As I waited for Mac to strike a match my eyes
roved about, seeking to pierce the unnatural blackness that wrapped
itself about us, and while my gaze was for an instant fixed on the
night-enshrouded canyon, a red tongue of flame flashed out for a moment
in the inky shadow below. MacRae saw it also, and held the match
unstruck.
"Must be somebody camped down there," I hazarded.
"A camp-fire would hardly flash and die out like that, Sarge," he
answered thoughtfully. "At least, not an ordinary one. There are some
folk in this country, you know, who manifest a very retiring disposition
at times. That looks to me like a blind fire or a signal. Let's wait a
minute."
We sat there on our horses, grouped close together, a minute that
lengthened to five; then MacRae broke off in the middle of a sentence as
the flare leaped up, flickered an instant, and was blotted out again. I
could have sworn I heard a cry, and one of my men spoke in a tone that
assured me my imagination had not been playing a trick.
"Hear that?" he asked eagerly. "Somebody hollered down there."
"I don't much like that," MacRae said, in a low tone. "I have a hunch
that something crooked is going on, and I reckon I'll go down and see
what that fire means. You fellows better go a little farther and wait
for me.
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