We sat there on our horses, grouped close together, a minute that
lengthened to five; then MacRae broke off in the middle of a sentence as
the flare leaped up, flickered an instant, and was blotted out again. I
could have sworn I heard a cry, and one of my men spoke in a tone that
assured me my imagination had not been playing a trick.

"Hear that?" he asked eagerly. "Somebody hollered down there."

"I don't much like that," MacRae said, in a low tone. "I have a hunch
that something crooked is going on, and I reckon I'll go down and see
what that fire means. You fellows better go a little farther and wait
for me."

"Not on your life," I protested. "You might run into most any kind of
formation. We'll go in a bunch, if we go at all."

"Might be Injuns," Bruce Haggin put in. "An', anyhow, whatever play
comes up, four men's a heap better'n one. If you're bound t' mix in,
why, lead the way. I'm kinda curious about what's down there m'self."

So near to the post it was that MacRae almost knew the feel of the
ground underfoot. He led us a hundred yards along the rim of the bank
and stopped again.

"This is as good a place as any, but you'll have to get down and lead
your horses," he warned. "It's a devil of a scramble from here to the
bottom."

We dismounted, and speedily found that MacRae hadn't exaggerated the
evil qualities of that descent. If there had been boulders on that