Frank had his turn at sentry-go about midnight. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant piece of work.
The bottom of the cañon was as dark as a pocket. Overhead was a broad streak of sky, glittering with stars, edged by the jagged crests of the cañon’s walls.
The silence that reigned in the depths of the defile was intense. The heavy breathing of Blunt and Lenning seemed to rumble around the rock pile, and even the ticking of Frank’s watch grew in volume until it equaled that of an eight-day clock.
Now and then the weird quiet was broken by the distant wail of a panther, or the far-off yelp of a coyote. During the three hours of Frank’s watch, however, no hoofbeats sounded among the rocks, and no human prowlers came in quest of the mail bags.
It was three in the morning when Frank roused Blunt to relieve him. The cowboy got up with a yawn.
“Anything happened, Chip?” he asked.
“No.”
“Blamed queer! I can’t understand why those two holdup men leave their loot for so long.”
“I can’t, either. Maybe they’re having a hard time dodging Hawkins and his posse.”
“Like enough. Hawkins is a regular bloodhound when he strikes a criminal’s trail. I hope we’re able to accomplish something here, just on Lenning’s account. He had it about right when he said he’d only have to show himself in Ophir to be arrested. The fact that he was found with the mail bags would be enough to land him in jail. Say, he’s up against it for fair.”