the wall, appearing above the trees farther down the canyon and inclining up toward the corner of the wooded bench set back in the cliff. At that distance it looked to be but a faulted vein but these men knew it for a ledge which traversed the face of the rock, undoubtedly wide enough to permit the passing of men and possibly affording a foothold for their horses as well. Somewhere in that pocket were the cabins which sheltered the men they sought.
As they watched, a string of horses appeared on the lower end of the ledge and moved in single file across the face of the cliff. They counted fifteen. A single man rode the last horse and urged the others on.
“I don’t know the man but the horses are Brent’s,” said Moran.
“Then we’ll bag him too,” Vermont predicted. “To-morrow moming’s sunrise will see the end of the hunt.”
Old Dad Kinney shook his head.
“That will be just too late,” he said. “They’re pulling out. You’ll have to strike to-night. I know the signs.” He spoke with a conviction which impressed his friends.
