“Too far from the old north and south trail, Bub. There was nothing to take padres so far west to the hills. The Indians didn’t even live there; only strayed up for nuts and hunting in the season.”
“Save your breath!” jeered Kit. “It’s me to hike back to Mesa Blanca and offer service at fifty dollars per, and live like a miser until we can hit the trail again. I may find a tenderfoot to buy that valley tract of mine up in Yuma, and get cash out of that. Oh, we will get the finances somehow! I’ll write a lawyer soon as we get back to Whitely’s––God! what’s that?”
They halted, holding breath to listen.
“A coyote,” said Pike.
“No, only one animal screams like that––a wildcat in the timber. But it’s no wildcat.”
Again the sound came. It was either from a distance or else muffled by the barrier of the hill, a blood-curdling scream of sickening terror.
A cold chill struck the men as they looked at each other.
“The carrion crows knew!” said Kit. “You hold the stock, Pike.”
He quickly slipped his rifle from its case, and started up the knoll.
“The stock will stand,” said Pike. “I’m with you.”