Hank leaned over and looked down at the climbing figure, whose laborious progress sent a noisy stream of clicking pebbles behind him like sparks from a rocket. "Nothin' I ain't plumb glad ter see," replied Hank. "This hyar beats th' settlements all ter hell." As Jim's horrible face peered over the edge of the rock balcony Hank eyed it critically and shook his head. "I've seen some plumb awful lookin' 'Rapahoes; but nothin' ter stack up ag'in you. Vermillion mebby is yer favorite color, but it don't improve yer looks a hull lot. Neither does that sorrel juice. How's th' gal?" "Full o' spunk an' gittin' chipper as a squirrel," answered Jim. "Who's goin' ter git th' blame fer last night's fandango?" "Four murderin' Injuns, a-plunderin' an' a-kidnappin'," chuckled Hank. "Woodson's goin' ter raise hell about th' hull Cooper fambly bein' stole. Armijo'll keep his mouth shet an' pass th' crime along ter us, an' make a great show o' gittin' us; but," he winked knowingly at his accomplice in the night's activities, "chasin' four desperite Injuns along an open trail, whar his sojers kin spread out an' take advantage o' thar bein' twenty ter one is _one_ thing; chasin' 'em along a trail like this, whar they has ter ride Injun fashion, is a hull lot diff'rent. They've had thar bellies full o' chasin' along Injun trails in th' mountings. Th' Apaches, Utes, an' Comanches has showed 'em it don't pay. Thar's sharpshooters that can't be got at; thar's rollin' rocks, an' ambushes; an' chasin' murderin' Injuns afoot up mounting sides ain't did in this part o' th' country." "Meanin' we won't be chased?" demanded Jim, incredulously. "Not meanin' nothin' o' th' kind," growled Hank, spitting into three hundred feet of void. "We killed some of th' military aristo-crazy, as Tom calls 'em, didn't we? We made fools outer th' whole prairie-dog town, didn't we? An' what's worse, we stole th' gal that Armijo war sweet on, an' Tom knocked _him_ end over end--oh, Jim, ye should 'a' seen that! Six feet o' greaser gov'ner a-turnin' a cartwheel in his own house! _Chase_ us? Hell, yes!" The Arapahoe rubbed his chin. "Fust ye say one thing, then ye say another. What ye mean, Ol' Buffaler?" "I'm bettin' thar's a greaser army a-poundin' along th' wagon road fer Raton Pass," replied Hank, spitting again with great gusto. "We're a Delaware from Bent's, a Blackfoot from th' Upper Missoury, an' two ugly 'Rapahoes from 'tother side o' St. Vrains, ain't we? Wall, if ye know a fox's den ye needn't foller him along th' ridges." He chuckled again. "We're goin' another way over some Ute trails I knows of." "But s'posin' they foller us along this trail?" Hank looked speculatively back along the narrow pathway, with its numerous bends, and then glanced pityingly at his anxious friend. "I jest told ye why they won't; an' if they do, _let_ 'em!" Ogden looked steadily southward along the trail and suddenly laughed: "Yes; _let_ 'em!" * * * * *