“Because a man that gits in thar stands a mighty poor show to git out again. You’ve seen them Chinese puzzles, haven’t you?—we boys used to have them at school. The only difference between the two is, that whar yer kin easy git ter the center of the Gulches, you kain’t in the puzzle; but both air mighty hard ter git out of. I’ve seen a man that said he traveled four days trying ter git out, and didn’t move a mile in the whole time. The creeks are parallel, criss-cross, angling—every which way; and they are deep and wide. God pity the greenhorn that gits inter them.”
“I heard a Mexican tell some whopping yarns about some Dead Man’s Gulches, but I didn’t believe him; but sence ye say so and back him, why I’ll hev ter give in, I reckon,” remarked Burt Scranton.
“Wait till yer git thar an’ then see fur yourself,” suggested the guide. “Durn me ef I want any truck with ’em, you hear ME, gran’mother?”
“Then you are sure the red-skinned knaves will go to the Gulches?” interrogatively spoke Sam.
“Sartain. They’re skeered and don’t know who shot at ’em. Thar’s mighty peert shelter in the Gulches, an’ that’s whar every Apache fur miles ’round skedaddles ter when he’s hard pressed. I’ll bet my bottom dollar we’ll be sure ter find ’em thar.”
“You, too, Jack?” Cimarron Jack nodded.
“Very well; how far distant are they?”
“A matter of fifteen or twenty miles, p’r’aps. About two hours’ sharp spurring.”
“All right then. Spur up, boys, spur up! Here goes for the Gulches—hurrah!”
“Hurrah for Dead Man’s Gulches!” was the answer, as on they sped.