one of Peters' punchers; but I 'll trail him to make shore."
Down the river Red watched Bill cross the stream and then saw a stranger follow. "What th' h—l!" he growled, pushing on. "That 's one of 'em trailin' Bill!" and he, in turn, forded the river, hot on the trail of the stranger.
Bill finally dismounted near the mesa, proceeded on foot to the top of the nearest rise, and looked down into the canyon at a point where it widened into a circular basin half a mile across. Dust was arising in thin clouds as the missing cows, rounded up by three men, constantly increased the rustlers' herd. To the northwest lay the mesa, where the canyon narrowed to wind its tortuous way through; to the southeast lay the narrow gateway, where the towering, perpendicular cliffs began to melt into the sloping sides of hills and changed the canyon into a swiftly widening valley. The sight sent the puncher running toward the pass, for the herd had begun to move toward that outlet, urged by the Weasel and his nervous companions.
Back in the hills
