hat and began to descend. The two met
at the foot of the rugged slope.

"Howdy, Mr. Blake," greeted the cowman, "I thought I'd just ride up to
see how things are coming along."

"Not so fast as they might, Mr. Knowles. We have stopped for
repairs."

"Haven't broken your level?"

"No. Ashton is laid up for the day with a scalp wound. We were shot
at this morning from up there--other side of the crest."

"Shot at, and Lafe hit?"

"Not seriously, though it could not well have been a closer shave. He
says he will be all right by tomorrow," said Blake, and he gave the
bald details of the occurrence in a few words.

Knowles listened without comment, his leathery face stolid, but his
eyes glinting. When Blake had finished, he remarked shortly: "Must be
the same man. Let's see those shells."

Blake handed over the two empty cartridge shells.

"Thirty-eight," confirmed Knowles. "Same as were fired at Lafe before.
Kid and Chuckie showed me how a thirty-eight fitted the hole in Lafe's
silver flask. About where did the snake crawl down the hill?"

"Not far from here. He could not have gone any considerable distance
along the top or side. He was down and riding away when I reached the
crags, and I had not lost much time coming up the other side."

"It'll take an Indian to make out his tracks on this dry ground,"
remarked the cowman. "We'll try a look, though, at his hawss's hoof
prints. Just keep behind, if you don't mind."

He threw the reins over the head of his horse, and dismounted, to walk
slowly along the more level ground at the foot of the slope. Blake
followed, as he had requested, but scrutinizing the ground with a
gaze no less keenly observant than that of his companion.

"Mighty queer," said Knowles, after they had carried their examination
over a hundred yards. "Either he came down more slanting or else--"

"What do you make of this?" Blake interrupted, bending over a blurred
round print in the dust between two grass tufts.

"_Sho!_" exclaimed the cowman as he peered at the mark. "That's why,
of course."

"Indian shoes," said Blake.

"You've seen a thing or two. You're no tenderfoot," remarked Knowles.

"I have myself shrunk rawhide shoes on horses' hoofs when short of
iron shoes," Blake explained. "This would make a hard trail to run
down without hounds."

The cowman straightened and looked at his companion, his weather-beaten
face set in quiet resolve.

"I know what's better than hounds," he