In utter ignorance of the trap laid for them, Jennings, Shaw and Scotty toiled up the trail, in the order named.
Without difficulty, they had traced the route taken by the horses because the iron shoes against the rocky trail had cut the rags, leaving telltale prints here and there.
With the sun, the wind had arisen and as a gust blew down from the direction of the plateau, Jennings stopped in his tracks, sniffed the air excitedly, then threw his rifle to a "ready."
"Our ponies are close at hand. I smell 'em;" he breathed to his companions. "Watch out, now. Don't shoot until you can make your shot count."
Cautiously the trio resumed their ascent.
And as Jennings' head rose above the level of the plateau, again he stopped.
But this time he did not speak.
Holding up three fingers, he nodded toward the shelf of rock, then beckoned his companions to join him, placing his fingers on his lips to enjoin silence.
With rifle butts at their shoulders, the scouts mounted the plateau in single file.
The sight of the ponies brought grins of delight to their faces.