He would see to his pony first.
He found the horse had been picketed afresh by Overland when he had come
for the saddle. He was returning toward camp when he heard a slight
noise behind him--the noise a man's boot makes stepping on a pebble that
turns beneath his weight.
Collie wheeled quickly, saw nothing unusual, and turned again toward the
camp. Then he hesitated. He would look down the canon. He realized that
he was unarmed. Then he grew ashamed of his hesitancy. He picked his way
down the stream. A buzzard circled far above the cliffs. The air hummed
with invisible bees in the rank wild clover. He peered past the next
bend. A short distance below stood a riderless horse. The bridle was
trailing. For an instant Collie did not realize the significance of the
animal waiting patiently for its rider. Then, like the flash of a
speeding film, he saw it all--his pony's tracks up the canon--the rider
who had undoubtedly seen him crossing to the water-hole, and who had
waited until daylight to follow the tracks; who had dismounted, and was
probably in ambush watching him. He summoned all his reserve courage.
Turning away, he remarked, distinctly, naturally, casually, "Thought I
heard something.
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