Promontory Peak was vermilion in the sunrise and the rim of the cañon wall beyond the stream was blood red. Outlined against the sky was the figure of a savage on a spotted pony, motionless as if carved from stone, gazing down into the little camp. Stone hissed at Harvey, who looked up.
"An Indian. On the cliff across the stream."
"Uh-huh!" answered Harvey. "I twigged him when he first showed up on the skyline. Let him look his belly full. He ain't goin' to spile my breakfast. That's part of their game, to scare us off. But it's a cinch that the deadline they're goin' to draw is somewheres close by. They won't start nothin' very serious until we're close on that line. Your friend Healy says he knows the location of the camp you want to make. If it's this side of where they figger to stop us, you're in luck. If it ain't, we'll try diplomacy. If that don't work you better content yoreselves with some other location. It'll be healthier. I reckon, though, we're safe as fur up as Stone Men Cañon. They didn't worry me none time I went in to it, prospectin' an' goin' through them caves I told you of. I didn't go all the way up the cañon, though. Not as fur as the men."
"What men?"
"The two the place is named fur. You 'member me tellin' you 'bout the lime streams runnin' out of the rocks, that petrifies anything the water teches? They say thar's a deep pool to'ard the head of the cañon, nigh to where thar's a goat trail up to the top of the big mesa. A tenaya. That's Spanish for sink.
