With a will, the outlaws set about examining the side of the canyon.
And while they searched, their pal was sparring for time with his infuriated captives.
"See here, my buckos," he said, his voice as cool as when he had addressed them before, "I reckon you're making a mistake. I haven't done you any harm.
"But if you touch a hair on my head thar's not one of you who won't be shot to pay for it!"
The redskin warriors, to the number of a score, had been standing about the fire, now and then turning toward their captive as they jabbered excitedly, evidently arguing over some part of their contemplated torture.
But as the calm words fell on their ears, they all faced about, while one of them, whose peculiar head-dress proclaimed him to be a chief, grunted:
"Paleface talk heap big. Navajos fool paleface frien's. How um know Navajos kill paleface. Heap Injun in country."
"That may be. But my friends are not ordinary men. They're smarter than any palefaces you ever saw."
"You got caught. Heap smart, huh," and the chieftain grunted in disgust.
"True enough. I did. But my pals didn't. They were smart enough not to get under the cliff where you shoved the rocks over."