“Now, what bunch of pesky greasers is this yar?” Pete was beginning to himself, when suddenly he broke off in amazement:
“Jack Merrill’s among ’em, by ginger. He’s a prisoner! No, he ain’t! He’s talking ter that chap in front with ther silver-mounted rifle. Bob cats! I have it now. It’s a troop of rurales, and they’re on the trail of Ramon!
“Yip-yip-yee-ee-ee!”
Giving vent to the long-drawn cow-puncher yell, Coyote Pete dashed from his place of concealment, and a more astonished lad than Jack Merrill I can assure you, you never saw, when he perceived the old plainsman suddenly bob up out of a great rock mass in that lonely canyon.
In his excess of joy Coyote fairly flung his arms about Jack’s neck.
But scant time could be given to greetings. Explanations were in order. Exclamations of indignation and of fury ran like wildfire among the Rangers, as the old plainsman told his tale. Then Jack related how he had fared, and how they had trailed the marauders, being much delayed at times, though, by faulty tracks where the party had passed over hard ground.
“By ginger, I never noticed till now, that we are in the same canyon we came through with that outfit of Ramon’s late yesterday!” exclaimed Pete. “Gloomy place, ain’t it? And it seemed pretty glum to me last night, I can tell you.”
He gazed at the cliff and shuddered a little. He could not help it.
“Say, Jack, hez my hair turned white?” he asked suddenly.