“What?” Ramsey cried. “Not half of them? Where are the others? Turn these out to get something to eat. You count them as they go out, Baxter.”
Scott mounted and rode out of the cañon. The others followed closely. The silence of the other cañon was oppressive compared with the noise of the first one.
“Seem to have ‘flued the coop,’” Dawson remarked.
Scott dismounted and tore a hole in the brush fence. He led the way down to the bottom of the cañon. “They’re down there,” he said pointing over the edge of the cliff.
The tracks leading into the narrow neck and the trampled shrubs along the edge of the cliff told the story only too plainly. Mr. Ramsey walked cautiously to the edge and looked over.
“Gosh,” he exclaimed drawing back quickly. “That’s an awful sight. How many were there?”
“Somewhere around three thousand,” Scott replied; “I could not tell exactly.”
“It was a clever scheme, Jed,” Ramsey repeated, “but it did not work.”
Jed was completely crushed. Scott felt sorry for him, little as he deserved it.
“It was a clever scheme, all right,” Scott said, “but it was not Jed’s.”