At the same time, he could think of no other reason that could possibly hold a man like Gary Marshall at Johnnywater. Monty had a good memory for details. Certain trivial incidents he remembered vividly: Gary’s stealthy approach around the corner of the cabin with the upraised pitchfork in his hands; Gary’s forced gayety afterwards, and the strained look in his eyes--the lines beside the mouth; Gary’s reluctance to speak of the uncanny, nameless _something_ that clung to Johnnywater Cañon; the incomprehensible behavior of the spotted cat. And always Monty brought up short with a question which he asked himself but could not answer. Why had Gary Marshall described Steven Carson--who had dropped from sight of mortal eyes five years and more ago?--why had Gary described Steve Carson and asked if that description fitted Waddell? “Gary never saw Steve Carson--not when he was alive, anyway. He says the Indians never told him how Steve looked. I reckon he really thought Waddell was that kind uh lookin’ man. But how in thunder did he _get the idea_?” Monty frequently found himself mentally asking that question, but he never attempted to put an answer into words. He couldn’t. He didn’t know the answer. So here he was, peering anxiously at the cabin squatted between the two great piñon trees in the grove and hoping that Gary was still all right. He had consciously put aside an incipient dread of James Blaine Hawkins and his possible vengefulness toward Gary. Monty told himself that there was no use in crossing that bridge until he came to it. He had come over for the express purpose of offering to take the Walking X cattle on shares and look after them with his own. He would manage somehow to take charge of the pigs and chickens as well. He decided that he could kill the pigs and pack the meat over on his horse. And he could carry the chickens on a pack horse in a couple of crates. There would be nothing then to give Gary any excuse for staying. Remembering how he had startled Gary before with calling, Monty did not dismount at the cabin. Instead, he rode close to the front window, leaned and peered in like an Indian; and finding the cabin empty, he went on through the grove to the corral. Jazz was there, standing hip-shot in a shady corner next the creek, his head nodding jerkily while he dozed. Monty’s horse whinnied a greeting and Jazz awoke with a start and came trotting across the corral to slide his nose over the top rail nearest them. Monty rode on past the potato patch and the alfalfa meadow where a second crop was already growing apace. There was no sign of Gary, and Monty rode on to the very head of the cañon and back to the cabin.