We loped along quiet and easy until sun-up. The Grindstone Buttes
lay about a mile ahead of us. Looking back, we saw the Injuns
coming over a rise of ground 'way in the distance.

"Now," says my friend, "I know a short cut through those hills
that'll bring us out at Johnson's. They've got enough punchers
there to do the United States army up--starched and blued. Shall
we take it?"

"Sure!" says I. "I'm only wandering around this part of the
country because this part of the country is here--if it was
anywheres else I'd be just as glad."

So in we went. It was the steepest and narrowest kind of a canon,
looking as if it had been cut out of the rock with one crack of the
axe. I was just thinking: "Gee whiz! but this would be a poor
place to get snagged in," when bang! says a rifle right in front of
us, and m-e-arr! goes the bullet over our heads.

We were off them horses and behind a, couple of chunks of rock
sooner than we hoped for, and that's saying a good deal.

"Cussed poor shot, whoever he is," says my friend. "Some Injun
holding us here till the rest come up, I presume."

"That's about the size of it--and I'd like to make you a bet that
he does it, too, if I thought I'd have a chance to collect."

"Oh, you can't always tell--you might lose your money," says he,
kind of thoughtful.