There's a big rock over here--I'll
show you--you and Sarge can get under cover there. I'll lie up on the
opposite side, so they'll have to come between us. Let them pack and get
started. When they get nearly abreast, cut loose. Shoot their
saddle-horses first, then we can fight it out. Come on, I'll show you
that rock."
MacRae's bump of location was nearly as well developed as Piegan's. He
picked his way through the sage-brush to the other side of the canyon,
bringing us in the deepest gloom to a great slab of sandstone that had
fallen from above, and lay a few feet from the base of the sheer wall.
It was a natural breastwork, all ready to our hand. There, without
another word, he left us. Crouching in the shelter of that rock, not
daring to speak above a whisper, denied the comforts of tobacco, it
seemed as if we were never to be released from the dusky embrace of
night. In reality it was less than two hours till daybreak, but they
were slow-footed ones to me. Then dawn flung itself impetuously across
the hills, and the naked rim of the canyon took form in a shifting whirl
of smoke. Down in the depths gloom and shadows vanished together, and
Piegan Smith and I peered over the top of our rock and saw the outlaw
camp--men and horses dim figures in the growing light.
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