The entrance to Mohave Cañon was but a little distance away and facing the front of Dolliver’s house. The opening yawned like a huge black cavity on the sky line, stretching into the far distance amid ominous shadows.
With dreamy eyes young Darrel stared across the trail and into the gloomy gulch. Somehow the last year of his life resembled that cañon as he saw it then. That forgery had flung him into a black and forbidding path, through which he had wandered—and was still wandering—aimlessly. Would he never be able to fight his way out of the gloom and the dishonor and regain his rightful place in his uncle’s esteem, and in the eyes of honest men?
While Dolliver, a man of few words, like all who live much by themselves, sat silently and smoked his short black pipe, and while Darrel still gazed reflectively into the black mouth of the cañon, two figures slowly disentangled themselves from the shadows and bore down on the ranch.
“Some ’un from up the gulch,” Dolliver roused to remark, “mebbyso from Tinaja Wells.”
But they were not from the Wells. As the riders came close and halted, Darrel discovered that they were two whom he knew—Bleeker and Hotchkiss.
“Great jumpin’ sandhills!” exclaimed the voice of Hotchkiss. “That you, Darrel?”
“Sure,” laughed Darrel. “Why not?”
“We reckoned you would still be in bed, El,” spoke up Bleeker. “Must be pulling along in fine shape, eh?”
“How long do you think a busted arm ought to keep a fellow down, anyhow?”
“Depends a heap on the fellow, El. Between you, and me, and the gatepost, I don’t believe anything’ll keep you down very long.”