A horse or a tree or a clump of
brush loomed up grotesquely in the vaporous blur.
Mac, to whom the topography of that gloomy place was perfectly familiar,
led the way. A black, menacing wall that rose before us suddenly
resolved itself into a grove of trees, great four-foot cottonwoods. He
stole into the heart of the grove and satisfied himself that our game
had not appropriated it as a camping-place. That assured, we followed
with our horses and tied them securely, removing saddles and bridles,
lest the clank of steel or creaking of leather betray our presence to
listening ears. On any noise our horses might make we had no choice but
to take a chance. Then we looked to our guns and set out on a stealthy
search.
A complete circle of that tiny bottom--it was only a shelf of sage-brown
land lying between the river and the steep bank--profited us nothing,
and Piegan whispered that now we must seek for them in the gorge.
Cautiously we retraced our steps from the lower end of the flat, and
turned into the narrow mouth of the canyon. We had no more than got
fairly between the straight-up-and-down walls of it than Piegan halted
us with a warning hand. We squatted in the sage-brush and listened.
Behind us, from the river, came a gentle plashing.
"Beaver," I hazarded.
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