Mid-afternoon found us camped under the Stone. Once on the ground, I
began to think we were in no immediate danger of getting our throats cut
for the sake of the treasure. Rutter had said "under the Stone"--and the
vagueness of his words came home to me with considerable force, for the
Stone, roughly estimated, was a good mile in length. It paralleled the
river, a perpendicular wall of gray sandstone. An aptly-named place;
wherever a ledge offered foothold, and even in places that seemed wholly
beyond reach of human hands, the bald front of the cliff was chiseled
with rude traceries--the picture-writing of the Blackfoot tribe. The
history of a thousand battles and buffalo-hunts was written there. And
somewhere at the foot of that mile-long cliff, under the uncouth figures
carved by the red men in their hour of triumphant ease, rested that
which we had come to find. I sat with my back against a cottonwood and
smoked a cigarette while I considered the impassive front of
Writing-On-the-Stone; and the fruit of my consideration was that he who
sought for the needle in the haystack had no more difficult task than
ours.

In due time we ate supper, and dark spread its mantle over the land.
Then MacRae and I crawled up on a projecting ledge of rock to roll out
our blankets--in a place where we could not well be surprised. Not that
either of us anticipated anything of the sort so early in the game; when
we had found what we were after, that would come. But the mere fact
that we were all playing a part made us incline to caution. I don't know
if we betrayed our knowledge or suspicions to Hicks and Gregory, but it
was a good deal of an effort to treat those red-handed scoundrels as if
they were legitimate partners in a risky enterprise. We had to do it,
though. Until they showed their hand we could do nothing but stand pat
and wait for developments; and if they watched us unobtrusively, we did
the same by them. It is not exactly soothing to the nerves, however, to