He did not know why she told him all that, and he could not learn
from her anything about his assailant. She had been walking
along the bluff, he gathered--though why, she failed to make
clear to him. She had, from a distance, caught a glimpse of a
man watching the valley beneath him. She had seen him raise a
rifle, take long aim, and shoot--and she had known that he was
shooting at Good Indian.
When he asked her the second time what was her errand up
there--whether she was following the man, or had suspected that
he would be there--she shook her head vaguely and took refuge
behind the stolidity of her race.
In spite of her pleading, he put his horse to scrambling up the
first slope which it was possible to climb, and spent an hour
riding, gun in hand, along the rim of the bluff, much as he had
searched it the evening before.
But there was nothing alive that he could discover, except a hawk
which lifted itself languorously off a high, sharp rock, and
flapped lazily out across the valley when he drew near.
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