“Nick, there’s water down there! See where the top of that pine tree comes up above the rocks, away down there, nearly to the divide?”
“You’re sure right,” said Nick, looking carefully over the ground which Tom indicated. A moment later he went on: “That’s the head of the spring in the canyon where our camp is! You can follow the course of the gulch right along. I reckon that’s where we’ll find what we’re looking for!”
They turned to retrace their steps, their faces eager and alert and their feet quickening beneath them, when through the silence came the dull, far-away thud of a pistol shot. It was behind them and seemed to come from the canyon toward which they had been walking. With one glance at each other they drew their pistols and ran toward its head. They clambered over the boulders and, with reckless leaps and swings, let themselves down to its floor. Pausing only a moment to reconnoiter, they hurried down the gulch, casting quick glances all about them for the first sign of a living being. After a little they stopped and listened intently, each holding a cocked revolver, but not the faintest sound broke the midday stillness.
“Do you reckon it was in this canyon?” said Tom in a hoarse whisper.
“Got to be,” Nick replied, poking out his lower jaw. “We’ve been sniffing the trail long enough. We’ll give them a bait now.”
He raised his revolver to shoot into the air, but even before his finger touched the trigger, a pistol shot resounded from down the canyon and its echoes rolled and rumbled between the walls. An instant later they saw the smoke curling upward and dissolving in the still, clear air, perhaps half way toward the canyon’s mouth. But they could see no sign of man, nor of any moving thing in its vicinity. They hurried on, cautiously watching the walls and the canyon in front of them, and now and then turning for a quick backward glance, to guard against attack in the rear. As they neared the point from which the smoke had risen, they saw that one of the narrow, deep chasms in the mountain side opened there, with a wide, gaping mouth, into the canyon. A mound of debris was heaped in front. Stepping softly, they peered around the pile of rocks and saw, lying in the mouth of the chasm, a man with a revolver gripped in his right hand. Blood stained his clothing and ran out over the rocks and sand. He was a tall man with a short, bushy, iron-gray beard covering his face. Tuttle and Ellhorn covered him with their revolvers and walked to his side. He put up a feeble, protesting hand.
“It’s all right, strangers. You’ve nothing to fear from me. I’ll be dead in ten minutes.”
“Who killed you?”
“Was it the two ornery scrubs we’re after?”