He turned back eagerly to gather pitch-pine from a piñon stump; then entered, holding the torch like a club. There was a rustle before him, an uneasy growl, the flash of startled eyes; but still they fled on and he followed through the darkness until he saw a cleft of light overhead. It merged into an orifice that let in a soft glow and the vision of a skulking form; and then the invisible path, which had held his feet through the darkness, took him out into blinding day. He was standing in the court of his castle in the air and the lion was crouching by the door.
THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY
Every window and door of the cliff-dwellers' castle had been sealed against man and beast—the mountain lion was at bay and as he crouched down to spring Hall shot him through the head. He leapt into the air and fell kicking on his back and the man took possession of his den. That was the way he had learned of getting what he wanted, and the castle had been his dream. But the doors had been walled up and plastered over with mud a thousand years before and he hesitated to break them in. Perhaps within those walls there lay the bones of chiefs, with their weapons close to their hands; and after the passage of the centuries it seemed an impious thing to break in and disturb their ancient dust. The court alone was large enough to give him room to live and the whole world lay at his feet.
At the crack of his rifle the echoes of Deadman Canyon had awakened from their week-long sleep; they bandied it back and forth, from cliff to distant cliff, the news that a man was there. Hall stood at the rampart and gazed up and down the canyon, and far away to the east; and as he watched he saw a horseman drop down into a ravine and ride for the Scarborough's stalking-ground. The rifle-shot had drawn him from a dim trail miles away, so keen had been his ears, and as he edged out on a point and crept forward to observe the spring Hall knew he was one of the man-killers. For an hour and more he scouted about the water, but when at last he stepped out into the open Hall saw at a glance it was Meshackatee.
There was the same huge bulk, the same battered hat, the jumper and the bulging chaps; and the horse which had blended into the landscape like a deer was the buckskin pony, Croppie. Yes, the man was Meshackatee; but what was his mission there, and why did he keep hid in the brush? A cold hand seemed to take McIvor by the throat—perhaps he was hunting for him! Although their relations had been friendly for the short time they were together, since then Meshackatee had had plenty of occasion to regret the trust he had bestowed. Instead of spying upon the Bassetts, Hall had joined them against the Scarboroughs; and later, when Meshackatee had sent him warning by Allifair, he had turned the information against them. Yes, more than that, he had left Meshackatee waiting down the creek while he stayed and did battle with the Slash-knives.
Hall watched him from his eyrie as he studied the trail for signs and finally retired to the cliff-dwellings, and then he went back through the cold blackness of the tunnel to store his hiding-place with food. What he feared most had happened, the first shot from his gun had brought the man-hunters upon him. Perhaps they had been watching through their high-powered glasses, or slipping down to look for his tracks; but now they knew he was there—or at least Meshackatee did—and there was nothing to do but to prepare for a siege. He ran hurriedly to the turkey traps which he had set up the canyon and came back with a pair of big birds; and then he went for acorns and filled his one canteen with water from the ice-cold creek. By that time it was dark and he returned to his lookout to await the next move of his enemies.
All that evening he watched the flicker from Meshackatee's lurking place, the loop-holed dwelling above the spring; but the fire was a blind for in the morning Meshackatee came back, leading a pack-animal down from the east. During the day he stayed close and Hall put in the time by skinning the mountain lion. But as evening approached again and none of the Scarboroughs rode in, his patience gave way before a yearning for human society, a craving for companionship—and food. So weary had he become of his perpetual turkey diet that he had broiled a steak from the haunch of the panther, and found it far from bad. But he could not live forever without coffee and salt; and, since he must make a move some time, he decided to make it right then and put Meshackatee's friendship to the test.