“Well?”
“I can see the desert,” he announced. “And up here one is safe from being seen by anybody close in the mountains. The slopes of the hill and the forest around us and the chaparral make it impossible for any one close at hand to see these rocks. But if some one were stationed on a distant peak, there might be a different story to tell.”
“I knew that—or suspected it. Don’t worry about the peaks, though. The desert—can you see Squawtooth?”
“I see a square of green.”
“That’s it. And the camps?”
“Can’t make them out. Say, I’ll have to sit down, I guess. That wind could almost blow a fellow off of here. Can you tie your glasses to that end of the rope? Then I can haul them up.”
She did this, and presently he hauled the binoculars in and was training them on the desert, seven thousand feet below.
“Say, the wind is tearing things up down there!” he reported. “Worse than up here, I’d say.”
“Of course. Down there it has an unobstructed sweep. It sucks down from the mountains. Stands Squawtooth where it did, milord?”
“Oh, yes. But the camps! Say, tents are all down and everything in a mess.”