When Johnny Nelson reached the twin boulders marking the beginning of
the sloping run where the trail pitched down, he grinned happily at
sight of the moon rising over the low hills and then grabbed at his
holster, while every hair in his head stood up curiously. A wild,
haunting, feminine scream arose to a quavering soprano and sobbed away
into silence. No words can adequately describe the unearthly wail in
that cry and it took a full half-minute for Johnny to become himself
again and to understand what it was. Once more it arose, nearer, and
Johnny peered into the shadows along a rough backbone of rock, his Colt
balanced in his half-raised hand.

"You come 'round me an' you'll get hurt," he muttered, straining his
eyes to peer into the blackness of the shadows. "Come on out, Soft-foot;
the moon's yore finish. You an' me will have it out right here an'
now--I don't want no cougar trailing me through that ink-black canyon on
a two-foot ledge--" he thought he saw a shadow glide across a dim patch
of moonlight, but when his smoke rifted he knew he had missed. "Damn
it! You've got a mate 'round here somewhere," he complained. "Well,
I'll have to chance it, anyhow. Come on, bronc! Yo're shaking like a
leaf--get out of this!"

When he began to descend into the canyon he allowed his horse to pick
its own way without any guidance from him, and gave all of his attention
to the trail behind him. The horse could get along better by itself in
the dark, and it was more than possible that one or two lithe cougars
might be slinking behind him on velvet paws. The horse scraped along
gingerly, feeling its way step by step, and sending stones rattling and
clattering down the precipice at his left to tinkle into the stream at
the bottom.