A picture leaped up before his eyes with such vividness as to make him catch his breath. A gray mule, a black Stetson, and a .30-.30! He paralleled that with a red canoe, a 303 Savage, a black and green Mackinaw coat. On the beach lay a black Siwash dugout of cedar. The other man’s rifle stood within reaching distance. The man’s clothing lay beside his bed. The man himself slept soundly.
Bill Goodrich lay debating with himself. It seemed a rotten thing to do. Yet the man would suffer nothing beyond inconvenience. The officers would take him out. By the time he had established his identity Goodrich would be far in the depths of those grim mountains, his trail lost for good. With a week’s grace a hundred men could not locate him in that wild jumble of peaks and cañons.
Goodrich decided. He rose softly, took first of all the two rifles so that if the man did wake he would be safely disarmed. Then Bill packed his bedding. Moving stealthily he transferred his stuff to the dugout. Last of all, he crept furtively near the bed to exchange clothing. He brought with him his own rifle to set against the tree.
As he came near the foot of the bed he became aware of the man’s eyes, wide open, alert, fixed on him.
“What’s the idea?” the man asked casually.
“I’m pulling out,” Goodrich answered.
“With all my stuff? I guess not,” the other’s voice sharpened. “Don’t move. I got you covered with a .45.”
He sat up, baring the blue-barreled Colt. With his left hand he fumbled about and struck a match and took a steady look at Bill Goodrich.
“I don’t aim to rob you,” Goodrich said quietly, at last. “All I want is your canoe and rifle and your Mackinaw. I’m leaving you my own things. They’re better than yours. That ain’t robbery.”
The man struck another match. His eyes narrowed in scrutiny. He smiled suddenly, broadly, at last.