Harshaw broke camp at once and started for the cañon. A storm blew up, a fierce and pelting hail. The company took refuge in a cottonwood grove. The stones were as large as good-sized plums, and in three minutes the ground was covered. Under the stinging ice bullets the horses grew very restless. More than one went plunging out into the open and had to be forced back to shelter by the rider. Fortunately the storm passed as quickly as it had come up. The sun broke through the clouds and shone warmly upon rivulets of melted ice pouring down to the Blanco.
Scouts were thrown forward once more and the rangers swung into the hills toward Box Cañon.
“How far?” Bob asked Tom Reeves.
“’Bout half an hour now, I reckon. Hope we get there before the Injuns have lit out.”
Privately Bob hoped they would not. He had never been under fire and his throat dried at the anticipation.
“Sure,” he answered. “We’re humpin’ along right lively. Be there in time, I expect. Too bad if we have to chase ’em again all over the map.”
Box Cañon is a sword slash cut through the hills. From wall to wall it is scarcely forty feet across. One looks up to a slit of blue sky above.
Harshaw halted close to the entrance. “Let’s make sure where Mr. Ute is before we ride in, boys. He might be up on the bluffs layin’ for us. Dud, you an’ Tom an’ Big Bill go take a look-see an’ make sure. We’ll come a-runnin’ if we hear yore guns pop.”
Two men in uniform rode out of the gulch. At the sight of the rangers they cantered forward. One was a sergeant.
“Too late,” said he. “They done slipped away from us. We took shelter from the hail under a cutbank where the cañon widens. They musta slipped by us then. We found their tracks in the wet ground. They’re headin’ west again, looks like.”