"I didn't know that," Arthur said.
"Ask any old-timer if it ain't so."
They were eating breakfast when the light on the horizon announced a new day on the way. Already this light was saturating the atmosphere and dissolving shadows. The vegetation of the plains, the wave rolls of the land, the distant horizon line, became more distinct. By the time the sun pushed into sight the Rangers were in the saddle.
Roberts led through the polecat brush to the summit of a little mesa which overlooked the gulch. Along the edge of the ravine he rode, preferring the bluff to the sandy wash below because the ground was less likely to tell the Dinsmores a story of two travelers riding up Box Cañon. At the head of the gorge a faint trail dipped to the left. Painted on a rock was a sign that Jack had seen before.
THIS IS PETE DINSMORE'S ROAD-- TAKE ANOTHER.
He grinned reminiscently. "I did last time. I took the back trail under orders."
"Whose orders?" asked Ridley.
"Pete's, I reckon."
"If there's a story goes with that grin--" suggested Arthur.
"No story a-tall. I caught a fellow brandin' a calf below the cañon. He waved me around. Some curious to see who the guy was that didn't want to say 'How?' to me, I followed him into Box."
That seemed to be the end of the yarn. At any rate, Jack stopped.
"Well, did you find out who he was?"
"No, but I found this sign, an' above it a rifle slantin' down at me, an' back of the rifle a masked face. The fellow that owned the face advised me about my health."
"What about it?"
"Why, that this rough country wasn't suited to my disposition, temperament, an' general proclivities. So I p'inted back to where I had come from."
"And you never satisfied your curiosity about who the rustler was?"
"Didn't I?" drawled Jack.
"Did you?"
"Mebbe I did. I'm not tellin' that yarn--not to-day."
The country was rougher and hillier. The trail they had been following died away in the hills, but they crossed and recrossed others, made by buffaloes, antelopes, and coyotes driven by the spur of their needs in the years that had passed. Countless generations of desert life had come and gone before even the Indians drifted in to live on the buffalo.
"Why is it that there's more warfare on the desert than there is back East? The cactus has spines. The rattlesnake, the centipede, the Gila monster, the tarantula, all carry poison. Even the toad has a horn. Everywhere it is a fight to survive. The vegetation, as well as the animal life, fights all the time against drought. It's a regular hell on earth," Arthur concluded.