me. I dragged myself over the edge and was safe.

The canyon, with its dense thickets and scrubby clumps of trees, lay
below in plain sight. Once hidden there, I would be hard to find.
Picking up my rifle, I ran swiftly along the base of the slope and soon
gained the cover of the woods.

XI. THE OLD HUNTER

I ran till I got a stitch in my side, and then slowed down to a
dog-trot. The one thing to do was to get a long way ahead of my
pursuers, for surely at the outset they would stick like hounds to my
trail.

A mile or more below the gorge I took to the stream and waded. It
was slippery, dangerous work, for the current tore about my legs and
threatened to upset me. After a little I crossed to the left bank. Here
the slope of the canyon was thick with grass that hid my tracks. It was
a long climb up to the level. Upon reaching it I dropped, exhausted.

"I've--given them--the slip," I panted, exultantly.... "But--now what?"

It struck me that now I was free, I had only jumped out of the
frying-pan into the fire. Hurriedly I examined my Winchester. The
magazine contained ten cartridges. What luck that Stockton had neglected
to unload it! This made things look better. I had salt and pepper, a
knife, and matches--thanks to the little leather case--and so I could
live in the woods.

It was too late for regrets. I might have freed Dick somehow or even
held the men at bay, but I had thought only of escape. The lack of nerve
and judgment stung me. Then I was bitter over losing my mustang and
outfit.

But on thinking it all over, I concluded that I ought to be thankful for
things as they were. I was free, with a whole skin. That climb out of
the gorge had been no small risk. How those bullets had whistled and
hissed!

"I'm pretty lucky," I muttered. "Now to get good and clear of this
vicinity. They'll ride down the trail after me. Better go over this
ridge into the next canyon and strike down that. I must go down. But how
far? What must I strike for?"

I took a long look at the canyon. In places the stream showed, also the
trail; then there were open patches, but I saw no horses or men. With
a grim certainty that I should be lost in a very little while, I turned
into the cool, dark forest.

Every stone and log, every bit of hard ground in my path, served to help
hide my trail. Herky-Jerky very likely had the cowboy's skill at finding
tracks, but I left few traces of my presence on that long slope. Only an
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