“There is no one there,” returned the Indian in a low voice, “no one about the house—the door is closed—no one at the mine—no horse in the corral—no smoke from the chimney. And see,” he pointed to three buzzards that were circling about the yard in the rear of the house. While they looked, another huge bird joined the group, and then another.
With a cry, Hugh Edwards started forward, but Natachee caught him by the arm.
“Wait, you do not know who may be watching for you to come—wait.”
Quickly the Indian led the burros into a little hollow that was fringed with thick bushes, where he tied them securely. Then showing Hugh where to lie in a clump of manzanita so that he could watch the vicinity of the house below, the red man disappeared in the brush.
For what seemed hours to him, Hugh Edwards waited with his eyes fixed on the scene below. There was no movement—no sign of life about the little house. The Indian had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. The company of buzzards increased until there were eight or ten now wheeling above the silent dwelling.
The watching man had almost reached the limit of his patience, when to his amazement the front door of the house was thrown open and Natachee stepped out.
The Indian signaled his companion to come, and Hugh plunged with reckless haste down the steep side of the ridge.
The old prospector, Thad Grove, was lying on his bed unconscious from a blow that had cut a deep gash on the side of his head. Natachee had found him on the floor in front of the door to Marta’s room. At the end of the living room, opposite the door to the girl’s chamber, Sonora Jack’s Mexican companion was lying on the floor severely wounded. Though unable to move, the man was conscious and his eyes followed the Indian with the look of a crippled animal at bay.
The body of the other Pardner was lying in a queer twisted heap in the yard, halfway between the kitchen door and the barn.