expect, for he would be riding away from safety.
The sand made little sound as he walked the horse along. The end of the canyon was like a gigantic doorâ¦beyond was the valley, the star-lit skies. He had ridden sixty yards out of the canyon mouth before they discovered him.
He smelled smoke, and at the same time he saw an Indian rear up from the ground and start toward him. Deliberately, he dropped the muzzle of his gun on the slim dark figures, and fired.
He saw the jerk of the Indianâs body as the bullet struck, and at the same moment he touched the black with the spurs and was off, riding at a dead run into the wide-open spaces of the valley.
Could he find the other trail? At night it would look different, but long ago he had cultivated the habit of all wise travelers in wild country, of turning to look back. Faced from the opposite direction, a trail can look vastly different, and if compelled to retrace oneâs trail such a precaution is essential.
He rode at a dead run for a quarter of a mile or so, then slowed and turned at right angles, making for the valleyâs eastern side. He found the gap, started toward it, then recalled the steep trail, and mounted to the top of the cliffs above the valley.
Leaning forward, he peered above to his right, searching for the notch in the rock, and hoping he could choose the right one.
Here, in the still, cool night, he could smell the dusty grass and the sage. Behind him there would be pursuit, and they would be sure he had come toward this trail, which he knew.
Fallon spoke softly to his horse. That horse was working overtime keeping him out of troubleâkeeping him alive, even; for a man without a horse in this country was often as good as a dead manâ¦that was the reason for hanging horse thieves.
Fallon rode carefully, easing toward the trail he had come over that afternoon. Suddenly, when almost past it, he saw what he believed was the notch he wanted. Turning abruptly, he put his horse up the steep slope. Instinctively, it held to the trail.
They climbed steeply, winding around boulders, and, suddenly emerging at the top, he was among the pines. He sought a place among the trees and boulders not far from the trail up which he climbed, and there he settled down for the night.
He slept fitfully, allowing the black horse to keep watch. With the dawn he was awake, listening. But he heard no sound but the wind in the pines, the lazy cropping of his horse. He sat still for some time, testing the morning with all his senses. If Indians were about, he wanted to know it. While he waited, he ate some pine nuts undiscovered by the birds.
After a while he got to his feet, saddled the horse, and led it to the trail. He studied the ground with care and found no tracks or sign of any kind save that of his own horse. Nevertheless, he hesitated to descend into what might well be a trap. So far as he was aware, only two routes of escape were possible to him, and perhaps the Indians knew it, too. They might be waiting somewhere below.
Mounting, he turned away from the trail by which he had reached the crest of the mountain, and rode along the slope under the pines, his rifle ready for any eventuality.
The morning was clear and bright, the air fresh and pleasantly cool. His horse trod on pine needles, and pines were all about him.
He followed a game trail along the slope. Occasionally, through a break in the pines he could see in front of him, off to the left, a towering dome of a mountain. It had a distinctive shape and looked to be the highest anywhere around.
Suddenly the slope seemed to drop completely away, and he found himself on the verge of a tremendous declivity where the mountain fell away some four thousand feet to the valley below. This must be, had to be, the Big Smoky Valley.
A few minutes later he found a spring trickling from the rocks. Here he drank, and allowed his horse to drink.
The rocks around the spring were broken and jagged, a wide
The sand made little sound as he walked the horse along. The end of the canyon was like a gigantic doorâ¦beyond was the valley, the star-lit skies. He had ridden sixty yards out of the canyon mouth before they discovered him.
He smelled smoke, and at the same time he saw an Indian rear up from the ground and start toward him. Deliberately, he dropped the muzzle of his gun on the slim dark figures, and fired.
He saw the jerk of the Indianâs body as the bullet struck, and at the same moment he touched the black with the spurs and was off, riding at a dead run into the wide-open spaces of the valley.
Could he find the other trail? At night it would look different, but long ago he had cultivated the habit of all wise travelers in wild country, of turning to look back. Faced from the opposite direction, a trail can look vastly different, and if compelled to retrace oneâs trail such a precaution is essential.
He rode at a dead run for a quarter of a mile or so, then slowed and turned at right angles, making for the valleyâs eastern side. He found the gap, started toward it, then recalled the steep trail, and mounted to the top of the cliffs above the valley.
Leaning forward, he peered above to his right, searching for the notch in the rock, and hoping he could choose the right one.
Here, in the still, cool night, he could smell the dusty grass and the sage. Behind him there would be pursuit, and they would be sure he had come toward this trail, which he knew.
Fallon spoke softly to his horse. That horse was working overtime keeping him out of troubleâkeeping him alive, even; for a man without a horse in this country was often as good as a dead manâ¦that was the reason for hanging horse thieves.
Fallon rode carefully, easing toward the trail he had come over that afternoon. Suddenly, when almost past it, he saw what he believed was the notch he wanted. Turning abruptly, he put his horse up the steep slope. Instinctively, it held to the trail.
They climbed steeply, winding around boulders, and, suddenly emerging at the top, he was among the pines. He sought a place among the trees and boulders not far from the trail up which he climbed, and there he settled down for the night.
He slept fitfully, allowing the black horse to keep watch. With the dawn he was awake, listening. But he heard no sound but the wind in the pines, the lazy cropping of his horse. He sat still for some time, testing the morning with all his senses. If Indians were about, he wanted to know it. While he waited, he ate some pine nuts undiscovered by the birds.
After a while he got to his feet, saddled the horse, and led it to the trail. He studied the ground with care and found no tracks or sign of any kind save that of his own horse. Nevertheless, he hesitated to descend into what might well be a trap. So far as he was aware, only two routes of escape were possible to him, and perhaps the Indians knew it, too. They might be waiting somewhere below.
Mounting, he turned away from the trail by which he had reached the crest of the mountain, and rode along the slope under the pines, his rifle ready for any eventuality.
The morning was clear and bright, the air fresh and pleasantly cool. His horse trod on pine needles, and pines were all about him.
He followed a game trail along the slope. Occasionally, through a break in the pines he could see in front of him, off to the left, a towering dome of a mountain. It had a distinctive shape and looked to be the highest anywhere around.
Suddenly the slope seemed to drop completely away, and he found himself on the verge of a tremendous declivity where the mountain fell away some four thousand feet to the valley below. This must be, had to be, the Big Smoky Valley.
A few minutes later he found a spring trickling from the rocks. Here he drank, and allowed his horse to drink.
The rocks around the spring were broken and jagged, a wide
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