I crossed to the window and looked out. A five-foot strip of rocky ground lay between the building and the sharp edge of the Tirabuzon Canyon. A close-twisted rope was tight around a small knob of rock at the canyon’s edge.
I pointed at the rope. Bardell swore savagely.
“If I’d of seen that we’d of got him! We didn’t think anybody could get down there, and didn’t look very close. We ran up and down the ledge, looking between buildings.”
We went outside, where I lay on my belly and looked down into the canyon. The rope—one end fastened to the knob—ran straight down the rock wall for twenty feet, and disappeared among the trees and bushes of a narrow shelf that ran along the wall there. Once on that shelf, a man could find ample cover to shield his retreat.
“What do you think?” I asked Milk River, who lay beside me.
“A clean getaway.”
I stood up, pulling up the rope. A rope such as any one of a hundred cowhands might have owned, in no way distinguishable from any other to my eyes. I handed it to Milk River.
“It don’t mean nothing to me. Might be anybody’s,” he said.
“The ground tell you anything?”
He shook his head again.
“You go down into the canyon and see what you can pick up,” I told him. “I’ll ride out to the Circle H.A.R. If you don’t find anything, ride out that way.”