“Didn’t mean how you feel towards me,” added Blake. “I can guess that. My reference was to your head.”
“I’m all right,” snapped Ashton. “Needn’t worry. I’m still weak and dizzy, but I shall be quite able to do my work tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” said the engineer, with insistent good humor. “However, if you feel at all shaky in the morning, I can perhaps get Gowan, or maybe Miss Chuckie would like to––”
“No!” broke in Ashton. “She shall not! I will do it, I tell you.”
“Very well,” said Blake. He put down the level and rod, but retained the rifle. “Tell the ladies I shall 234 be back before long. I am going to look for something I forgot this morning.”
Without waiting for the other’s reply, he returned up the dike slope and around the bend of the hill to where Ashton had been shot. That for which he was looking was not here, for he at once turned and started up the hill. He climbed direct to the place where the assassin had lain in wait.
The bare ledge told Blake nothing, but from a crevice nearby he picked out two long thirty-eight caliber rifle shells. He put them into his pocket and went over to scan the mesa from the top of his lookout crag. He could see no sign of the fugitive murderer. Down below the mesa side of the hill, however, he saw a man riding up the bank of Dry Fork, and recognized him as Knowles.
Trained to alert observation by years of life on the range, the cowman had already perceived Blake. He wheeled aside and rode towards the hill when the engineer waved his hat and began to descend. The two met at the foot of the rugged slope.
“Howdy, Mr. Blake,” greeted the cowman, “I thought I’d just ride up to see how things are coming along.”
“Not so fast as they might, Mr. Knowles. We have stopped for repairs.”