to the east Nash had looked him up—and as far as Moran was concerned that once had been enough.
Moran’s healthy outdoor sense of the fitness of things had revolted at this man’s mode of life. Human weakness he could understand but not the ugly, perverted pleasures which Nash had reveled in. Even his oaths were not mere profanity but putrid slime.
“He showed me around one time, Flash,” said Moran. “He’s one hell of a fellow—that Nash. I like him the same way you like stale meat.”
He swept his glasses over the country, searching the grassy slopes of the peaks in search of a bunch of mountain sheep. Another file of horses showed way off to the right above the timberline, heading for the Rampart Pass. Three people walked behind the pack animals, leading their horses up the steep divide.
Moran rested his elbows on a rock to steady them for a better view. He looked long before he finally swung to his horse and headed down the opposite slope.
“One of that outfit was a woman, Flash—a girl,” he said after a while. “Now whatever do you suppose she was doing away off up in here?”
