“The mines and washings. Gold established Canyon Pass. It isn’t a beautiful spot, but it’s handy. We got to just keep on hoping that the Overhang doesn’t fall.”
“There is a place where some of it has fallen—and recently,” Hunt broke in, with some gravity.
Half blocking the trail, and bulking along the river’s edge for perhaps ten yards, was a heap of gravel and soil on which no grass or other verdure grew. Looking up the sloping canyon wall they could trace the downfall of this small slide for more than half the distance to the summit.
“What is that sticking out of it?” asked Betty. “A stick?”
Hurley sniffed like a bird-dog that has just raised a covey. He was to windward of the heap. Hunt had forced his mount nearer from the other side.
“That is not a stick,” he said quietly. “It looks to me like——”
Hurley ejaculated something that was very near an oath. He flung himself out of his saddle and strode over the rubble. He stopped and examined the thing Betty had seen, even touching it with his gauntleted hand.
“Never heard of this,” he muttered. “Odd, I must say!”
“What is it?” asked Hunt.
“A horse’s leg. Been pecked clean by the vultures—not by coyotes, or the bones would be torn apart. Well!”