“Sartain shore,” muttered old Nomad, cocking up his ear and puzzling his brain, “thar’s another human in this hyar place, an’ he ain’t feelin’ jest right in his mind, someways. But whar is he? Thet’s ther p’int. Ther noises aire all tangled up, an’ et seems like thar was er hundred voices callin’. We got ter make er try, anyways, ole hoss. As er starter, we’ll bushwhack ter ther right.”
The trapper turned from the wagon-trail and spurred into the chaparral. “Whoo-e-e!” he shouted, as he forced his way through the brush.
The echoes of his call were taken up by another “Whoo-yah-h-h!” from the unseen man, and the basin fairly roared with voices.
Nomad forced a passage clear to the basin wall on the right without locating the person he was seeking. Thereupon he rode some fifty feet southward, and cut clear across the basin.
Luck was with him that time, for he came upon a low structure of cottonwood logs, bolted strongly together at the corners, and with other logs bolted to the top, the whole forming a sort of cage.
At one side of the cage was a door of strong, two-inch planks, fastened to slide up and down in grooves. This door was closed, and the top edge of it weighted down with a big stone.
“Waugh!” exclaimed Nomad, pulling up his horse. “Ef et ain’t er b’ar-trap I’m er Piegan.”
“Whoop-yah-h-h!” came the howl of distress once more, and there was not the least doubt about its being inside the trap.
Nomad slid down from the saddle, dropped to his knees, and peered between the logs. Then he began to laugh.