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T was not yet noon when he entered the gulch. The sun, though it was almost directly at the zenith, gave but a mild warmth, and all the ravine was full of that hushing sound which comes after a heavy rain, when the earth is drinking the water out of a myriad little pools. There was no creek bed in the cañon, but an impromptu rivulet was now running down over the gravel, winding foolishly into blind pools and cutting a crazy, ragged path down to the mouth of the gulch. It kept a faint tinkling sound over the murmur of the soaking water—two whispers, one barely louder than the other, and both making Andrew merely feel the weight of the silence.

He was not halfway up the gulch when something moved at the top of the high wall to his right. He guessed at once that it was a lookout signaling the main party of the approach of a stranger, so Andrew stopped Sally with a word and held his hand high above his head, facing the point from which he had seen the movement. There was a considerable pause; then a man showed on the top of the cliff, and Andrew recognized Jeff Rankin by his red hair. Yet they were at too great a distance for conversation, and after waving a greeting, Rankin merely beckoned Andrew on his way up the valley. Around the very next bend of the ravine he found the camp. It was of the most impromptu character, and the warning of Rankin had caused them to break it up