Shannon Burke did not ride to her home after she
left Custer. She turned toward the west at the road
above the Evans place, continued on to the mouth of
Horse Camp Cañon, and entered the hills. For two miles
she followed the cañon trail to El Camino Largo, and
there, turning to the left, she followed this other trail
east to Sycamore Cañon. Whatever her mission, it was
evident that she did not wish it known to others. Had
she not wished to conceal it, she might have ridden directly
up Sycamore Cañon from Ganado with a saving of
several miles.
Crossing Sycamore, she climbed the low hills skirting
its eastern side. There was no trail here, and the brush
was thick and oftentimes so dense that she was forced
to make numerous detours to find a way upward; but
at last she rode out upon the western rim of the basin
meadow above Jackknife. Thence she picked her way
down to more level ground, and, putting spurs to Baldy,
galloped east, her eyes constantly scanning the ground just
ahead of her.
Presently she found what she sought—a trail running
north and south across the basin. She turned Baldy into
it, and headed him south toward the mountains. She was
nervous and inwardly terrified, and a dozen times she
would have turned back had she not been urged on by a
power infinitely more potent than self-interest.
Personally, she had all to lose by the venture and naught
to gain. The element of physical danger she knew to be
far from inconsiderable, while it appalled her to contemplate
the after effects, in the not inconceivable contingency
of the discovery of her act by the Penningtons.
Yet she urged Baldy steadily onward, though she felt
her flesh creep as the trail entered a narrow barranco at
the southern extremity of the meadow and wound upward
through dense chaparral, which shut off her range
of vision in all directions for more than a few feet.
At the upper end of the barranco the trail turned back
and ascended a steep hillside, running diagonally upward
through heavy brush—without which, she realized, the
trail would have appeared an almost impossible one, since
it clung to a nearly perpendicular cliff. The brush lent
a suggestion of safety that was more apparent than real,
and at the same time it hid the sheer descent below.
Baldy, digging his toes into the loose earth, scrambled
upward, stepping over gnarled roots and an occasional
bowlder, and finding, almost miraculously, the least precarious
footing. There were times when the girl shut
her eyes tightly and sat with tensed muscles, her knees
pressing her horse’s sides until her muscles ached. At
last the doughty Morgan topped the summit of the hogback,
and Shannon drew a deep breath of relief—which
was alloyed, however, by the realization that in returning
she must ride down this frightful trail, which now, as
if by magic, disappeared.
The hogback was water-washed and gravel-strewn, and
as hard-baked beneath the summer’s sun as a macadam
road. To Shannon’s unaccustomed eyes it gave no clew
as to the direction of the trail. She rode up and down
in both directions until finally she discovered what appeared
to be a trail leading downward into another barranco
upon the opposite side of the ridge. The descent
seemed less terrifying than that which she had just negotiated,
and as it was the only indication of a trail that
she could find, she determined to investigate it.
Baldy, descending carefully, suddenly paused and with
uppricked ears emitted a shrill neigh. So sudden and so
startling was the sound that Shannon’s heart all but
stood still, gripped by the cold fingers of terror. And
then from below came an answering neigh.
She had found what she sought, but the fear that
rode her all but sent her panic-stricken in retreat. It was
only the fact that she could not turn Baldy upon that
narrow trail that gave her sufficient pause to gain mastery
over the chaos of her nerves and drive them again into
the fold of reason. It required a supreme effort of will
to urge her horse onward again, down into that
mysterious ravine, where she knew there might lurk for
her a thing more terrible than death. That she did it
bespoke the greatness of the love that inspired her
courage.
The ravine below her was both shallower and wider
than that upon the opposite side of the ridge, so that it
presented the appearance of a tiny basin. From her
vantage point she looked out across the tops of spreading
oaks to the brush-covered hillside that bounded the basin
on the south; but what lay below, what the greenery of
the trees concealed from her sight, she could only surmise.
She knew that the Penningtons kept no horses here, so
she guessed that the animal that had answered Baldy’s
neigh belonged to the men she sought. Slowly she rode
downward. What would her reception be? If her conclusions
as to the identity of the men camped below were
correct, she could imagine them shooting first and investigating
later. The idea was not a pleasant one, but
nothing could deter her now.
After what seemed a long time she rode out among
splendid old oaks, in view of a soiled tent and a picket
line where three horses and a half dozen burros were
tethered. Nowhere was there sign of the actual presence
of men, yet she had an uncanny feeling that they were
there, and that from some place of concealment they
were watching her.
She sat quietly upon her horse for a moment, waiting.
Then, no one appearing, she called aloud.
“Hello, there! I want to speak with you.”
Her voice sounded strange and uncanny in her ears.
For what seemed a long time there was no other sound
than the gently moving leaves about her, the birds, and
the heavy breathing of Baldy. Then, from the brush
behind her, came another voice. It came from the direction
of the trail down which she had ridden. She
realized that she must have passed within a few feet of
the man who now spoke.
“What do you want?”
“I have come to warn you. You are being watched.”
“You mean you are not alone? There are others with
you? Then tell them to go away, for we have our rifles.
We have done nothing. We’re tending our bees—they’re
just below the ridge above our camp.”
“There is no one with me. I do not mean that others
are watching you now, but that others know that you
come down out of the hills with something each Friday
night, and they want to find out what it is you bring.”
There was a rustling in the brush behind her, and she
turned to see a man emerge, carrying a rifle ready in his
hands. He was a Mexican, swarthy and ill-favored, his
face pitted by smallpox.
Almost immediately two other men stepped from the
brush at other points about the camp. The three walked
to where Shannon sat upon her mount. All were armed,
and all were Mexicans.
“What do you know about what we bring out of the
hills? Should we not bring our honey out?” asked the
pock-marked one.
“I know what you bring out,” she said. “I am not
going to expose you. I am here to warn you.”
“Why?”
“I know Allen.”
Immediately their attitude changed.
“You have seen Allen? You bring a message from
him?”
“I have not seen him. I bring no message from him;
but for reasons of my own I have come to warn you not
to bring down another load next Friday night.”
