Chapter X

Near sunset, Jim Bailey began to take stock of his situation. He had ridden miles, but had not seen a human being and just now he had no idea where he was. He had lost all sense of direction, but strangely enough, was not worried. The fact that darkness comes swiftly after sundown had no terrors for him.

He rode along a cow-trail, angling up around the point of a hill, and saw a group of buildings below him. He drew up, partly screened by the tall brush. The place consisted of a roughly-built ranch-house, of two or three rooms, a series of tumble-down corrals and a huge, sway-backed stable. Two loose horses browsed around the littered yard.

As Jim looked the place over, two riders came in from behind the house, traveling slowly. Suddenly one of them pointed out past the stable. A moment later the other rider reined swiftly to the right and galloped down past the corrals and drew up in the heavy brush between Jim and the ranch-house. Jim could not see him, but sensed he had concealed himself. The other rider dismounted, dropped his reins to the ground and went into the house.

The actions of the two men seemed strange to Jim Bailey. In a few minutes five riders came in past the stable and drew up at the house. He saw the man come outside, bareheaded, and talk with them. After a short conversation he went back, got his hat, climbed into his saddle, and rode away with them.

Jim felt that these five men were one of the searching parties and that this man had joined them. But why did the other one hide from them, he wondered? After a few minutes he saw the other man ride back past the corrals, dismount at the house and go inside.

Jim decided not to go down there. He had noticed there was a road leading away from the ranch, and he surmised that it would lead to Pinnacle City. The man was in there quite a while, but finally came out, carrying a sizable bundle, which he tied on the back of his saddle. The man seemed to be keeping watch of the surroundings and after he mounted his horse he kept turning his head, looking things over.

Then he turned his horse and headed back the same way they had come to the ranch. Why Jim Bailey elected to follow this man, he had no idea. He rode off the point of the hill and swung in behind the horseman who rode slowly, but in the opposite direction from Pinnacle City.

Jim Bailey kept the man in sight through a long, brushy swale, following a well-used cow-trail. It was growing darker all the time, but he could still see the man after they went out of the swale. He was bearing off across rough country, and Jim was afraid he would lose track of him. He didn’t dare hurry. Objects became more indistinct, until suddenly he realized it was dark. The last he saw of the other rider, he was heading over some broken country, and holding a fairly straight line.

There was a full moon, but its effect was of little value this early in the evening. Jim stopped and tried to take stock of his position. After looking around he had no idea which way he had come. Irish was perfectly willing to rest.

“If we go on,” Jim said aloud, “we can’t be more lost than we are now. Just why I followed that man I don’t know, Irish. Well, he must have a destination in mind and that is what I need most right now--a destination.”

* * * * *

So Irish went on, dodging brush and piles of rock, circling brushy washouts, until Jim suddenly realized that he was on the rim of a mighty canyon. Far across the canyon he could see moonlight shining on the cliffs. Somewhere a coyote lifted its voice in displeasure, and Jim’s spine tickled a little. Another and still another added their voices, until they sounded like gabbling geese.

Jim turned Irish gently and started along the rim. Stunted pines and huge, gnarled manzanitas grew along the rim. The flinty rock scraped under Irish’s shod hoofs. Suddenly a horse nickered ahead. The animal was tied to a manzanita snag, standing full in the moonlight. It was the horse Jim had followed.

He rode into the shadow of some small pines and dismounted. He tied Irish securely and went back to the other horse. The rider was not there, but Jim found an old trail down the sharp side of the cliff. At that, it wasn’t much of a trail, but even in the moonlight he could see the fresh scrapes of boot-marks.

Jim looked the situation over carefully. Twenty feet down, the trail was in absolute darkness.

“Suppose Mary is down there,” he said to himself. “Suppose they hid her down there. Why would that man go down the trail, unless he had a very urgent reason--and what could the reason be? This man hid from the posse, while the other went along. That, in itself, looked suspicious.”

He looked at the moon, at the depths of the canyon, and added, half-aloud:

“While asking questions, Bailey--what in the devil are you doing up here--all alone--and lost?”

Shivering a little, he slid off the rim and started down the trail, leaning in against the bank, carefully digging his high-heels into the dirt and against the rocky projections. Jim Bailey was frightened. The light had gone now, and he had to go slowly, feeling his way. It seemed hours since he had left the rim. It was like going down a slanting ladder, feeling ahead for each rung. Something scraped against his cheek, and he stopped, groping around with his left hand. It was a rope.

It was larger than an ordinary lariat, and he was able to discover that it was tied around some sort of an old snag. Cautiously he investigated. Just below him the trail broke almost sheer. Evidently the rope was there to help men go down the impossible part of that trail. Below was only a dark mass, like a lot of houses piled on top of each other.

Jim took a deep breath, grasped the rope tightly, turned around and went down slowly, his feet seeking purchase on the side of the wall. It was hard on his hands, that rough rope, but he was making progress slowly. He had gone down about a dozen feet, when he felt a heavy tug on the rope. He thought for a moment that he had been discovered, but a continuous tugging indicated that someone was coming up the rope. Jim thought wildly of trying to go back, but it was impossible. One of his flailing legs caught around the rope, giving it one turn, and he started down fast. The rope burned his hands, but he didn’t even feel it. Suddenly he crashed into somebody.

The rest of the descent was rather hazy for Jim Bailey. He lost control of the rope with his left hand, his right was jerked loose and he went into space for a few feet, landing in sliding rubble, to bring up sharply on a smooth space, against a rock.

All he had heard from the other man was a startled curse when he had crashed into him, but he knew the other was not far away. Jim realized he had cut his cheek, because the blood was trickling into his mouth, and his hands felt as though they had been burned. Still he was sure no bones had been broken.

* * * * *

But Jim Bailey stayed put. He was in a dark corner and he was not going to move until the other man started something. His gun had stayed in his holster, and now he took it out. The feel of that gun was reassuring, even if he knew he couldn’t hit anything with it.

Then he heard the other man off to his right. He was cursing in an undertone, his rough clothes rasping against rock. Then he lifted his voice to a conversational level and said:

“Who is it? _Quien es?_”

Jim did not answer. The man cursed some more, flinging rocks into the dark spots. One barely missed Jim’s head, and it made him mad. He picked up a shattered part of the rock and flung it back at the man. Judging from the response, it must have registered, but the man wasn’t sure from what direction it had come.

“Come out of there, or I’ll kill yuh!” rasped the man.

Jim thought he had been seen, but a moment later the man fired a shot, almost at right-angles to where Jim was hidden. The man was evidently searching out the darkest spots for his bullets. Jim hunched lower, the old .41 gripped in both hands.

_Wham!_ The man fired again and the bullet smashed into the rocks almost directly behind Jim, who swung the muzzle of his gun, shut his eyes and yanked the trigger. The .41 blasted flame, almost jumped out of Jim’s two-handed grip, and the hidden man yelped, either in pain or surprise.

“Don’t tell me I hit something!” exclaimed Jim, aloud.

The man didn’t say; he was cursing bitterly, and Jim heard him rasping around over the rocks. Anyway, he wasn’t doing any more shooting. Jim eased his position cautiously, watching further up the rocks, where the moonlight streaked them with blue. From the sounds it seemed as though the man was trying to get away.

Jim suddenly realized that if his enemy were able to get back to that rope, and climb up to the trail, he might take the rope along. Without the rope it might be impossible ever to get back to the rim. The thought made him panicky for a moment, and he crawled out into the moonlit strip. But nothing happened.

Trying to find his way back, he almost went over the sheer edge of the cliff. Peering down, he could see, possibly a hundred feet below, to where the moonlight streaked the rocks. He edged his way back and a loose rock, the size of a football, crashed beside him. Several pieces banged into him, but not against his head. Quickly he slid into the heavy shadow again, thankful to be alive, but realizing that the other man was above him now.

Jim worked cautiously now. He could hear the man once in a while, but was unable to locate him exactly. Jim suddenly realized how tired he was. His face was swollen, his hands swollen too, and he had bruises too numerous to mention. He found loose rock, which gave under his knees as he crawled carefully upward. He remembered that he had landed in loose rock and dirt. Perhaps this was the place.

Above him he could hear the rasp and scrape of what sounded like someone sliding on rock. He stood up, and something brushed his arm. It was the rope again. He grabbed for it, but it was yanked out of his hands. The man had reached the trail and taken the rope.

In sudden desperation Jim braced against the wall, cocked his gun, gripped it in both hands and shot almost straight up. There was no target, nothing to shoot at. He jerked back, losing his footing for the moment, and a fraction of a second later a heavy object crashed into him, and his consciousness went out in a shower of shooting stars.