OUT OF THE DEPTHS
CHAPTER I
DEEP CANYON
The hunter was riding leisurely up the steep mountain side above DryMesa. On such an ascent most city men would have preferred to climbafoot. But there was a month's layer of tan on the hunter's handsome,supercilious face. He balanced himself lightly on his flat Englishsaddle, and permitted the wiry little cow pony to pick the best pathover the ledges and up the stiff slopes between the scattered pines.
In keeping with his saddle, the hunter wore English riding breechesand leggins. Otherwise he was dressed as a Texas cowboy of the pastgeneration. His sombrero was almost Mexican in its size andornateness. But his rifle was of the latest American pattern, and inplace of the conventional Colt's he carried an automatic pistol. Ashis horse patiently clambered with him up towards the top of theescarpment the man gazed indolently about between half-closed eyelidsand inhaled the smoke from an unbroken "chain" of gilt-tippedcigarettes.
The pony scrambled up the last ledges and came to a halt on the rim ofHigh Mesa. It had been a long, hard climb. Tough as he was andmountain bred, the beast's rough coat was lathered with sweat and hisflanks were heaving. The hunter's gaze roamed carelessly over thehilly pine-clad plateau of the upper mesa, while he took a nip ofbrandy from a silver-cased flask and washed it down with a drink ofthe tepid water in his canteen.
Having refreshed himself, he touched a patent lighter to anothercigarette, chose a direction at random, and spurred his pony into acanter. The beast held to the pace until the ascent of a low but steepridge brought him down to a walk. With the change of gait the hunterpaused in the act of lighting a fresh cigarette, to gaze up at thesapphire sky. The air was reverberating with a muffled sound likedistant thunder. Yet the crystal-clear dome above him showed no traceof a cloud all across from the magnificent snowy ranges on the eastand north to the sparsely wooded mountains and sage-gray mesas to thesouth and west.
"Can't be thunder," he murmured--"no sign of a storm. Must be astream. Ah! cool, fresh water!"
The sharp-roweled spurs goaded the pony up over the round of the ridgeas fast as he could scramble. At the top he broke into a lope andraced headlong down the other side of the ridge through the tallbrush. The reverberating sound of water was clearer but still muffledand distant.
The rider let his reins hang slack and recklessly dug in his spurs.The pony leaped ahead with still greater speed and burst out of thebrush on to a narrow open slope that led down to the brink of a canyon.The hunter saw first the precipice on the far side of the yawningchasm--then the near edge, seemingly, to his startled gaze, rightunder his horse's forefeet. He was dashing straight at the frightfulabyss.
A yell of terror burst from his lips, and he sought to fling himselfbackwards and sideways out of the saddle. His instinctive purpose wasto fall to the ground and clutch the grass tufts. But in the samemoment that he tried to throw himself off, the nimble pony swerved tothe left so abruptly that the man's effort served only to keep himselfbalanced on the saddle. Had he remained erect or flung himself to theother side he must have been hurled off and down over the precipice.
Nor was the danger far from past. Carried on down the slope by themomentum of their headlong rush, the plunging pony "skidded" to thevery brink of the precipice. Though the man shrank down and sought toavert his face, he caught a glimpse of the black depths below them as,snorting with fear, the pony wrenched himself around on the rim shelfof the edge.
For an instant--an instant that was an age of sickening suspense tohis rider--the pony toppled. But before the man could shriek out hishorror, the agile beast had recovered his balance and was scramblingaround, away from the edge. He plunged a few yards up the slope, andstopped, wheezing and blowing.
The man flung the reins over the pony's head and slipped to theground. For a minute or longer he lay outstretched, limp andwhite-faced. When he looked up, the pony was stolidly cropping a tuftof grass. Beasts are not often troubled with imagination. The hunterremembered his brandy flask. After two long pulls at its contents, thevivid coloring began to return to his cheeks.
He rose to his feet and walked down to a ledge on the brink of theprecipice with an air of bravado. But when he looked over into thechasm, he quickly shrank back and crouched on his hands and knees.Before again peering over he stretched himself out flat on the levelledge and grasped an out-jutting point of rock.
Beneath his dizzy eyes the precipitous sides of the canyon dropped awayseemingly into the very bowels of the earth,--far down in sheerunbroken walls of black rock for hundreds and thousands of feet. Heflattened closer to the rock on which he lay, and sought to piercewith his gaze the blue-black shadows of the stupendous rift. Everynerve in his body tingled; his ankles ached with the exquisite pain ofthat overpowering sight.
The chasm was so narrow and its depth so great that only in one placedid the noonday sun strike down through its gloomy abyss to thebottom. At that single spot he could distinguish the foam and flash ofthe rushing waters, but elsewhere his only evidence of the sunkentorrent beneath him was the ceaseless reverberations that came rollingup out of the depths.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he muttered. "To think I came so near--!... Must be whatthey call Deep Canyon."
He crept away from the brink. As he rose to his feet his tremblingfingers automatically placed a cigarette between his lips and appliedthe patent lighter. Soothed by the narcotic, he stood gazing across atthe far side of the canyon while he sucked in and slowly exhaled thesmoke. With the last puff he touched a fresh cigarette to the butt ofthe first, thrust it between his lips, and snipped the cork stub overthe edge into the canyon.
"There you are--take that!" he mocked the abyss.
As he turned away he drew out an extremely thin gold watch. Theposition of the hour hand brought a petulant frown to his whiteforehead. He hastened to mount his pony. Short as had been the rest,the wiry little animal had regained his wind and strength. Stung bythe spurs, he plunged up the side of the ridge and loped off alongits level top, parallel with the canyon.
The hunter drew his rifle from its saddle sheath and began toscrutinize the country before him in search of game. A pair ofweather-beaten antlers so excited him that he even forgot to maintainhis chain of cigarettes. His dark eyes shone bright and eager and hisfull red lips grew tense in resolute lines that completely altered theprevious laxity of his expression.
He had covered nearly a mile when he was rewarded for his alertness bya glimpse of a large animal in the chaparral thicket before him. Hedrew rein to test the wind in approved book hunter fashion. There wasnot a breath of air stirring. The mesa lay basking in the dry, hotstillness of the July afternoon. He set the safety catch of his rifle,ready for instant firing, stretched himself flat on his pony's neck,and started on.
The animal in the thicket moved slowly to the right, as if grazing. Atfrequent intervals the hunter caught glimpses of its roan side, butcould not see its head or the outline of its body. At seventy-fiveyards, fearful that his game might take fright and bolt, he turned hishorse sideways, and slipped down to aim his rifle across the saddle.It was his first deer. He waited, twitching and quivering with "buckfever."
Part of the fore quarters of the animal became visible to his excitedgaze through a small gap in the screening bushes. The muzzle of hisrifle wobbled all around the mark. Unable to steady it, he caught thesights as they wavered into line, and pulled the trigger.
The report of the shot was followed by a loud _bawl_ and a violentcrashing in the thicket. There could be no doubt that the animal hadbeen hit and was seeking to escape. It was running across the top ofthe ridge towards the canyon. The hunter sprang around the head of hispony and threw up his rifle, which had automatically reloaded itself.As it came to his shoulder, the wounded animal burst out of cover. Itwas a yearling calf.
But the sportsman knew that he had shot a deer, and a deer was all hesaw. He was now fairly shaking with the "fever." His finger crookedconvulsively on the automatic firing lever. Instantly a stream ofbull
ets began to pour from the wildly wavering muzzle, and emptyshells whirred up from the ejector like hornets.
Before the hunter could realize what was happening, his magazine wasexhausted, the last cartridge fired, and the shell flipped out. But hepaid no heed to this. His eyes were on the fleeing calf. Hiscartridges were smokeless. Through the slight haze above his riflemuzzle he saw the animal pitch forward and fall heavily upon the roundof the ridge. It did not move.
Tugging at the bridle to quicken his horse's pace, he hastened forwardto examine his game. He was still so excited that he was almost uponthe outstretched carcass before he noticed the odd scar on its side.He bent down and saw that the mark was a cattle brand seared on thehide with a hot iron.
His first impulse was to jump on his pony and ride off. He was aboutto set his foot in the stirrup when the apprehensive glance with whichhe was peering around shifted down to the canyon. His gaze traveledback from the near edge of the chasm, up the two hundred yards ofslope, and rested on the yearling as though estimating its weight.
It was a fat, thoroughbred Hereford. He could not lift it on his pony,and he had no rope to use as a drag-line. He shook his head. But thepause had given him time to recover from his panic. He shrugged hisshoulders, drew a silver-handled hunting knife, and awkwardly setabout dressing his kill.