CHAPTER XIV
THE END OF A TRAIL
Johnny ducked down behind a bowlder, for a horseman, sharply silhouetted against the crimson glow of the sunset, rode parallel to the edge of the cliff; and, judging from the way he was scrutinizing the ground, he was looking for tracks. While he searched, another horseman rode from the north and joined him. They made a splendid picture, rugged, lean, hard; their sharply-cut profiles, the jaunty set of the big sombreros, their alert and wiry cow-ponies, silhouetted against the crimson and gold sky; but to the hidden watcher there was no poetry, no art, in the picture, for to him it was a thing of danger, a menace. Their voices, carelessly raised, floated to him distinctly.
"Find anythin'?" asked Ben Gates ironically.
"Just what I reckoned I'd find, which was nothin'," answered Harrison. "Ackerman's loco. But I reckon it's better than loafin' around down below. I was gettin' plumb fed up on that."
"It's all cussed nonsense. Nelson's cleared out for good. He ain't no fool; an' there's too many of us."
"Seen th' others?"
"Only when they left. They ought to be ridin' back purty soon I reckon. This finishes this side, don't it?"
"Yes; they'll comb th' west side tomorrow; an' then take th' north end. Ridin' in daylight ain't so bad; but I got a fine chance seein' anythin' at night. An' I hope he has cleared out; a man on a bronc looks as big as a house."
"Don't ride at all; lay up somewhere near th' canyon, trail an' let him do th' movin'. But, h—l! He's gone out of this country."