irregularly like a stiff, ragged frill of mourning stuff the gods
had thrown away. He could not see the man who had shot the
burros. By the intervals between shots, Casey guessed that one
man was doing the shooting, though it was probable there were
others in the gang. And now that the burros were dead, it became
more than ever necessary to locate the gang and have it out with
them. That necessity did not worry Casey in the least. The only
thing that troubled him now was getting up on the rim without
being seen.

It was characteristic of Casey Ryan that, though he moved with
caution, he nevertheless moved toward their unseen enemy. Not
for a long, long while had Casey been cautious in his behavior,
and the necessity galled him. If the hidden marksman had missed
that last burro, Casey would probably have taken a longer chance.
But to date, every bullet had gone straight to its destination;
which was enough to make any man think twice.

Once during the forenoon, while Casey was standing against the
rim-rock staring glumly down upon the camp, Barney's hat, perched
on a pick handle, lifted its crown above the edge of his hiding
place; an old, old trick Barney was playing to see if the rifle
were still there and working. The rifle worked very well indeed,
for Barney was presently flattened into his retreat, swearing and
poking his finger through a round hole in his hat.

Casey seized the opportunity created by the diversion and
scurried like a lizard across a bare, gravelly slide that had
been bothering him for half an hour. By mid-afternoon he reached
a crevice that looked promising enough when he craned up it, but