note in the waning light, promising to return to the cabin the following day.
“I want to see her even more than you do, old boy,” Moran said to Flash. “Go!” Flash darted away into the gathering dusk.
Not until night obscured even the outlines of the opposite rims did the two men quit their post. When they left they did not return to their horses but made a wide detour which would bring them out near the mouth of Atlantic Creek. They threaded their way along the dividing ridges between the many yawning canyons and eventually came out upon one long spur which led away in their chosen direction.
When halfway along its course both men stopped with one accord as a voice spoke to them out of the night. Moran knew the voice. It was that of Nash. Forty feet from them a figure loomed on the brink of the rims, hazy and indistinct except for the sharp silhouette of the broad brimmed hat. Moran involuntarily closed his fingers on Kinney’s arm.
“Nash,” he whispered.
“Brent! Is that you, Brent?” Nash called huskily. “I tried to locate you and lost the way.
