Bill Allison's hand went as by instinct to his revolver.
"Follered, Hen?" he questioned, looking around and listening. "Did you see anythin'?—hear anythin'?"
"Well," returned Hen, "I just notioned a while ago as I caught the clip of a horse's hoof agin a stone, way back thar. Might ha' bin a' echo. Dessay it was."
"Couldn't ha' bin anythin' else," Bill assured him. "Thar's no Injuns messin' around. Th' Mounted P'lice is busy somewhere else. Nobody knows where we are, or where we're goin'—nobody, 'cept Red Derrick hisself. No, pard, we ain't bein' follered. Guess you're right 'bout its bein' a' echo."
He jabbed his pony's flank with a spurred heel and the two broke into a quicker pace. For a couple of miles or so they continued riding side by side, along the indistinct trail, neither speaking. But within the gloom of a dark, wooded bluff they slowed down, turned abruptly from the beaten track, and pursued their way quietly, stealthily, in single file, through the long grass, descending into the hollow of a secluded coulee, where they came to a halt.
"Jim said as he'd show a light," said Bill. "Watch for it over yonder. D'ye make out the old shack?"
He pointed across the coulee to a small log hut, so overgrown with tangled creepers that in the darkness it could hardly be distinguished from the surrounding bush.
Hen Faxon nodded.
"Queer sort of a crib ter bring us to," he observed, preparing to dismount. "Makes a fellow feel some scared. Why couldn't Jim ha' done the business when he was along east yesterday?"
Bill gave a sneering little laugh.