“See that sharp pinnacle? Well that’s the point we’ll head for. It’ll show plain against the sky when the moon rises. Barring undercurrents and snags, we stand a fighting chance of hitting it. If we don’t, it’s thumbs down for us. That cliff is ten miles to the lower end and not six inches toe-hold in the ten miles. I wish you wouldn’t tackle it, pardner.”
Shorty shook his head and, following Pete’s actions, dismounted and unsaddled. Hobbles were adjusted and the two partook of a meager repast of jerky and canned tomatoes. Brush screened them from the opposite bank as they squatted beneath a big cottonwood and waited for darkness and a rising moon.
Already, the approaching danger was fast cementing a strong friendship between these two. As men will do on such occasions, they exchanged confidences, swapped stories and lighted their cigarets from the same match.
Pete’s quick movements and the dancing light in his gray eyes betrayed the nervous tension within. Shorty showed not a trace of whatever emotion lay behind his soft-spoken banter. Though a scant ten years older than his companion, Shorty had been well tutored in the school of hard knocks. Like his partner, Tad, he was an orphan, range-reared and self reliant. The only living thing that he was afraid of was a woman. The more beautiful, the more fear she instilled in the heart of the little cowpuncher. Danger merely quickened his pulse as strong drink affects a man unused to it. Yet he masked his feelings as effectively as the seasoned gambler hides four aces. It was as if risking his life was an everyday occurrence, all in a day’s work.
Twilight deepened into night and a white moon pushed itself over the ragged skyline. A horned owl hoo-hooed in the cottonwoods. The timid white-tail deer bedded down in their red willow thicket. Back in the brakes, a wolf gave voice to a long-drawn howl. A ripple showed on the smooth surface of the water as a muskrat swam from its hole in the clay bank. Plunk! A beaver tail slapped the water with such abruptness that Shorty’s hand dropped to his gun.
“I reckon we might as well tackle it,” said Pete quietly, getting to his feet.
They saddled in silence, with great care. Cinches were left loose. Hackamores took the place of bridles. Boots and chaps were rolled in a neat bundle and tied to the backs of the saddles. Shorty bit off a large chew of plug and swung into the saddle.
“There’s no way of keeping you from coming along, Shorty?”
“Not nary, Pete. I done hired out fer a tough hand and I plays my string out. Chaw?”
He held out the gnawed plug.