In a cool niche between two rocks, in sight of Tompkins above but concealed from the furious coyote, lay a fifteen-inch sidewinder, safely sheltered from the deadly rays of the sun, his brown-and-gray length practically invisible against the rocks. He lay stretched out, head lifted ready to strike, a venomous and malignant thing beyond all words with his horned features and green jewels of eyes. The coyote, unconscious of this lurking death, continued backward and forward, now rushing and now sending a flurry of sand flying in his anger. One such flurry had aroused the sidewinder, and Tompkins waited for the inevitable, since the coyote was drawing closer and closer to the unseen death.
Now it came, with such rapidity that the eye could scarcely follow. Pawing the sand, the coyote came sidewise toward the niche of the sidewinder, then went forward in another rush, stopped short, snarled, and took courage again. His leap brought him past the niche; and the sidewinder, after the fashion of his kind, struck without warning or coiling. There is nothing swifter than the strike of a sidewinder—but the coyote saw the lurking death just in time. A frantic yap of fear broke from his jaws. He gave a desperate twist sidewise in midleap—a doubling-up of his body that evaded the reptile’s blow—and in mad panic came down and leaped again, blindly. He landed squarely in the matted cholla.
Agonized howls rent the air, and sticks and bones and odd objects from the pack-rat’s nest were hurled about; the coyote became a whirlwind of furry agony from which proceeded howl upon howl of anguish. Then, tail between legs, wailing to high heaven with every leap, the wretched coyote went down the cañon like a streak and was gone.
Tompkins caught up the stone under his hand and hurled it, then rose. Crushed, the sidewinder lay quivering. A glittering object had caught the eye of Tompkins, and now he raked it forth from the cholla with a long stick. It was one of the mass of objects which had formed the rat’s nest, flung about by the agonized flurry of the coyote. When he had it within reach, Tompkins picked it up and stood staring at it, incredulity and horror mingling in his eyes. It was a small tarnished cigarette case of silver, and upon it he made out the initials “A. R.”
“The case I gave Alec for Christmas two years ago!”
The words died on his lips. It was the property of his vanished brother Alec Ramsay. Holding the case in his hand, he stared over the desolate, empty cañon until the heat of the sun roused him. He stooped, donned his pith helmet, and then looked again at the metal case. Mechanically he pressed the spring, which refused to work. Taking out his knife, Tompkins pried the case open—and beneath the spring-holder discovered a folded paper, on which was scrawled in pencil the writing of his brother.
His blurred eyes cleared. At the top was written:
Send this to Pat Ramsay, Glendale Apts. Denver.
And below, scrawled more sharply, but ending with an uncertain dash:
Dear Pat: Forgot to mail this. Too late. They got me. Shot through lungs. 3 men in party. Bad gang here. All located Hourglass Cañon, N. E. of here. Box cañon. Cholos and whites. Sidewinder—