sneaking up on him now he might be near his goal.
It wasnât long before he was in full sight of the shack. He stepped down from the saddle, lay on his belly on the edge of the canyon and took a good look through the glasses.
The shack was a primitive construction, but it was snug. A man could live in simple comfort there, pass a good winter. Off to one side there was a small corral in good repair. In it were a couple of horses. There was no stoop to the house, but in front of the door, seated in what seemed to be a hide chair sat a man. He was busy with his hands, either whittling a stick or repairing harness. A hat covered his head and shaded his face, but McAllister gained the impression that he was old. This could be Walt Islop. McAllister watched the scene for a half-hour. During that time an Indian woman appeared from the house and the Indian woman McAllister had seen down-canyon appeared driving the two horses before her. She put them in the corral and then disappeared into the shack with the other woman.
McAllister rose to his feet, mounted and rode back to the trail he had found earlier. He had a little trouble with the mule going down the steep descent, but he made the flat safely. Once there, he lifted the animals to an easy trot. No reason to hide his presence now. He was taking a gamble on the fact that he was with Islop and that the old man was a passport to safety. It was a hell of a gamble, but he knew some sort of gamble would come into this sooner or later.
When he clattered up to the shack, the old man lifted his head and stared at him, neither surprise nor curiosity showing on his face.
He was old, all right â old as the hills, but he was still limberas McAllister could see from the way he held himself. His eyes were bright and intelligent. His white beard reached to his chest, his hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in buckskin shirt and pants and his feet were covered with mocassins that were new and beautifully decorated. He was the picture of a calm old man who was now content to let life drift by him.
McAllister saw that his first impression of the shack was correct. It was a stout tight building and had probably been built by the old man himself. It was made of whole logs chinked with mud. To the rear of it was a fine stone chimney. The roof was of sods. Away to the left stretched on their frames were two buffalo-cow skins. Scattered around on their frames drying in the sun were the skins of various other and smaller animals. By the old manâs chair lay a pile of traps. He was repairing one of these with a rawhide thong.
âHowdy,â McAllister said, leaning on the horn and easing himself in the saddle.
âHowdy,â said the old man. His voice creaked as though he didnât speak much.
âYou Mr. Islop?â
Did the old man smile?
âThereâs only one white man in these canyons, sonny, so I reckon thatâs me.â
âYou took some finding.â
âI dessay. âLight, boy.â McAllister stepped down. âPut your animals in the corral. Thereâs water there and good hay.â McAllister led the animals to the corral rail, unsaddled the
canelo
and took the heavy pack-gear from the mule. He put them in the corral and the mule started joyously to roll. The horse headed for the water and drank. McAllister strolled back to the old man and squatted. Islop called something out in a language he couldnât understand, but which he guessed was Comanche and one of the squaws came from the house with an earthen jug in her hands. The old man took it from her and handed it to McAllister.
âCut the dust.â
McAllister drank. He thought he had gullet and stomach of iron, but he quickly changed his opinion when that liquor hit bottom. It exploded in him and he choked a little, but when he regained his breath, he felt marvellously relaxed. Hedidnât know what it was. He handed the jug back and Islop drank long and deep.
It wasnât long before he was in full sight of the shack. He stepped down from the saddle, lay on his belly on the edge of the canyon and took a good look through the glasses.
The shack was a primitive construction, but it was snug. A man could live in simple comfort there, pass a good winter. Off to one side there was a small corral in good repair. In it were a couple of horses. There was no stoop to the house, but in front of the door, seated in what seemed to be a hide chair sat a man. He was busy with his hands, either whittling a stick or repairing harness. A hat covered his head and shaded his face, but McAllister gained the impression that he was old. This could be Walt Islop. McAllister watched the scene for a half-hour. During that time an Indian woman appeared from the house and the Indian woman McAllister had seen down-canyon appeared driving the two horses before her. She put them in the corral and then disappeared into the shack with the other woman.
McAllister rose to his feet, mounted and rode back to the trail he had found earlier. He had a little trouble with the mule going down the steep descent, but he made the flat safely. Once there, he lifted the animals to an easy trot. No reason to hide his presence now. He was taking a gamble on the fact that he was with Islop and that the old man was a passport to safety. It was a hell of a gamble, but he knew some sort of gamble would come into this sooner or later.
When he clattered up to the shack, the old man lifted his head and stared at him, neither surprise nor curiosity showing on his face.
He was old, all right â old as the hills, but he was still limberas McAllister could see from the way he held himself. His eyes were bright and intelligent. His white beard reached to his chest, his hair hung to his shoulders. He was dressed in buckskin shirt and pants and his feet were covered with mocassins that were new and beautifully decorated. He was the picture of a calm old man who was now content to let life drift by him.
McAllister saw that his first impression of the shack was correct. It was a stout tight building and had probably been built by the old man himself. It was made of whole logs chinked with mud. To the rear of it was a fine stone chimney. The roof was of sods. Away to the left stretched on their frames were two buffalo-cow skins. Scattered around on their frames drying in the sun were the skins of various other and smaller animals. By the old manâs chair lay a pile of traps. He was repairing one of these with a rawhide thong.
âHowdy,â McAllister said, leaning on the horn and easing himself in the saddle.
âHowdy,â said the old man. His voice creaked as though he didnât speak much.
âYou Mr. Islop?â
Did the old man smile?
âThereâs only one white man in these canyons, sonny, so I reckon thatâs me.â
âYou took some finding.â
âI dessay. âLight, boy.â McAllister stepped down. âPut your animals in the corral. Thereâs water there and good hay.â McAllister led the animals to the corral rail, unsaddled the
canelo
and took the heavy pack-gear from the mule. He put them in the corral and the mule started joyously to roll. The horse headed for the water and drank. McAllister strolled back to the old man and squatted. Islop called something out in a language he couldnât understand, but which he guessed was Comanche and one of the squaws came from the house with an earthen jug in her hands. The old man took it from her and handed it to McAllister.
âCut the dust.â
McAllister drank. He thought he had gullet and stomach of iron, but he quickly changed his opinion when that liquor hit bottom. It exploded in him and he choked a little, but when he regained his breath, he felt marvellously relaxed. Hedidnât know what it was. He handed the jug back and Islop drank long and deep.
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