rock-rim trail above, shifting in his saddle to one of the easy,
careless attitudes of the habitual horseman, recognized it as a rifle
shot.

Presently, from a hidden wash rose little balloon-like puffs of smoke,
followed by a faint, far popping, as if somebody had touched off a bunch
of firecrackers. Men on horseback, dwarfed by distance to pygmy size,
clambered to the bank--now one and then another firing into the mesquite
that ran like a broad tongue from the roll of hills into the valley.

"Looks like something's broke loose," the young man drawled aloud. "The
band's sure playing a right lively tune this glad mo'ning."

Save for one or two farewell shots, the firing ceased. The riders had
disappeared into the chaparral.

The rider did not need to be told that this was a man hunt, destined
perhaps to be one of a hundred unwritten desert tragedies. Some subtle
instinct in him differentiated between these hurried shots and those
born of the casual exuberance of the cow-puncher at play. He had a
reason for taking an interest in it--an interest that was more than
casual.

Skirting the rim of the saucer-shaped valley, he rode forward warily,
came at length to a cañon that ran like a sword cleft into the hills,
and descended cautiously by a cattle trail, its scarred slope.

Through the defile ran a mountain stream, splashing over and round
boulders in its swift fall.