John sniffed the warm air.
“Wal, you're more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking his head.
They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the last slope. A long league of green slanted below them, breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of distance.
The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny white dots set in green.
“Look there,” said Dale, pointing.
Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin, pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as soon as it had no background of green.
“Thet's your smoke, shore enough,” replied John, thoughtfully. “Now, I jest wonder who's campin' there. No water near or grass for hosses.”
“John, that point's been used for smoke signals many a time.”
“Was jest thinkin' of thet same. Shall we ride around there an' take a peek?”
“No. But we'll remember that. If Beasley's got his deep scheme goin', he'll have Snake Anson's gang somewhere close.”