All we ever knew was that suspicion had now gradually been wafted through the whole air and filled it like a coming change of weather. I could no longer look at a rock or a clump of trees without a disagreeable thought: was something, or somebody, behind the clump of trees and the rock? would they come out or wait until we had passed? This influence seemed to gather even more thick and chill as we turned up the middle fork of Owl Creek; magpies, that I had always liked to watch and listen to, had become part of the general increasing uncomfortableness, and their cries sounded no longer cheerful, but harsh and unfriendly. As we rode up the narrowing cañon of Owl Creek, the Washakie Needles, those twin spires of naked rock, rose into view high above the clustered mountain-tops, closing the cañon in, shutting out the setting sun. But the nearness of my goal and my sheep hunt brought me no elation. Those miserable questions about reward, the strange conduct of those unknown people, dwelt in my mind. I saw in memory the floating image of that poster; I wondered if I, in my clambering for sheep, should stumble upon signs--evidence--an old camp--ashes--tent-pegs--or the horrible objects that had come here alive and never gone hence. I could not drive these fancies from me amid the austere silence of the place where _it_ had happened. “He _can_ talk when he wants to.” It made me start, this remark of Scipio’s as he rode behind me. “What has Timberline been telling you?” “Nothing. But he’s been telling himself a heap of something.” In the rear of our single-file party Timberline rode, and I could hear him rambling on in a rising and falling voice. He ceased once or twice while I listened, breaking out again as if there had been no interruption. It was a relief to have a practical trouble threatening us; if the boy was going off his head, we should have something real to deal with. But when I had chosen a camp and we were unsaddling and throwing the packs on the ground, Timberline was in his customary silence. After supper I walked off with Scipio where our horses were. “Do you think he’s sick?” I asked. “I don’t know,” said Scipio. And that was all we said, for we liked the subject too little to pursue it. Next morning I was over at the creek washing before breakfast. The sun was coming in through the open east end of our cañon, the shaking leaves of the quaking-asp twinkled in a blithe air, and a night’s sleep had brought me back to a much robuster mood. I had my field-glasses with me, and far up, far up among patches of snow and green grass, I could see sheep on both sides of the valley. “So you sleep well?” said Scipio. “Like a log. You?” “Like another. Somebody in camp didn’t.” I turned and looked at Timberline cooking over at camp. “Looking for the horses early this morning,” pursued Scipio, “I found his tracks up and down all over everywheres.” “Perhaps he has found the reward.”