I can't truthfully say that I slept soundly on that ledge.
CHAPTER XII.
WE LOSE AGAIN.
Three days later MacRae and I scaled the steep bank at the west end of
the cliff and threw ourselves, panting, on the level that ran up to the
sheer drop-off. When we had regained the breath we'd lost on that
Mansard-roof climb we drew near to the edge, where we could stare into
the valley three hundred feet below while we made us a cigarette apiece.
We were just a mite discouraged. Beginning that first morning at the
east end of the Writing-Stone we had worked west, conning the
weather-worn face of it for a mark that would give a clue to the
_cache_. Also we had scanned carefully the sandy soil patches along the
boulder-strewn base, seeking the tell-tale footprints of horse or man.
And we had found nothing. Each day the conviction grew stronger upon us
that finding that gold would be purely chance, a miracle of luck;
systematic search had so far resulted in nothing but blistered heels
from much walking. And unless we did find it, thereby giving the
gentlemen of the mask some incentive to match themselves against us once
more, we were not likely to have the opportunity of breaking up a nervy
bunch of murdering thieves.
We reasoned that the men whose guns we had looked into over Rutter's
body and those who robbed the paymaster on the MacLeod trail were tarred
with the same stick; likewise, that even now two of them ate out of the
same pot with us three times daily.
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