“Don’tcha think we ort to drink this’n, Schlimmie?”
“Well, I wouldn’t shay that—but I will shay that we ort to drink it a little slower, par’ner.”
Henry and Judge, shivering in the false dawn, rode off the main highway and followed an old trail, which led to the lower end of Lobo Canyon. The trail was little used, because only on rare occasions did anybody go into the canyon. Cattle kept away from it. There were a few pools of water down there, where quail, bobcats and an occasional lion slaked their thirsts, but the bottom of the gulch was a tangle of brush and rocks, making it very difficult to travel. The main canyon was about nine miles in length, and in most of it the sun never shone.
Judge had spent most of the trip complaining. His boots hurt, he hated leather chaps, and his rheumatism was acting up again.
“Here we are,” he stated dismally, “poking into an ungodly spot, risking our lives, while those damnable Commissioners are meeting to throw us out of our jobs. We may come out alive, but without visible means of support. Henry, what on earth shall we do for a living?”
“Let us get out of Lobo Canyon with our lives, before we do too much worrying about the future, Judge.”
“You admit that it is hazardous?”
“Yes, I believe it has its dangers. Rocks do let loose and come down here, they say. Slim swears that he saw a rattler as long as a lariat and as big as a stove-pipe. Well, here is the trail into it, Judge. Just let the horse pick its own way, and we’ll be down there in a jiffy.”
The entrance to Lobo Canyon was not too difficult nor dangerous, but the trail ended at the bottom. From there on it was a case of work out your own salvation.