"Meantime we'd
better locate some secluded spot and give our nags a chance to fill up
on grass and be fresh for to-morrow; we're apt to have a hard day."
"It wouldn't be a bad scheme to fill ourselves at the same time," I
suggested. "I'm feeling pretty vacant inside. The first bunch of buffalo
that has a fat calf along is going to hear from me."
"If we can get over this ridge without being seen, there's a canyon with
some cottonwoods and a spring in it. That will be as good a place to
hole up for the night as we can find," Mac decided. "And there will
likely be some buffalo near there."
So we ascended cautiously to the top of the divide, keeping in the
coulees as much as possible, for we knew that other field-glasses would
be focused on the hills. Once over the crest, we halted and watched for
riders coming our way. But none appeared. Once I thought I glimpsed a
moving speck on the farther bank of Lost River. MacRae brought the
glasses to bear, and said it was two Policemen jogging toward camp. Then
we were sure that our flight had not been observed, and we dropped into
a depression that gradually deepened to a narrow-bottomed canyon. Two
miles down this we came to the spring of which MacRae had spoken, a tiny
stream issuing from a crevice at the foot of the bank.
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