"That's enough," chuckled Carmena. "There's no cover for 'em unless they crawl up afoot. Some will ride around and climb the mesa. Time we were moving. Come on. We'll beat 'em into the Hole." Lennon elevated his rifle and sent a parting shot over the heads of the fleeing riders. When he came running back into the canon mouth Carmena had the canteen swung to the saddlehorn and was lacing on her boots, in place of the torn moccasins. After a last deep drink from the pool and another sombreroful for the pony, the little dam was carefully scraped off the ledge and the clay covered with a loose boulder. The Apaches would be able to lap the wet stone but not to drink. They were not engineers or dam builders. CHAPTER V DEAD HOLE The race up the canon was far different from the terrible flight of the previous day and the misery of the night. The cool spring water had been very refreshing, lofty cliffs shadowed the canon bed from the hot morning sunrays, and the pain of Lennon's lacerated hand had eased to a dull ache. He took turn about with Carmena, riding and running. The canon bottom was fairly smooth. For more than an hour the fugitives raced up the great cleft between the towering precipices and past narrow side canons. At last they came to a break in the sheer walls. The cliff on the right leaned back in a series of terraces that formed a broken giant stairway to the top of the mesa. Carmena led the pony up a sloping shelf ledge. The line of ascent picked out by her practised eye proved unexpectedly easy. As they climbed in steep zigzags from terrace to terrace Lennon trailed behind. Carmena noticed his frequent glances down into the canon bottom. "Don't worry," she said. "They didn't rush the canon mouth--they crawled. If any circled and climbed the mesa, the side canons cut 'em off from us. We'll beat 'em to the Hole." "The Hole--we'll find help there?" queried Lennon. "Slade is away. But I figure we'll be safe enough, once we get in. There's Dad and--my sister." "If they are at all like you, Carmena!" The girl paused on a ledge to gaze down at him with a somber, clouded look that brightened into a tender smile. "Elsie is as much like me as a lily is like a cactus. No thorns about _her_. She's cuddlier than a kitten. Eyes bluer than forget-me-nots, Jack; hair yellow as corn silk. She's only eighteen and sweet as honey." "I'm picturing an angel," bantered Lennon. "Your father must be a fine man to have two such daughters." The flush in the girl's tanned cheeks deepened. But the soft glow of her eyes faded and left them dull and haggard. "Dad's been unlucky all 'round," she murmured. "Not his fault, either. He came West for his health--almost died--one lung gone." "Hard lines," sympathized Lennon. "Ranch work can't be easy for a sick man." The girl climbed to another terrace before she replied: