The Morgan trail

by W. C. Tuttle

The buzzards were getting closer all the time. Again the trail led from the bottom, and Hashknife was obliged to dismount to follow, leading his horse. The last few hundred yards required nearly an hour to negotiate, and he suddenly broke through the brush on the very spot where the buzzards had been feeding on the roan horse from the 6X6, across the cañon bottom from the cave.

Hashknife watched the big birds leave their meal, and then examined the carcass. He found the strip of skin, which carried the 6X6 brand, and he sat down to ponder over it. There was no question in his mind that this horse had slid down from the grades, as the bones of the legs were broken, and, as far as he was able to determine, the neck had also been broken. The saddle bore no name, and had been badly damaged.

Hashknife left the carcass and tied his horse to a snag. Sliding down into the bottom of the cañon, he discovered Nan’s tracks, which were very plain. This proved to him that Nan was still alive, and he heaved a sigh of satisfaction. Fifty feet farther down the cañon he found the empty revolver, where the masked man had thrown it. From the way it had skidded in the sand, he knew it had been thrown from the west side of the cañon.

Hashknife felt sure that neither Nan nor Rex had been armed when they left the ranch; and this gun, with six empty shells in the cylinder, proved that some one had been doing some shooting in the cañon.

He climbed the west bank and came out almost under the overhang of the cave. After a careful survey of the surrounding country, he climbed up over the shelves of sandstone to the entrance of the cave.

Here was an odor of wood-smoke, although the fire had long since died out. Cautiously he advanced into the shallow cave, gun in hand. It was light enough for him to see the outstretched form of Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs near the pile of ashes.

He had been tied securely with a length of lariat rope, with the loop drawn tightly around his neck. Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs was as dead as a man might be, and Hashknife could see that he had died from strangulation, although he had been badly battered.

Hashknife loosened the ropes. In spite of the battered face, Hashknife was able to recognize the old 6X6 cook. On the left side of his head was a furrow which seemed to have been made by a bullet, but with so many cuts and bruises it was difficult to say which was the worst.

The old man’s coat had been almost torn from his body, but in the inside pocket Hashknife found several folded papers, which he took to the cave entrance to examine.

For perhaps five minutes he sat on a sandstone ledge, pondering deeply over them, while the shadows of the buzzards drifted back and forth across the slope below him.