“Dead,” I supplied.
“Whoever could ’a’ done th’ like o’ that?” Dunne wanted to know.
“It wasn’t Santa Claus,” I gave my opinion.
“Got anything else to tell me?” Peery demanded.
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Yeah. Now if I was you, I’d ride right back to Corkscrew and go to bed.”
“You mean you don’t want to go back with me?”
“Not any. If you want to try and take me, now—”
I didn’t want to try, and I said so.
“Then there’s nothing keeping you here,” he pointed out.
I grinned at him and his friends, pulled the sorrel around, and started back the way I had come.
A few miles down, I swung off to the south again, found the lower end of the Circle H.A.R. draw, and followed it down into the Tirabuzon Canyon. Then I started to work up toward the point where the rope had been let down.
The canyon deserved its name—a rough and stony, tree and bush-choked, winding gutter across the face of Arizona. But it was nicely green and cool compared to most of the rest of the State.
I hadn’t gone far when I ran into Milk River, leading his horse toward me. He shook his head.
“Not a damned thing! I can cut sign with the rest of ’em, but there’s too many rocky ridges here.”