Where it entered the “horse-shoe” fissure, it was narrow, being only about three feet in width, but in a hundred yards it ran under sandy banks, and widened out to forty feet or more. These sandy banks were crumbling and projecting, overhanging the ravine (more properly a “draw”), they presented an unstable footing.
Red-Knife noticed this “draw,” and at once, without consulting his chiefs, whom he ignored, commenced operations. Detaching a party of three to take charge of the distant draft-horses, he divided his party of twenty into two portions. One of these he directed to creep along the shadow of a projecting bluff until they had made half the circuit of the horse-shoe; the other, commanded in person by himself, was to enter the “draw,” keeping in shadow as much as possible. Halting in the draw, they were to give a preconcerted signal, then both parties were to prosecute a cross-fire with what arms they possessed. Such a position would completely command the horse-shoe fissure with its hidden occupants.
“Boys,” observed Cimarron Jack, sitting on a mud-bowlder, “this is lovely; but the thorough-bred from Tartary don’t scare worth a cent. It takes mighty fine working to face the grizzly domesticator—it does, for a fact.”
“Oh, quit yer durned, disgustin’ braggin’! It makes me feel ashamed of the hull human race,” growled Simpson.
Cimarron Jack went on, with a sly twinkle at the guide:
“In addition to my noble and manly qualities, I have the coveted and rare faculty of insnaring women. Educated at college, of good looks, as you can see, engaging manners, I cast rough rowdies like this knave of a guide into the shade. That, you see, makes ’em hot—red-hot; and when I give, as is my custom, a brief and extremely modest synopsis of my talents, they call it, in their vulgar way, ‘braggin’.’ I’m the cock of the walk—hooray! I’m the scorpion and centipede chewer—the wildcat educator—hooray!”
“Faugh! it’s downright sickening. Durned ef I kain’t lick any man that brags so!” declared the guide, with real rising choler. “An’ ef he don’t like it he kin lump it—thet’s Simpson, the guide.”
“Dry up; what’s that?” whispered Jack. “Look out, boys—there’s something forming. Look along that bluff yonder—I think I see something moving there.”
The half-earnest wrangle was ceased, and shading his eyes, the guide peered, as if endeavoring to pierce the drapery of shadow under the bluff; but if Jack saw any thing, there was no repetition of the object. Taking his eyes from the bluff, Cimarron Jack turned round, then uttered a suppressed cry.
“What is it?” sharply demanded the guide, instantly on the alert.