Chapter I


_The Cañon_

Waring picketed his horse in a dim angle of the Agua Fria Cañon, spread
his saddle-blanket to dry in the afternoon sun, and, climbing to a
narrow ledge, surveyed the cañon from end to end with a pair of
high-power glasses. He knew the men he sought would ride south. He was
reasonably certain that they would not ride through the cañon in
daylight. The natural trail through the Agua Fria was along the western
wall; a trail that he had avoided, working his toilsome way down the
eastern side through a labyrinth of brush and rock that had concealed
him from view. A few hundred yards below his hasty camp a sandy arroyo
crossed the cañon's mouth.

He had planned to intercept the men where the trail crossed this arroyo,
or, should the trail show pony tracks, to follow them into the desert
beyond, where, sooner or later, he would overtake them. They had a start
of twelve hours, but Waring reasoned that they would not do much riding
in daylight. The trail at the northern end of the cañon had shown no
fresh tracks that morning. His problem was simple. The answer would be
definite. He returned to the shelter of the brush, dropped the glasses
into a saddle-pocket, and stretched himself wearily.

A few yards below him, on a brush-dotted level, his horse, Dexter,
slowly circled his picket and nibbled at the scant bunch-grass. The