Morse strode away to the place where the horses were picketed. He
could hear voices farther down the creek, caught once a snatch of
words.

"... must be somewheres near, I tell you."

Noiselessly he slipped on the saddles, pulled the picket-pins, and
moved toward the big rocks.

The place was a landmark. The erosion of the ages had played strange
tricks with the sandstone. The rocks rose like huge red toadstools or
like prehistoric animals of vast size. One of them was known as the
Three Bears, another as the Elephant.

Among these boulders Morse found the party he had just left. The
officer was still trying to persuade Jessie McRae to attempt escape.
She refused, stubbornly.

"There are three of us here. Onistah is a good shot. So am I. For that
matter, if anybody is going to escape, it had better be you," she
said.

"Too late now," Morse said. "See, they've found the camp-fire."

Nine or ten riders had come out of the darkness and were approaching
the camping-ground. West was in the lead. Morse recognized Barney
and Brad Stearns. Two of the others were half-breeds, one an Indian
trailer of the Piegan tribe.