ng dimly among the rocks. His
enemy had been there, a day or two before, but he too had feared the
unknown. He had gazed into that narrow passageway and turned away, to
wait at Surveyor's Well for his coming. And Wunpost had come, but the
eagles had saved him to give battle once more on his own ground. Tank
Canyon was his stronghold, inaccessible from behind, cut off from the
sides by high walls; and the evil one who pursued him must now brave its
dark depths or play an Indian game and wait.

Wunpost threw off his packs and left his mules to fret while he ran back
to plant the huge traps. They were not the largest size that would break
a man's leg, but yet large enough to hold their victim firm against all
the force he could exert. Their jaws spread a good foot and two powerful
springs lurked beneath to give them a jump; and once the blow was struck
nothing could pry those teeth apart but the clamps, which were operated
by screws. A man caught in such a trap would be doomed to certain death
if no one came to his aid and Wunpost's lips curled ferociously as he
rose up from his knees and regarded his cunning handiwork. His traps
were set not far apart, in the two holes he had dug before, and covered
with the greatest care; but one was in the trail, where a man would
naturally step, and the other was out in the rocks. A bush, pulled
carelessly down, stuck out from the bank like a fragile but compelling
hand; and Wunpost knew that the prowler would step around it by
instinct, which would throw him into the trap.

The night was black in Tank Canyon and only a pathway of stars showed
the edge of the boxed-in walls; it was black and very silent, for not a
mouse was abroad, and yet Wunpost and his dog could not sleep. A dozen
times before midnight Good Luck leapt up growling and bestrode his
master's form, and at last he rushed out barking, his voice rising to a
yell as he paused and listened through the silence. Wunpost lay in bed
and waited, then rose cautiously up and peered from the mouth of the
cave. A pale moon was shining on the jagged rocks above and there was a
grayness that foretold the dawn, but the bottom of Tank Canyon was still
dark as a pocket and he went back to wait for the day. Good Luck came
back whining, and a growl rumbled in his throat--then he leapt up again
and Wunpost felt his own hair rise, for a wail had come through the
night. He slapped Good Luck into silence and listened again--and it
came, a wild