The shadows from the mesquite clumps were growing long on the mesa below the mouth of Coyote Cañon. Farther to the south was the blue haze over the flat land toward Cañonville. Blue quail were calling to one another from the brushy slopes, their plaintive, ca cuckoo, ca cuckoo, being the only sound to break the silence.
A lean coyote, like a gray shadow, came limping along past a mesquite, where he stopped in the shade, his ears cocked toward the sound of feeding quail. A brush rabbit rustled in the mesquite, and the coyote shifted his head quickly. Suddenly he lifted his nose. Down the wind came a scent which he quickly associated with men who carried gun and lariat ropes. More like a shadow than before, the coyote seemed to fade out of sight through a convenient cover, while from a spot upwind came the soft crackling of brush.
First came the masked man, leading the bay horse, with Nan in the saddle. Behind them—quite a way behind them—came Rex Morgan, staggering along, looking like a rag-man, or rather a man of rags.
The masked man stopped the horse and allowed Rex to join them.
‘Hell of a trip, huh?’ grunted the man. ‘Well, here’s where I leave yuh.’
He pointed up the slope. ‘About half a mile up thataway yuh strike the road. Turn left for Mesa City.’
Nan dismounted and stood beside Rex, while the masked man mounted his horse.
‘I’d like to thank you,’ she said.
‘Yuh don’t need to. Yore sweetheart shore looks fagged, don’t he? You ain’t a very good picker, ma’am. Them shoes he’s wearin’ wasn’t built f’r Coyote Cañon. Good luck to yuh. I don’t sabe women—not a-tall. So long.’
He spurred his horse to a gallop, and soon disappeared, traveling south. Nan and Rex looked foolishly at each other. Rex’s shoes were ready to fall off his feet, which were bleeding. Nan was a little better off, because she had ridden the horse, but her face was drawn from suffering and lack of food.
‘We’ve got to walk home,’ she said. Rex nodded, shifting his feet painfully, and they started toward the road.
Rex was game. Every step was torture, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. They were both staggering before they reached the road, and Rex was laughing foolishly as they sat down to gain a little strength before attempting the steep grades.
‘I haven’t any feeling,’ said Rex weakly. ‘My legs and arms belong to some one else, I think.’
‘And your feet are all blood, Rex.’
‘I know. But we are out of that terrible cañon. Everything will be all right now, Nan. I want to sing, but I can’t think of a single song. It is like waking up from an awful dream. I wonder who that man is, Nan? What was he doing in that cañon, and why did he want to leave me there, all tied up in that rope?[’]
‘It all seems so ridiculous—now. I have never harmed any one in my life, except the clothing clerk in Northport, Spike Cahill, and the crazy man. And they couldn’t really hold any grudge for that, because it was in self-defense. Queer country out here. Somebody always trying to kill somebody else. But I—I like it, Nan.’
She did not reply. After a few moments he turned his head and looked at her. She was leaning against a rock, sound asleep, her hands folded in her lap. He sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position.
It was nearly dark when something awoke Rex. He lifted his head quickly, trying to understand what it was all about; trying to realize where he was. A great, gray shape loomed over him in the half-light, and there was the creak of saddle-leather, the jingle of spurs.
Then he heard the voice of Hashknife Hartley saying:
‘You poor kid, this is Hashknife.’
But Hashknife wasn’t talking to him, he was talking to Nan. And the great, gray shape was Ghost, which nuzzled at him.
Nan was crying and Hashknife was patting her on the shoulder, telling her that everything was all right. Rex staggered around the horse to Hashknife, and the tall cowboy put an arm around his shoulders.
‘I trailed yuh out of the cañon,’ said Hashknife. ‘My God, what a trail! You’re all right now, Nan. How ’r yuh comin’, Rex?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Rex weakly. ‘I’ve got so many sore spots that I am just one big ache. Are you all right, Nan?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she replied wearily. ‘I must have gone to sleep, you see.’
‘Well, that’s all right,’ laughed Hashknife. ‘I’ll boost yuh up on Ghost, and we’ll head for home.’
He picked Nan up in his arms and placed her in the saddle.
‘I’ll give yuh a leg up, Rex,’ he said. ‘You ride behind Nan. Ghost is broke to ride double.’
‘But you can’t walk all the way,’ protested Nan.
‘Can’t I? Shucks, I could walk to the moon right now.’
He helped Rex on behind the saddle, and they went on up the winding grades, while Nan told Hashknife the story of what had happened to them from the time some one shot Rex’s horse until they left the masked man on the mesa.
‘I thought you’d see the buzzards,’ said Rex.
‘I seen ’em. Gosh, what an experience yuh had!’
‘I—I think Rex went crazy for a while,’ said Nan. ‘When he fought with the crazy man.’
‘Did yuh tie him up after the fight?’ asked Hashknife.
‘We didn’t have anything to tie him with,’ said Rex. ‘But he never tried to get up, you see.’
‘Uh-huh.’
The moon was up when they reached the spot where Rex and Nan had dropped into the cañon. It silvered the hills and the cliffs on the opposite side of the cañon.
‘Oh, we forgot about the crazy man!’ exclaimed Nan. ‘He’s still down there in the cave, you know, Hashknife.’
‘Don’t worry about him, Nan.’
They plodded on around the grades, down around the sharp turns, where the stage had given Rex his wild introduction to the country, and on through the flat land to the forks of the road, where they turned to the Lane ranch.
The ranch-house was dark.
‘Queer, isn’t it?’ said Rex. ‘When I was asleep back there, I dreamed about that Navajo rug. It had blood on it—in my dream, Hashknife.’
‘Yeah. It ain’t on the fence down there now; somebody took it.’
‘Oh, I’ll bet your feet are worn raw,’ said Nan. ‘With those high-heel boots on.’
‘Feet are all right. Here we are.’
Rex slid down, and Hashknife lifted Nan from the saddle.
The kitchen table was just as Hashknife and Sleepy had left it, after the bullet had driven the milk can between Sleepy’s eyes. Both Nan and Rex were still wobbling, and watched Hashknife build a fire in the kitchen stove. He put on a big kettle of water.
‘I can get the meal,’ said Nan. ‘I feel fine again.’
‘Start in with some coffee, Nan. There’s half of that pie in the oven. I could drink a pot of coffee myself. Show me where yuh keep yore writin’ paper and ink, will yuh, Nan?’
They found it in the drawer of the table in the living-room, along with an old pen.
‘You fix the coffee,’ said Hashknife. ‘I’ve got to write a note.’
He placed a lamp on the table, while Nan went back to the kitchen where Rex was removing what was left of his shoes. Hashknife took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, propped it up against a book, and filled his pen.
He wrote slowly on the cheap sheet of paper; so slowly that it appeared as though he might be copying something. His brow was knitted deeply, almost covering the gray eyes, as the broken pen-holder moved slowly in his cramped fingers.
Finally it was finished to his satisfaction, and after folding it roughly he placed it in the inside pocket of his vest. The paper he had propped against the book went into a hip pocket, and he got up from the table, a half-smile on his thin lips.
Nan was limping around the table in the kitchen, while Rex looked ruefully at his swollen feet.
‘I’ll have some hot water for you in a few minutes, honey,’ said Nan.
Rex looked up quickly at Hashknife. It was the first time she had ever called him by that title. The gray eyes shifted to Nan and back to Rex. Neither of them had told Hashknife just why the masked man had taken them out of the cañon. Perhaps it was a subject that neither of them cared to discuss with a third party.
Came the sound of running horses, the thump of footsteps on the rickety porch, and Sleepy came stomping through the living-room, while behind him came Lem Sheeley. At sight of Nan, Sleepy let out a joyful yelp and grabbed Hashknife by the shoulders.
‘Where didja find ’em?’ he yelled. ‘My Gawd, this is great, ain’t it? Where yuh been? Look at the kid’s feet, will yuh? Why don’t somebody say somethin’? All dumb, are yuh?’
‘Are yuh run down?’ queried Hashknife mildly.
‘Well—yeah!’ snorted Sleepy. ‘Talk a little.’
Both Sleepy and Lem crowded into the kitchen and humped on their heels against the wall while Hashknife told what he knew and what Nan and Rex had told him. The coffee-pot boiled over before the tale was told, but no one noticed such small details.
‘But what’s it all about?’ complained Lem. ‘There ain’t head nor tail to it. All this crazy man in the cañon and a man with a mask stuff. Sounds kinda looney to me.’
‘It does sound crazy,’ smiled Hashknife.
‘Like a sheep-herder’s dream,’ grunted Sleepy. ‘After we left you we spent about three hours tryin’ to find a way down into that damn cañon, but had to give up. It’s one awful place, Hashknife. I don’t sabe how you ever found a place to get in. Me and Lem had an idea of tryin’ to get down at the lower end, but gave it up until we heard from you.’
‘Where are the other boys?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Mesa City, gettin’ their bills wet,’ grunted Sleepy. ‘Spike Cahill dang near broke his neck in that cañon. He thought he could slide a hundred feet down a thirty-foot rope, but found it was too short on one end.’
Nan poured the coffee and refilled the pot. She and Rex split the half pie, while Rex bathed his feet in warm water. He was too tired even to tell them if the water was too hot, and Sleepy almost cooked him with it.
‘Well, what next?’ asked Lem, finishing his coffee.
Hashknife shoved his cup aside and got to his feet.
‘I reckon we’ll go back to Mesa City,’ he said.
Sleepy eyed him closely, knowing that something real had caused him to make that decision. It was not merely to go to town; Hashknife’s feet were too sore for a pleasure trip.
‘We’re with yuh, cowboy,’ declared Sleepy. ‘My God, yore feet must be tender.’
‘Not a bit; can’t feel anythin’.’
He turned to Nan. ‘Better go to bed pretty quick, and don’t worry any more. Fix up the kid’s feet the best yuh can, and they’ll be all right. C’mon, boys.’
He limped from the house to his horse, with the two men close behind him. Ghost nickered softly and rubbed his muzzle against Hashknife’s vest.
‘Can’t travel very fast,’ said Hashknife. ‘That cañon is shore hell on a horse. There’s places where Ghost had to almost crawl on his knees. Yuh shore need sky-hooks and a lot of faith in the Almighty to make that trip.’