Casey and Sheriff Dove did not start the next afternoon. A telegram had detained the sheriff, and he did not reach Chakchak till night. He spent the evening with them, taking a great fancy to Clyde. He even blossomed out as a story teller, spinning yarns without embellishment and with great clearness. He told of cattle wars, of outlaws, of Indian fighters, of strange occurrences, of strange men, primitive of mind and of action, who had played their parts in the history of the West. It was information at first-hand, rare nowadays, and the listeners found the evening too short.

"Blanket time," said the sheriff, looking at his watch. "I ain't a young nighthawk no more. If we're to git a good start----"

"We'd like to hear more, sheriff," said Clyde.

"Sho!" said Sheriff Dove, well pleased. "I could keep yarnin' half the night to a pretty girl. I ain't too old for that. Maybe when we get back we'll have another session."

Outside on the veranda she slipped her arm in his. "Take good care of Casey for me, sheriff, please."

"I sure will, little girl," he replied. "Don't you go to worryin', now.

There's no call to. If it was easier travellin' you might come along, for all the trouble there'll be." He smiled down at her in fatherly fashion, his great, sinewy arm pressing hers, and the pressure rea.s.sured her.

"Thank you, sheriff. You--you're a _dear_!"

"Do I git a bid to the weddin'?"

"Of course you do." Clyde blushed and laughed. "Only I don't know just when it will be."

"Make it soon," he advised. "Life's short, little girl. Take all the happiness you can git. Good night."

They rode westward in the morning before the sun had risen, and camped that night in the foothills, having seen n.o.body. They entered the pa.s.s, and immediately came upon the trail of horses.

"Looks like there's been some travel," said the sheriff. "This here pa.s.s used much?"

"Not at this time of year. The Indians use it in the fall. They hunt across the range."

"These horses is shod," the sheriff remarked. "I sh'd say there's been half a dozen of 'em. Not less. Maybe more. I've knowed men that could tell exact."

"Not many of them left now."

"That's so. There ain't much need for trailin' these days. Too many telegraph wires."

They held to the pa.s.s, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the fire, smoking.

"This bunch of hosses," the sheriff observed, "seems to have split up here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the valley. What's down there?"

"Just valley. It's partly open and part heavy timber. There was a pack trail cut through once, but it's mostly grown up."

"n.o.body lives down there?"

"Not a soul. Now and then somebody traps in winter."

"Um." The sheriff was thoughtful for some moments. "Does McHale know the country hereabouts?"

"Fairly well. Better than I do. And McCrae knows it better than he does."

"Um." The sheriff became silent again. "When a man goes to hidin' out,"

he observed after a long pause, "he 'most always. .h.i.ts for the country he knows. Seems like it's human nature. I'd do it myself, and so'd you.

Seems like a man that's wanted is suspicious of strange ground. He don't know what's in it, and he's afraid of gettin' cornered. He don't know what he's goin' to run up against any mile. It's a mean feelin', that. It keeps a man on edge every minute. So he naturally makes for the district he's at home in. It's a mistake, but they all make it.

They figure they can dodge around where they know the trails and cut-offs. Consequently it's just a matter of time till they're caught.

It's like an old buck that won't leave his range. Any man can git him that wants to spend a week at it."

"That's so," Casey agreed.

"So when I want a man and don't know where he's gone, I find out what place he thinks he knows best," the sheriff continued. "The system wins nine times out of ten. Now you say McHale's only out temporary. He's got a clear self-defence case, or thinks he has, and he's merely side-steppin' trouble. In that case he won't go as far as another man might. My _tumtum_ is that he's somewheres down along this valley."

"Good reasoning," Casey admitted.

"The way to see a man down in a hole is to look over the edge," said the sheriff; "and the way to find a man in a valley is to get up on a hill. They ain't no such thing as a smokeless campfire invented yet, though, if a man rustles dry sticks and does his cookin' at noon of a bright day, he don't make much smoke. A feller fooled me once that way.

He didn't take a chance on noon, but done his cookin' at night, down in a hole. Only way I got him, the fire burned in under a rock into some old roots, and sorter smudged along one mornin' when he was asleep."

Casey glanced up at the bulk of the ranges outlined in blackness against the sky. "If you say so, sheriff, we'll climb."

"I hate to," the sheriff admitted. "Couldn't you make a good guess?"

"No. I don't know any more than you do."

"Well," said the sheriff thoughtfully, "we'll try the valley first. We may come on some sign. It's bound to take time, anyway. There's a whole heap of country here if it was smoothed out and stretched level."

He knocked out his pipe and pulled his blanket around him, for down in that deep, watered valley the nights were cold. Casey followed his example. In two minutes both men were asleep, with the rush of the water and the crunch-crunch of the horses' teeth cropping the gra.s.ses in their ears.

They breakfasted in the dawn, saddled, and took a course downstream, The trail petered out; the hoof marks vanished. They rode with care through thick brush, and more easily in open, parklike glades. Grouse rose almost under their horses' hoofs, to sit bright-eyed on adjacent limbs, watching the travellers. Occasionally deer by twos and threes bounded springily away, white flags waving. Once the horses snorted and showed a disinclination to proceed, sniffing the air nervously.

"Bear," said Casey.

"Down among them berry bushes, I reckon," said the sheriff.

As he spoke, a black, furry head, short ears, and sharp muzzle rose above the tangled bushes. A narrow, red tongue licked out. Cunning little eyes regarded them with indignant suspicion.

"Woof!" said the bear. The sound was something between the snort of a hog and the first interrogative note of a watchdog, which hears a noise that requires explanation.

"Well, sport," said the sheriff, "berryin' good this mornin'?"

But at the sound of the human voice the black head disappeared beneath the surface of foliage. There was a momentary swaying of bushes in one spot, like the swirl of disturbed water after a fish; but there was nothing to mark the line of the beast's flight. For all his bulk he melted through the tangle as soundlessly as a spirit.

"Bears is learnin' manners nowadays," the sheriff commented. "Course, these here black ones never was much different from pigs. But take grizzlies. When I come West with my old people, a little shaver just able to set a pony, they was plumb sa.s.sy. I never did see such biggotty-actin' critters. Britch-loaders hadn't been in so durn long, and men didn't go huntin' grizzlies with the little old pea rifle just for fun. They was range bosses, and they knowed it. Now it's only once in a while you'll find one that wants all the trail."

In the afternoon they came to an abandoned cabin, and dismounted to investigate. Casey shook his head at the filthy litter. "n.o.body's been here," said he.

The sheriff peered narrowly about. "No?" he said. "Well, how about that?" He pointed to the ground. "Moccasin track, or part of one. Who wears moccasins?"

"McCrae does, most of the time."

"Then he's been here. He couldn't pa.s.s without lookin' in."

"Why not?"

"Because four men out of five can't go by an old shack without takin' a peep inside. I can't, myself. I judge you can't, either. Do you remember ever doin' it?"