A valley opened below the mesa, the trail falling abruptly almost from
the hoofs of the horse. Beaudry drew up and looked down. From rim to
rim the meadow was perhaps half a mile across. Seen from above, the
bed of it was like an emerald lake through which wound a ribbon of
silver. This ribbon was Big Creek. To the right it emerged from a
draw in the foothills where green reaches of forest rose tier after
tier toward the purple mountains. Far up among these peaks Big Creek
had its source in Lost Lake, which lay at the foot of a glacier near
the top of the world.

The saw-toothed range lifted its crest into a sky of violet haze. Half
an hour since the sun had set in a blaze of splendor behind a crotch of
the hills, but dusk had softened the vivid tints of orange and crimson
and scarlet to a faint pink glow. Already the mountain silhouette had
lost its sharp edge and the outlines were blurring. Soon night would
sift down over the roof of the continent.

The eyes of the man searched warily the valley below. They rested
closely on the willows by the ford, the cottonwood grove to the left,
and the big rocks beyond the creek. From its case beneath his leg he
took the sawed-off shotgun loaded with buckshot. It rested on the
pommel of the saddle while his long and careful scrutiny swept the
panorama. The spot was an ideal one for an ambush.

His unease communicated itself to the boy, who began to whimper softly.
Beaudry, distressed, tried to comfort him.

"Now, don't you, son--don't you. Dad ain't going to let anything hurt
you-all."