western sun trailed long shadows across the cañon; shadows that drifted
imperceptibly farther and farther, spreading, commingling, softening the
broken outlines of ledge and brush until the walled solitude was brimmed
with dusk, save where a red shaft cleft the fast-fading twilight,
burning like a great spotlight on a picketed horse and a man asleep, his
head pillowed on a saddle.

As the dusk drew down, the horse ceased grazing, sniffed the coming
night, and nickered softly. Waring rose and led the horse to water, and,
returning, emptied half the grain in the morral on a blanket. Dex
munched contentedly. When the horse had finished eating the grain,
Waring picketed him in a fresh spot and climbed back to the ledge, where
he sat watching the western wall of the cañon, occasionally glancing up
as some dim star burned through the deepening dusk and bloomed to a
silvery maturity.

Presently a faint pallor overspread the cañon till it lay like a ghostly
sea dotted with strange islands of brush and rock; islands that seemed
to waver and shift in a sort of vague restlessness, as though trying to
evade the ever-brightening tide of moonlight that burned away their
shrouds of dusk and fixed them in still, tangible shapes upon the cañon
floor.

Across the cañon the farther trail ran past a broad, blank wall of rock.
No horseman could cross that open space unseen. Waring, seated upon the
ledge, leaned back against the wall, watching the angling shadows
shorten as the moon drew overhead. Toward morning he became drowsy. As
the white radiance paled to gray, he rose and paced back and forth upon
the narrow ledge to keep himself awake. In a few minutes the moon would
disappear behind the farther rim of the world; the cañon would sink back