“No-o-o-o. Ridin’ barefooted horses, with gunny-sacks mufflin’ their hoofs. Went up the cañon, Sleepy?”
“I think so. I shook hands with a cougar about a minute before and maybe my compass was out of order.”
“But where in —— is Mary Jane?” says Windy, complaining-like. “All this time we ain’t findin’ her a-tall.”
“Yuh might do like they do in hotels,” says Hashknife; “start off up the Devil’s Dooryard, yellin’ ‘Mary Jane! Mary Jane Haley! Windy Woods wants Mary Jane Haley!’”
“Sh-h-h-h!” hisses Windy.
We listens. Pretty soon we hear somebody walkin’ soft-like. Then silence.
“My ——!” whispers Windy. “What do yuh reckon that was—ghosts?”
From ’way up the hill comes the rattle of a couple of shots. They must be a quarter of a mile away. Then we hears somebody grunt; comes the rattle of gravel, and then we hears somebody running.
“Come on,” says Hashknife, “but for —— sake, go easy. There’s too danged much shooting going on to suit me. Look out—here comes a horse!”
Over the top of a saw-tooth ridge jerks a horse. For a second or two it’s outlined against the light of the sky and then it goes rattling off across the rocks.