Again he followed Endicott, though he sent out a detachment of trusty men in the wake of Lariat Dan. He rode on quietly; he halted suddenly. He saw a sight that brought him from his horse in an instant—Edith Van Payne was struggling in the arms of Charles Endicott. He saw her throw the man off and rush forward; as she leaped over the brink of the precipice, his rifle lay ready for the base of Endicott's brain, and, as her shrill scream echoed and reëchoed through gulch and cañon, his finger tightened on the trigger.
Pompey came slowly back from an unsuccessful search for traces of Edith. Without being seen he had reconnoitered Endicott's camp, and satisfied himself that she was not there. As far as the simple question of Edith Van Payne's rescue, unattached to any other idea, went, it is likely that, he felt very little interest. But he had an interest in whatever concerned his employer and friend, Harry Winkle, and so could bring a second-handed enthusiasm to the pursuit. While he was watching Endicott's camp, he saw Lariat Dan leave it in company with Grizzly Dan and Mike Motler. He recognized all three of those worthies, and at one time had a half-formed notion of revealing himself to them, and attempting to sound them in search of information. When he saw that they turned their faces northward, and started as if on a quest, he altered his mind. Understanding that they were in the employ of the deadly enemy of Harry Winkle, he did not think it advisable to let his presence be known, unless to secure some positive advantage; and he could see none at this present. So he remained concealed among the cedars on the butte, and let the three go their way. Perhaps an hour later, as he was listlessly returning to find Winkle, the bushes on his left parted, and a man stepped out, and ranged up by his side. A glance told him it was Mike Motler, whom he supposed miles away.
Motler was a quiet, almost surly sort of man, who went his own way and carried his own pelts. His employer, when he had one, seldom heard him speak; but he generally did as he was ordered without useless questions. Therefore he was a valuable man. Sometimes, though, he had an opinion of his own, and acted on it. Wherein he was slightly unreliable. As he pulled trigger quick, and always shot plum-center, he was an unpleasant man to have a difficulty with.
This Motler nodded to Pompey, as though they were going into camp together after a separation of only a couple of hours instead of as many years. Pompey understanding him pretty well, did the same, and casually remarked:
"Whar's Dan?"
"Lookin' fer tame rabbits in a coyote's hole. A-bu'stin' himself to find what ain't thar."
"Whar then?"
"Dunno. Mabbe in heaven. He'd better stay thar. Somethin' rotten on the board an' I've bunched my hand. I kin pass the brick an' lose my ante; durned ef I want to see his blind."
Motler made this speech in detachments, and with a preoccupied air. Pompey listened and walked on. Motler suddenly startled him by the query: