nan. ‘But how in the
world did it get down here?’
Rex looked critically up the side of the sheer hillside.
‘It surely didn’t walk down,’ he replied. ‘I think it must have come
down like my horse did--end over end.’
‘Well, I don’t like the odor,’ said Nan finally. ‘Let’s see if we can’t
go down the cañon.’
* * * * *
In the meantime Hashknife, Sleepy, and Lem rode on to Mesa City. Spike
Cahill and Bert Roddy met them at the hitch-rack, and from their general
appearance they were not feeling as good as they had the evening before.
‘What’s all this talk about Miss Lane and the tenderfoot disappearin’?’
asked Spike. ‘Lotsa folks have been talkin’ about it, and we want it
straight.’
Lem explained as well as he could.
‘Ain’t showed up yet?’ Bert Roddy shook his head painfully.
‘Not yet, Bert.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned! Whatcha suppose became of ’em, Lem?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Did Joe Cave show up here?’ asked Hashknife.
‘About an hour ago,’ said Spike, spitting dryly. ‘Quit his job, didn’t
he?’ looking at Lem.
‘I fired him,’ said Lem.
‘I told yuh!’ crowed Bert. ‘Didn’t I offer to make yuh a bet, Spike? I
said that Lem canned him, didn’t I?’
‘A-a-aw, don’t brag; yuh make my head ache.’
‘Where’s Joe now?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Gone out to the Flyin’ M. Dave Morgan hired him, and sent him right out
to the ranch. Dave needs men pretty bad. He even offered to take us back
ag’in, didn’t he, Bert?’
‘Shore did. And you tell ’em what I told him, Spike.’
‘Aw, it wasn’t so damn smart. We need the job.’
‘Not for that sidewinder. He jist the same as accused us of openin’ the
safe at the 6X6. I may be a thief, but I don’t like to have it told
before my friends.’
‘That’s right; he did insult us, Bert. I’m glad yuh said what yuh did to
him. But’--he turned to Lem--‘ what are yuh doin’ toward findin’ the
lost folks?’
‘Not a thing--yet.’
They all walked over to the Oasis, where they found Dave Morgan and
several more men.
‘What’s the latest news?’ asked Morgan.
They were obliged to tell him that there was nothing new.
‘You know this country pretty well, don’t yuh, Morgan?’ asked Hashknife.
Dave Morgan smiled faintly, fingering his watch-chain.
‘I ought to,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here a long time.’
‘Ever been down in the middle of Coyote Cañon?’
Morgan blinked quickly, thoughtfully.
‘No, I never have, Hartley.’
‘Do yuh know if there’s a trail down there?’
‘I’ve never heard of any.’
‘I never have either,’ said Spike. ‘Why, that damn thing is straight up
and down. Talkin’ about it makes me thirsty; so we better have a drink.
The 6X6 owes me some money, anyway.’
‘And you’re goin’ to collect it over the bar, eh?’ queried Dell Bowen.
‘Aw, don’t preach. You spent part of yours last night.’
‘What about a trail into Coyote Cañon?’ asked Morgan.
‘I’d like to go down there,’ replied Hashknife.
‘You think there’s somethin’ down there?’ asked Spike.
‘About a hundred buzzards,’ smiled Sleepy, accepting a glass from the
bartender.
‘Buzzards, eh? Somethin’ dead, eh?’
‘No, they go down there to eat brush,’ said Bert sarcastically.
‘My Gawd, you’re comical,’ said Spike admiringly. ‘The only thing that
keeps yuh off the stage is the fact that yuh can’t drive, and they
wouldn’t trust yuh with the money-box.’
‘Nobody interested in yore comedy, Spike,’ assured Bowen. ‘We want to
know more about Coyote Cañon. Hartley, are yuh serious in wantin’ to go
down there?’
‘I’m goin’ down,’ declared Hashknife.
‘Yuh don’t suppose that Nan Lane and that fool kid are down there, do
yuh?’
Hashknife studied his glass of liquor for a moment.
‘Bowen,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t know. But there’s no other place to
look. They never got to Cañonville; they never came home. Nan’s horse
came back. They either went up or down, and I’m bettin’ they went down.’
‘But why should they, Hartley?’
‘Who knows? I’m playin’ the buzzards, Bowen.’
‘Uh-huh,’ thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s a good bet. We’ll go with yuh,
cowboy. I don’t know any trail down there, but we’ll find one. It’s
worth a try. When do we start?’
‘Right now.’
‘Saddle up!’ snorted Spike, sending his glass spinning down the bar.
‘C’mon.’
‘You might get in off the mesa on the lower end,’ called Dave Morgan.
‘They tell me the deer come in that way.’
‘All right, Dave--thanks,’ replied the sheriff.
The three cowboys hurried to the livery-stable, where they saddled their
horses. Hashknife, Sleepy, and Lem joined them, and the six men rode out
of town together. Lem and Hashknife rode knee-to-knee.
‘We better try the cañon jist south of the Lane place,’ called Bowen.
‘It ain’t so damn high there.’
‘Suits me,’ agreed Lem heartily. He had little hopes of ever getting to
the bottom of the cañon, no matter where they tried a descent.
A quarter of a mile away from town, Hashknife halted them.
‘Boys, I want yuh to do me a little favor,’ he said. ‘Go right ahead and
try to get down the cañon.’
‘What’s the idea, Hashknife?’ queried Lem wonderingly.
‘I can’t tell yuh yet, Lem. It’s just a hunch. I’m turnin’ back here.’
‘Let him go,’ said Sleepy quickly. ‘It’s all in the game.’
‘All right,’ agreed Lem, holding out his hand. ‘Good luck, Hashknife.’
They swung their horses around and rode swiftly southward, while
Hashknife went back toward Mesa City again. Just outside the town he
halted his horse behind a thicket of mesquite, and dismounted.
He had not been there over five minutes when Dave Morgan rode past, his
horse traveling at a swinging walk. As far as Hashknife knew, Morgan was
merely heading for the 6X6 ranch. But as soon as he passed a turn in the
road, Hashknife mounted and followed him.
For possibly half a mile farther Morgan rode slowly, but finally forced
his horse to a gallop. Hashknife kept far enough behind him so that
Morgan would not see nor hear him, and from a slight elevation he saw
Morgan swing to the 6X6 road.
Hashknife swore under his breath, but followed, and it was with a great
deal of satisfaction that he saw Morgan leave the road, possibly a
quarter of a mile from the forks, and travel south down a brushy swale.
It was rather difficult for Hashknife to follow without being seen now,
but he was obliged to take a chance, in order to keep Morgan in sight.
Morgan did not look back, but seemed intent on his destination.
It was a little over a mile from where Morgan left the road to the rim
of Coyote Cañon, and Hashknife was not over two hundred yards off to the
left of him, shielded by a mesquite thicket, when Morgan reached the
rim.
For several minutes Morgan sat his horse, scanning the cañon, as though
satisfying himself that no one was in sight. Hashknife was a little
afraid that the five men farther down the cañon might interfere with
things, but finally Morgan, evidently satisfied, rode his horse over the
rim of the cañon, cutting in between two live-oaks, and disappeared.
Hashknife rode cautiously to the rim, behind the oaks, and dismounted.
Here were the marks of Morgan’s horse in the loose earth, and for quite
a distance down the slope he could see where the horse had sidled along
the steep slope.
Calmly he rolled and smoked a cigarette. He was not in such a hurry now.
If Morgan could get down--he could. And he did not want to try the
descent while there was danger of Morgan’s hearing him come down.
Finally he tightened his cinch, mounted, and followed Morgan.