5 Making a Home

Charles descended to the floor of the canyon, and removed the packs and all the trappings from the animals, leaving them to wander at will, because for the present they could be of no more use to Herbert and him, and he and Herbert could be of none to them. But he might reclaim them some day, and, patting each in turn on the back, he bade them a regretful farewell, knowing that they would find grass and water in the canyon and would not suffer.

Then he carried the baggage up the path, and laid it in a heap at the door of the house.

“You seem to be preparing for a comfortable stay,” Herbert said.

“I like good hotels when I travel,” Charles replied, “and if they haven’t the proper equipments, why I just help them out.”

They put most of the supplies inside and Charles found that Herbert had already been at work, clearing out the leaves and trash, and all the silt of generations. He had raised a great dust, but it was being blown away now by a little wind, and the place would be habitable. Herbert’s cheeks had become flushed by his labors, and his eyes sparkled with interest. He had forgotten for the moment the tragedy in the valley. Charles glanced at him with approval. It was apparent that there was good stuff in this eastern boy, whom he had taken to be coddled and dandyish, and west and east were surely going to be great comrades.

Then the two looked again at the tank full of water, and contemplated it with great satisfaction.

“I suppose it was to save those old, old people the trouble of going down into the canyon after it!” Herbert said.

Charles nodded.

The night now rapidly covered the gorge, and pinnacles and bastions of stone faded away in the darkness.

“Supper time,” said Charles.

“All right, I’m good and hungry,” said Herbert.

“We’ll eat it in the open air,” said Charles, “and if you’ll only wait a moment I’ll bring you the menu. Ah, here we are, water fairly cold, biscuits, sardines and dried venison! What more could you ask? And we’ll take it cold to-night, too; it’s rather late to light a fire; it would consume time, and we are both tired to death and sleepy.”

He rattled off the words glibly, especially those about not lighting the fire, and Herbert accepted, without question, the reasons that he gave. The night, as usual, came on full of chill, but Charles had two blankets in his pack, and each wrapped one around his shoulders.

“I think it’s time to sleep,” said Wayne. “Your lids are drooping, and old Nod wants to claim you.”

“I’m about all in,” said Herbert with a little laugh; “but I think I’d rather sleep out here in the open air tonight. I should feel as if I were smothering in there.”

“All right,” said Charles. “It’s not a bad idea.”

Herbert, wrapped in the blanket, stretched himself luxuriously on the terrace.

“I’m going down the slope a little,” Charles said, “and I’ll take a rifle. Maybe I’ll see a deer coming up the valley in the moonlight, who knows? And there will be fresh meat for us. Be back soon.”

He shouldered the rifle and clambered down the path a space, but his thoughts were not on any deer. That for which he looked, and which he feared to see, was altogether different.

A third of the way and he stopped, looking up and down the canyon upon a scene of weird grandeur. The floor of the canyon was invisible in the darkness, and the lofty walls seemed to stand without support. Far away the dim, white head of Old Thundergust lowered through the mists of the night.

The tall youth himself, although he knew it not, was at that moment in unison with the scene. Burned by the sun, leaner and stronger than ever, he bent in the path, the rifle held ready in his hands, keen eyes searching the dusk, and keener ears listening intently for the slightest sound. He was now agitated by the same emotions that had often moved those cliff dwellers, gone long ago. He looked for something which he hoped would not come, but if it should come? His hands moved down the steel barrel of the rifle, and the eyes were stern and menacing. Far away in dim antiquity, the cave-man stood in the way, club in hand, and threatened the foe who sought to invade his home.

The clear stars rose in the sky, and the moonlight silvered the gorge. Crags and pinnacles appeared once more through the luminous haze. The weird majesty of the scene had now a weird beauty, too, but Charles, intent, watchful and menacing, did not notice it. The primitive youth still remained, and the rifle barrel was yet thrust forward in a threatening gesture, ready to drive back the invader. At last, he turned and crept quietly back up the path, half-cut, half-trodden centuries ago by those mysterious people, come out of the dust, to which they had returned.

Herbert awoke at the sound of his footsteps.

“Find that deer?” he called sleepily.

“No,” Charles replied, and in a moment Herbert was asleep again.

Charles also wrapped himself in a blanket, and lay down at the edge of the terrace. But he had no intention of sleeping that night. He rolled over presently, and lay with his ear to the stone, trusting now to sound rather than sight. It was the darkness covering so much of evil and evil attempt that he feared most, and, though his senses, dulled and wearied by exertion and intense anxiety, cried out for the opiate of slumber, he steadily refused the boon. He lay there a long time, alive to anything that stirred, his eyes scanning, as far as they could, the dim path which was the only approach to the dead village. He heard nothing but the soft breathing of the wind up the canyon.

Once he rose and going to the head of the path, again tried to probe the dark ravine. But his eyes could not reach the bottom, and he went down the way a few steps. Then he listened, and still heard nothing but the faint wind. He began to hope that his fears were idle, that he watched in vain, but, while hoping, he had no thought of ceasing the watch. Eye and ear were as keen as ever to detect what they might.

But the night passed away without event, and a day of unimagined splendor came. A magnificent sun rose in a sheet of unbroken blue and clothed mountain and valley in the most vivid light, searching out every crevice and cranny on the slopes, and filling the canyon with golden beams.

Charles felt a deep sensation of relief. It would not be easy in all this wonderful light for the Apaches to effect a surprise, and he believed now that they had lost their trail long since on the broken ground. Perhaps they did not know at all of the cliff house in the great canyon! It was very likely, and he began to have a feeling that they were safely hidden from all pursuit. His spirits sprang up.

He walked over, touched Herbert lightly on the shoulder, and in a moment the other boy was awake, a little confused at first, but in a few seconds remembering.

“I’ve had a fine sleep,” he said springing up. “Didn’t you have a good one, too, Charlie, old fellow?”

“As good as I wanted, Herbert,” replied Charles.

Thus they glided easily into calling each other by their first names, and Herbert did not notice that the rims of Charles’ eyes were red from the lack of sleep.

“I’m going to get breakfast,” said Herbert. “I’m going to show you that I’m of some use, and that I know a lot about camping.”

“All right,” said Charles. “Pitch in.”

But Herbert first went through the opening to the stone tank filled with water, into which he dipped with a little tin bucket, taken from the pack. Then he dashed the water over his face, and he felt renewed strength and energy. Despite himself, he began to thrill with the feeling of a great adventure.

“After all, the Château de Carleton is not such a bad hotel, is it?” he said gayly.

“Best the country affords,” replied Charles in the same tone.

Charles then turned his gaze back upon the path, which he felt that he must yet defend, while Herbert quickly prepared the breakfast, a task light enough in itself, as he had to take only the cold things from the pack. But he craved something warm, and he was glad when Charles said:

“Open that little tin case and you will find an alcohol lamp and alcohol, and there’s coffee in the canvas bag; I don’t have to say more.”

Herbert found a certain pleasure, a sharp relief in doing these tasks; hitherto, he had been passive, a mere looker-on, while his comrade had done everything. He felt that he, too, ought to serve, to have a part in their great work, and now was his first chance.

Despite all dangers, they enjoyed their first breakfast together. Charles still sat in the doorway, rifle in hand—he did not dare to leave it—while Herbert brought to him the food and coffee, the latter steaming, fragrant and very welcome.

“I think that the Château de Carleton is to be congratulated on its cook,” he said, “and when the hotels in San Francisco and Denver hear of him, well, salary will be no object.”

He kept one eye on his breakfast and another on the trail.

“I want to see the ravine,” Herbert said. “How peaceful it looks and how free from the presence of man!”

“Apaches may be there, though I think not. We yet have a long time to watch and wait.”

“And I’m going to have my turn at it,” Herbert said decidedly. “They could scarcely creep upon us in the daytime without my seeing them, and I mean to take a rifle and keep guard.”

Charles saw that Herbert was already developing under stress and danger.

“Are you a good marksman?” he asked.

“I’ve had training,” replied Herbert proudly. “Give me one of the guns and I’ll show you—if there’s any need to use it.”

Charles saw that he could be trusted, and he handed him the rifles and cartridges. Then he confessed that he had not slept at all throughout the preceding night, and Herbert was properly indignant.

“It’s time you were asleep,” he said.

Charles saw that he must yield, whether he liked it or not, because Herbert told the absolute truth. After the food and coffee he was feeling already a sharp tendency to sleep. His senses were growing heavy, and a thousand little tendrils were pulling down his eyelids. He handed one of the rifles and the cartridges to his comrade.

“Those are yours,” he said. “Now watch the path. Danger can come only that way, and if you see anything doubtful call me at once.”

Herbert sat in the doorway where he could command the trail, but was well sheltered. Charles lay down on a blanket in the room, but he had put it in a spot from which he could see Herbert, although the boy did not know it. There he lay, and though already numbed with sleep, he did not lose full consciousness for a while. But Herbert’s figure became dimmer in time, and he was wafted away on the wings of sleep, still, dreamless and heavenly. When he awoke, Herbert was yet sitting in the entrance, the rifle across his knees, and he seemed not to have changed his position at all.

Charles thought at first that he had slept only a few minutes, but the waning shadow of the sun across the terrace told him that it was late afternoon. He sprang up, amazed and annoyed with himself.

“Say, Herbert, I didn’t mean to leave you there all that time,” he said; “but—but——”

“But as you were asleep you did not know anything about it and could not help it.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked reproachfully.

“Why should I have done so? Besides, I have watched well. Nothing has come up the path.”

Charles, from his coign of vantage, examined the ravine and slopes, and could notice no change anywhere, no sign that an enemy was coming. He felt sure now that they were well hidden.

So they relaxed the watch somewhat, and Herbert told Charles how they had come northward to look after the copper mines and then had wandered further in search of gold. Tears again came into his eyes for the cousin who was not a good man, but who had perished so tragically.

The second night in the ancient village came on, dark and close, the skies, for the first time in many months, shot with clouds. Far off toward Old Thundergust were swift bright strokes of lightning which cut for a moment the vapors drifting over the slopes. The air grew thick and heavy.

“If there’s a storm,” Charles said, “it will be worth seeing, and, in addition, we’ll have fresh water in our tank. We must not forget these advantages.”

The flashes of lightning ceased for the time, Old Thundergust faded away in the dark, the clouds swung low to meet the rising vapors, and the canyon, and all that it contained, was blotted from their view. But the mountains began to groan, and the ominous sound of wind fighting its way among peaks and through gorges came to them.

The clouds and the vapors parted before a burning stroke of lightning, and thunder rumbled far among the peaks. The clouds grew thicker and heavier, and presently they seemed to open bodily, and let the rain fall out. But the two boys, secure in the old cliff house, watched the storm break and pass. The next morning came and Charles was awake, when the first spears of blazing sunlight shot above the vast ranges of blue mountains in the east. Herbert was still asleep, and, going forth from the low hut that the mysterious cliff dwellers had built centuries ago, he breathed the morning air, sharp with the chill of the peaks. It was yet the misty moment, when the night was gone and the day not yet conic. In the cast was a suffused luminous glow, but all the rest was in shadow. The great heads of the mountains were still silent in sleep, but the blanket of darkness was being unrolled rapidly. In a moment the mists and vapors were gone, and the golden beams of the sun were reflected from them in a myriad of dazzling rays.

It was wonderful to Charles, this awakening of the wilderness, its sudden emergence from the dusk into a flawless light, so pure that he seemed to see the last little boughs of pine trees growing on slopes miles away.

Crusoe, on his lone island, at first felt despair, but his man Friday did not come until late. Charles had a comrade whom he knew he could trust. He and Herbert were now the lords of all that he could see, and he saw much. The mountains lay before him, coil on coil, peak on peak, but he was on the slope of a mighty summit, and his eye ranged over them, as they rolled away in wave and crest. The vast pine forests showed now blue and now green as the light fell, but above them rose the bare and rocky heights, sculptured into strange shapes by time, and, glittering under the sun, in red and gold and yellow, and all the tints between. Two or three tiny splashes of silver showed through the robe of the forest and Charles knew that deep, cool pools of clear, still water lay there. But beyond and over everything was the peaceful and majestic spirit of the mountains and the wilderness. It seemed to him that, as it was this morning, it always had been, and so it always would be.

He drew a deep breath and turned away. He must come back to earth and his duty. He had noticed the night before an enormous rubbish heap in the dark space, low and angular, at the back of the cliff house, in which they had slept, made by the sloping roof meeting the level shelf on which the house itself stood.

The heap, something like the kitchen-middens of the Old World, was composed of many things, pieces of bone and wood, feathers, fragments of pottery and old woven articles; in truth, of almost everything that the cliff dweller ate, wore or otherwise used, but he had taken most particular notice of some of the bones which he knew to be those of the wild turkey. If the wild turkey existed then in these mountains it should be much more common now, when there were so few to hunt it, and he remembered with pleasure that the wild turkey was very good indeed to eat. Above them hung a fringe of pine forest, and, as he stood looking over the peaks and blue gulfs between, it had seemed to him that a faint gobble came to his ears from the way of the pine forest.

Now he took his rifle from the corner of the hut, and looked carefully to the cartridges. He was a good shot, and luck might help him. Herbert was still asleep, and knowing that he was not yet inured to wild life, Charles let him sleep on.

He turned away, and using the primitive ladder for the first precipitous slope, followed the rough and narrow path. It wound about great rocks, but it led steadily upward, and he knew that he would soon reach the pine forest. He was glad of his strength and agility, because it was no easy journey, the slope being so steep, and he was willing to rest a bit, when at last he reached the first of the pines.

Here he became the hunter, and it was lucky that in his western life he had acquired skill both in marksmanship and in stalking his game. His ear, when he stood on the slope below, had not deceived him, as he soon found a numerous flock of wild turkeys, yet roosting among the pines, the dark, glossy plumage of the gobblers showing like satin in the morning sun. But he chose one of the modest gray hens, because, in this case, while fine feathers might yet make fine birds to look at, plain feathers made those better to eat.

A long and careful aim, steady nerves, a clear eye and the deed was done. The unfortunate hen fell to the ground, her neck severed by a rifle bullet, and the others flew away in terror from the strange, new creature that had invaded their Eden. Charles, carrying his prize in triumph, picked his way down the slope, up which he had come, no easy task, as he was burdened with the rifle and the turkey. But he had a sanguine feeling of achievement, because he had added something of great value to their store.

He found the primitive ladder just as he had left it, and, when he was preparing to descend, he saw Herbert standing on the terrace below, and looking at him inquiringly. Charles raised the turkey, and gave a little shout of triumph.

“Good!” called Herbert, when he saw the prize. “I see a great addition to our larder.”

Charles let the turkey drop to the terrace, and then he quickly climbed down with his rifle.

“I heard a shot on the mountainside,” Herbert said.

“Weren’t you afraid it was an Apache?”

“No; I felt sure that it must be you. And then, when I watched, I saw you coming.”

“It was merely a little excursion that I took,” Charles said gayly, his spirits bubbling over, “in order to obtain fresh food for our breakfast. I found a merchant with a very large, though somewhat scattered, stock, and, in every case, the price of what he had to sell was a well-directed rifle shot, so I bought this bird that you see at your feet.”

Both were in the highest of spirits. Herbert had already lighted a fire, and they began to consider the turkey. Charles had taken forethought. In a number of the houses he had seen great jars, holding several gallons, not very thick, but of such hard earthenware that when he struck them they gave back a fine, clear, ringing tone like that of a bell. They seemed to him almost as strong as iron, and he was quite sure that they would stand the test of fire.

He brought forth one of them, cleaned it thoroughly with water from the reservoir, and then, after filling it from the same source, put it on a fire that he made of sticks, plentiful about the slopes. In this they scalded the turkey, then they picked it, cleaned it and broiled it over the coals, the two laboring together in a peace and harmony seldom shown by two cooks engaged on the same task. When it was ready, they brought crackers and salt from their store, and drinking water in earthenware cups that they found in the houses. Everything had been left just ready for them, Herbert said.

They will never forget that breakfast. The savor of it was like an incense. They sat on stones, Charles on one side of the fire and Herbert on the other. Neither was lonely or afraid, and neither thought, at that moment, of the past or the future. They were as much lost from the world as if, like Crusoe, they had been cast away on a lonely island in the southern seas, but they were not thinking just then of the way to get back to it. They talked about anything, in the most inconsequential manner.

“That was a fine turkey,” said Herbert, looking at the bones. He was a strong, hearty youth, and one’s appetite on a mountain is always wonderfully sharp.

“As good as any that ever grew,” said Charles. “But I know where we can find others just like it. They roost in the pine grove above us, and fortunately we have many cartridges. Now I suppose we must go to work, although, to tell you the truth, I don’t feel like it. Such a day as this is intended for play.”

The task was to furnish one of the houses for their occupancy. They brought down fresh pine branches, and spread them in the corners for their beds, covering each with a blanket. In a third corner they put one of the huge earthen jars, and filled it with water. On a stone shelf in the wall they placed vases, jars and bowls, and, by searching carefully through the houses, they found several ancient mats and baskets, which they brought to the new abode. These showed some skill in weaving, being made of yucca, rough grass, willow and little split sticks. They put the baskets by the wall, but spread the mats on the floor.

“We shall be quite spoiled,” said Herbert. “We are really arranging too much luxury for ourselves.”

“We’re lucky to find all these things about,” said Charles. “It’s my theory that the village was abandoned suddenly under the stress of some great alarm, and that the inhabitants never returned. Still nobody will ever know whether I am right or wrong.”

“At any rate, we’re in possession,” Herbert said. “We have the nine points of the law, and I don’t think the original occupants will ever come back with the other point.”

“No; that’s certain. No cliff dwellers will ever be turning up to call us interlopers. It’s a lost world.”

“It certainly seems to me to be one in which nobody but ourselves ever comes,” Herbert said, looking at the vast maze of mighty mountains and peaks that seemed to spread away to eternity, although both knew that beyond them lay the desert.

“Wandering Apaches may pass through here hunting,” Charles said thoughtfully, “and although they are so few, and the country is so large that the chances are about a thousand to one against their seeing us, I think it is best to take precautions. The Apaches are considered the most cruel of human beings. We must always be prepared. Stick this revolver in your pocket. I’ve another. There are seven cartridges in it, and at any time I can supply you more.”

Herbert understood the need, and he put the pistol in his pocket, first patting it tenderly, because it seemed to him a beautiful weapon—and it was so very, very useful.

The touch of the revolver brought to Herbert a feeling of companionship and safety. The wild life was making a strong appeal to him. Without losing any of his fineness, he was becoming primordial in spirit and instinct. He walked to the edge of the shelf, holding his hand lightly upon the revolver that lay in his pocket, and, for the moment, he was afraid of himself. He ought to grieve still for the elderly cousin, selfish though he knew and wicked though he suspected him to be, but he did not.

He looked out over the blue gulf at his feet, and at the mountains beyond, green where the pine forest stretched, and tawny gold on the bare steeps above. Far to the north was the row of dim white crests, the peaks of snow standing like sentinels forever on guard. To the south was the white dome of Old Thundergust. The blood leaped suddenly in his veins. His soul was suffused. The majesty and beauty of the world appealed to every fiber in him. An old lost chord was touched. Perhaps some ancestor of his ages ago had looked upon such a scene and had felt the same emotions. Even his comrade was forgotten for the moment, and he thought only of the wilderness of which he was the center.

Charles saw and understood. He could feel the same way himself.

“It’s our mountains and our wilderness,” he said. “It will be a friend to us while we are here.”

“It can be a friend and it can be an enemy,” Herbert replied. “Do you know I seem to feel, with the actuality of experience, that it can be both a terrible foe and the best of friends.”

Then the moment of reincarnation passed, and he laughed a little as he returned to the present. He turned back to the village that hung like a row of bird nests in the face of the cliff.

“Time will not be slow and heavy here,” he said. “We must make comforts for ourselves, since we cannot return just yet to civilization.”

“That’s true,” Charles said. “People lived here once, in what must have been to them a fair degree of ease, even luxury, and we, the heirs, take the things they left. Come, suppose we look through the remaining houses and see what we can find.”

They were quite modern again as they searched the ancient, abandoned homes, looking with curious eyes into every dark corner. Everywhere they found fragments of pottery, lumps of pigment, from which the pottery was made, ancient arrow heads, various implements of bone, amulets, shells, more jars and bowls, and several pipes of clay, with short stems, the bowls decorated in red.

“The cliff dweller was quite human,” said Herbert, picking up one of the ancient pipes. “This is good yet.”

“But it would give a fellow an uncanny feeling,” Charles said, “to be pulling at a pipe that some other man smoked, maybe a thousand years ago. I don’t think I’d do it if I were a smoker.”

They found two or three crude knives and chisels, made from the leg bones of the larger animals, and in one of the driest of the rock houses they discovered on a stone shelf a feather blanket in a fine state of preservation. It was made of the fibrils of dry yucca leaves twisted into coarse threads, which were tied together into a kind of net with wide meshes, the whole covered with little tufts of blue-gray feathers, evidently those of the turkey.

Charles took it down, carried it out into the air, and shook the dust away. He expected it to drop to pieces with age and desiccation, but it did not. Instead, as the fine coat of dust, put on it by generations of disuse, fell away it glowed vividly in the brilliant sunshine, and all the delicate colors of the blue feathers came out.

“Why it is almost as good as new, and it is beautiful,” said Herbert.

“So it is; and that such an article as this, which must have been very precious to the cliff dweller, should have been left behind reinforces my theory that the village was abandoned in great hurry and alarm, never to be inhabited again. But however that may be, we have a beautiful and warm feather blanket that we may find very serviceable on the cold nights ahead.”

They let the blanket hang in the sun the rest of the day, but when evening came it was taken into the house. Meanwhile they looked at the pool from which the reservoir was fed, and Charles noticed with intense satisfaction that the water remained fresh and sweet. Good cause it had to do so, as the great rain had filled it anew, and the tiny rivulet that fed the pool still trickled down between the rocks, the overflow escaping at the far side in another tiny rivulet that fell into the dark-blue gulf below. Charles felt an increase of admiration for these primitive men who had selected such a site in the mighty cliff for their home, and he reflected once more that it must have been a terrible alarm indeed that had sent them scurrying away, never to return.

While Charles was surveying these outward aspects of the village Herbert had gone to their home. “Home,” both in word and thought, they called the cliff house that they had selected for their abode, and when Herbert looked at it now, swept and garnished, he felt a queer little thrill of pleasure. The moment of reincarnation returned. For a few pulse beats the blood of some dim cave-ancestor flowed in his being, and the new home seemed good and complete.

He took down the feather blanket and looked at it again. The little blue feathers, restored to their natural hue, after losing the dust of centuries, gave the proper color and tone to the low room. It was all of a piece with the wilderness, and those who belonged there. This house, the village, the mountains, green below and yellow above, and the dark-blue gulfs between, seemed very real and very natural to him, and the great cities and the civilization left behind had faded away in the most sudden and unaccountable manner.

But—and this was the most effective part of it—he did not pause to think over the transition, accepting it, without question, and going, light of heart, about the new tasks imposed upon him by the new life. He plunged into his work. The fire had not been allowed to go out, smoldering under a thick blanket of ashes, and he revived it into a blaze. A part of the turkey was left, and coffee he made from the resources in Charles’ pack. This was enough, and when Charles came back down the tree ladder, whence he had gone on a scouting trip, he called to him, announcing that luncheon was ready. While they ate they discussed the possibility of wandering Apaches entering the canyon. But neither really feared on any one of the counts. Food and water they could obtain and, if Apaches came, they were strong, vigilant and well armed.

That evening it was Herbert who stood on the terrace and looked over. The twilight of a wonderful southern night was just coming, and the vast sea of mountains swam in all the glory of a mingled red and yellow glow, fire and gold, each forming a luminous background for the other. The white crests of the long line of silent sentinel peaks to the north were touched with opal dyes, and the great canyons between sank away from blue gulfs into black abysses. The sun, just visible over the last western peak, was a ball of blazing fire, and everywhere silence and the shadow of the coming twilight brooded over a great lone land.

Suddenly the sun dropped behind the last peak, leaving a shower of fire to mark its trail, but the cloud of darkness rose up swiftly and enveloped all the east to the zenith.

The mountains sank fast away. The trail of fire left by the setting sun died like the light of a shooting star, and nothing rose in the dark but the shadowy peaks. Then Herbert went to bed. Charles was already sound asleep.

Left to themselves neither boy would have had a waking moment as long as darkness lasted, but the night was not wholly untroubled. It had come on very black and very still, but after a while a wan moon cast a pale light over the rocks and gorges, and, farther up the mountain, something began to move.

It was a mountain lion, tawny and fierce, his eyes blazing in the darkness. He, too, slipping down a steep path, had found an occasional lair among these strange old homes, and now he was returning, perhaps from some distant excursion of love, war or hunting, to claim a night’s lodging. He was one of the largest and strongest of his kind, and he felt no fear as he crept down the steep slope, his red eye sweeping a half circle of darkness ahead.

It may be that long immunity caused him to be less careful than usual, and it may be that, weary with pursuit, he had lost something of his sensitiveness to sight, sound and scent, but the lion was upon the shelf, before the strange and terrible odor of human beings came to his nostrils. He uttered a faint growl of anger and alarm, a deep low roar from his chest that would not have aroused an ordinary man or woman from sleep.

But Herbert Carleton heard. The inherited instinct watched over him while he slumbered, and, in the dark, chilly night, he suddenly threw off his blanket and sat up. A wave of air, rather than a sound, had come to his ears, and his whole being was pervaded by a sense of danger. There was a hostile presence, and it was very near. He could hear his comrade breathing in the other corner of the room, but he did not call to him.

He heard a faint crush, a soft pad as of someone stepping lightly, but he could not tell whether it was made by human footsteps. It might be the dreaded Apaches, but still he was not afraid.

He rose from the bed, still holding the revolver in his hand. The cold touch of the weapon exercised over him a more potent spell than ever. It gave him not only assurance, but also the power and desire of the offensive. The vital spark from the dim ages was in a glow. He was the primitive boy, with the spirit of a man, ready, if need be, to defend his people.

The darkness was almost inky in the cliff house, but he walked with the certainty of absolute memory to the door, making no noise, and then lifted the feather blanket that they had hung there, before lying down. Nothing met his gaze at first save the sheer blackness of the basaltic cliffs, but, as he looked from place to place, he saw at last two points of red fire in the darkness, and then, behind them, rising up gradually, the tawny body of some large wild animal.

Still he felt no tremors, but, holding the revolver in his hand, and with every nerve and muscle taut, he stared into the red eyes of the lion. He could see more clearly now the tawny bulk behind, the ugly muzzle wrinkling away from the cruel teeth, and the switching tail. The beast seemed crouched as if for a spring, but he was still without fear. The old, inherited instinct told him that the lion would not spring, that there was something about him, a human being, that filled this beast’s soul with dread. It would not be necessary for him to use the revolver.

The red eyes of the lion were quickly dropped, and their fire was put out, terror entered his being, and took possession. The figure before him, standing at the doorway of the hut, assumed a tremendous aspect. The flame of the bright eyes pierced him like lightning, and he shivered in awe before a power wrapped in mystery and as terrible to him as the thunderbolt to man. Had it moved he might have found it something akin to himself, something to be struck down with his paw, but the figure remained motionless, and the fixed gaze of its eyes still smote him like a spear of light.

The lion gathered a little of his remaining strength, turned, and fled, in abject cowardice, up the steep slope of the black basaltic cliff, rattling pebbles down with his frightened claws, and never daring to look back once at the terrific figure by the doorway. His tawny body blended against the dusk of the mountain and was gone.

Herbert stood a moment longer at the door, then went inside and soon fell asleep again. When he awoke the sunlight of dawn was pouring in at the crevices beside the blanket at the doorway, and Charles was already up. He dressed hastily, and went out into another of the glorious mornings, which now seemed to him to be the only kind of mornings that the Arizona wilderness knew. He saw the same sea of mountains, now purple in the blaze, the pine and cedar forests clinging to the far slopes, and, growing in cosy coigns of the cliffs, crimson cypress and purple larkspur and trees of pink wild plums. The black abyss beyond the shelf had become the blue gulf again, and far down it, where the cleft seemed to narrow to the width of a knife blade, lay a silver thread that was the little river.

They had agreed to take turns at the cooking, and Charles had already prepared breakfast.

It was characteristic of both that they now wasted little time in words. A brief statement was usually sufficient, wherein they were fast returning, under the pressure of situation and necessity, to the habits of their primitive ancestors. So the two sat down and ate and drank with good appetite.

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