he went back down the trail and set his bear
traps again, but not even a prowling fox came along in the night to
spring their cruel jaws. The canyon was deserted and the water-hole
where he drank was unvisited except by his mules. These he had penned in
above him by a fence of brush and ropes and hobbled them to make doubly
sure; but in the morning they were there, waiting to receive their bait
of grain as if Tank Canyon was their customary home. Another day dragged
by and Wunpost began to fidget and to watch the unscalable peaks, but no
Indian's head appeared to draw a slug from his rifle and again the night
passed uneventfully. He spent the third day in a fury, pacing up and
down his cave, and at nightfall he packed up and was gone.

Three days was enough to wait on the man who had shot him down from the
heights and, now that he thought of it, he was taking a great deal for
granted when he set his big traps in the trail. In the first place, he
was assuming that the man was still there, after a lapse of six weeks
and more; and in the second place that he was bold enough, or so
obsessed by blood-lust, that he would follow him across Death Valley;
whereas as a matter of fact, he knew nothing whatever about him except
that he had shot him in the leg. His aim had been good but a little too
low, which is unusual when shooting down hill, and that might argue him
a white man; but his hiding had been better, and his absolute patience,
and that looked more like an Indian. But whoever he was, it was taking
too much for granted to think that he would walk into a trap. What
Wunpost wanted to know, and what he was about to find out, was whether
his tracks had been followed.

He left Tank Canyon after dark, driving his pack-mules before him to
detect any possible ambush; and in his nest on the front pack Good Luck
stood up like a sentinel, eager to scent out the lurking foe. For the
past day and night Good Luck had been uneasy, snuffing the wind and
growling in his throat, but the actions of his master had been cause
enough for that, for he responded to Wunpost's every mood. And Wunpost
was as jumpy as a cat that has been chased by a dog, he practised for
hours on the draw-and-shoot; and whenever he dismounted he dragged his
rifle with him to make sure he would do it in a pinch. He was worried
but not frightened and when he came free from the canyon he headed for
Surveyor's Well.

Someone had been there before him, perhaps even th