"Never mind the whisky, where did you leave Molly?" demanded Sandy.
"I don't know just where. I wasn't noticing just which way we rode. She did the leading. I don't know how I ever got back."
"Didn't she tell you where you were makin' fo'?"
"She didn't name it. It was a little lake in some cañon where Molly said there used to be beavers."
"Beaver Dam Cañon," said Sandy exultantly. "You left here 'bout seven. How fast did you trail?"
"We walked the horses most of the time. It was all up-hill. And I looked at my watch a little before it happened. It was a quarter of eleven. Molly said we'd be there by noon."
"Where were you then? What kind of a place? Near water?"
"We'd just crossed a stream."
"Willer Crick, runs out of Beaver Dam Lake. You c'udn't foller that up, 'count of the falls. Now, jest what happened?"
"We saw some men ahead of us. Molly wondered who they could be. Then they disappeared. We were riding in a pass and two of them showed again, coming out of the trees ahead of us. One of them, on a big black horse, held up his hand."