"Don't get far from Headquarters today," he said. "Dollar Mark Bull is
in here and he is a killer. I've been out on Tony after him, but he
charged us and Tony bolted before I could shoot. When I got Tony down to
brass tacks, Dollar Mark was hid."

I felt my knees knocking together.

"What's he look like?" I inquired, weakly.

"Big red fellow, with wide horns and white face. Branded with a Dollar
Mark. He's at least twenty years old, and mean!"

My midnight visitor!

I sat down suddenly on a lumber pile. It was handy to have a lumber
pile, for I felt limp all over. I told the ranger about chasing the old
beast around with a broom. His eyes bulged out on stems.

Frequent appearances of "Dollar Mark" kept me from my daily tramps
through the pines, and I spent more time on the Rim of the Canyon.

Strangely, the great yawning chasm itself held no fascination for me. I
could appreciate its dizzy depths, its vastness, its marvelous color
effects, and its weird contours. I could feel the immensity of it, and
it repelled instead of attracted. I seemed to see its barrenness and
desolation, the cruel deception of its poisonous springs, and its
insurmountable walls. I could visualize its hapless victims wandering
frantically about, trying to find the way out of some blind coulee,
until, exhausted and thirst-crazed, they lay down to die under the
sun's pitiless glare. Many skeletons, half buried in sand, have been