Cultus went first, six-shooter in hand, eyes strained to see any movement on the trail ahead, which began to be more steep, angling back and forth down the sides of the cliffs, but always masked from the canyon. They did not talk now. Every foot downward seemed to bring them nearer to the level of Painted Valley.
Jane did not complain; she was content to hobble along behind Cultus.
Suddenly he stopped and sniffed at the air. An acrid smell, something he had smelt before, but could not place now. Jane sniffed at the tainted air.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I dunno. Smells familiar, somehow.”
They went on along the trail, which doubled back below the place where they had smelt the queer odour, and then continued well to the westward again.
Suddenly the whole world behind them seemed to erupt in one great explosion, which rocked the very cliffs. Cultus was knocked to his knees, but turned quickly and grasped Jane, who had been knocked against him. The air was full of sand and dust, and in a dazed sort of a way, they could hear the rocks falling down the canyon walls. Neither of them spoke for several moments. Jane trembled violently. Cultus sneezed rackingly.
“I know that smell now,” he told her. “It was a fuse burnin’; dynamite fuse.”
“But why the explosion?” breathed Jane. “What was it, Cultus? What does it all mean? Were they trying to kill us again?”
The sounds had died away now and the air seemed very still.