They had ascended a long, rocky incline, and had gone down a steep boulder-strewn declivity; now the walls of the pass fell away and they entered a wide valley; it was crescent-shaped, and possibly fifteen miles in length, while its breadth was half that. It was without timber except for a sparse growth which could be distinguished toward the west. Both men knew there would be no water until they reached this timber, for, as they moved along, the level plain became more and more barren, while from under the feet of their mules a fine white dust arose and enveloped them.
Presently the Missourian reined in his mule, and pointed with a long forefinger to something on the ground in front of of him.
“Look heah, Mr. Orphan, what do you make of those there?”
Jim answered with a slightly nettled air.
“Wagon tracks. What did you suppose I'd make of them?”
“Yes, but they are going our way—see where that mule planted a hoof beside yonder bunch of cactus? How do you reckon they got heah? They couldn't have come up the trail we came by; you couldn't drag a wagon through there for the rocks, not to save your neck!”
“That's so!” agreed Jim. “But I reckon there's a way in below.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You can see where their trail runs off to the south.”
“I reckon that's it.” said the Missourian.
It was some hours later when the afternoon was wearing to a close, that the Missourian called his friend's attention to a low hill which rose from the perfectly level plain. As they neared it, two buzzards rose lazily from the summit of this hill; and a grey object, the size of a mongrel dog, fled down its nearest slope and skurried away toward the timber. The Missourian noticed this; nothing escaped his mild, incurious eyes.
“I wonder what's up yonder. Hello! Right smart of a crowd's been heah. How old do you reckon them signs is, Jim?” and he drew in his mule.