into the range beyond.

A clump of quaking aspens was the chief landmark in the bed of the
park. Though this was the immediate destination of Mr. Dingwell, since
the hoofprints he was following plunged straight down toward the grove,
yet he took certain precautions before venturing nearer. He made sure
that the 45-70 Winchester that lay across the saddle was in working
order. Also he kept along the rim of the saucer-shaped park till he
came to a break where a creek tumbled down in a white foam through a
ravine.

"It's a heap better to be safe than to be sorry," he explained to
himself cheerfully. "They call this Lonesome Park, and maybe so it
deserves its name to-day. But you never can tell, Dave. We'll make
haste slowly if you don't mind."

Along the bank of the creek he descended, letting his sure-footed
cowpony pick its own way while he gave strict attention to the scenery.
At a bend of the stream he struck again the trail of the riders he had
been following and came from there directly to the edge of the aspen
clump.

Apparently his precautions were unnecessary. He was alone. There
could be no doubt of that. Only the tracks of feet and the ashes of a
dead fire showed that within a few days a party had camped here.

Dingwell threw his bridle to the ground and with his rifle tucked under
his arm examined the tracks carefully. Sometimes he was down on hands
and knees peering at the faint marks of which he was reading the story.
Foot by foot he quartered over the sand, entirely circling the grove