Venters penetrated into one of these offshoots, and, as he had hoped, he found abundant grass.  He had to bend the oak saplings to get his horse through.  Deciding to make this a hiding-place if he could find water, he worked back to the limit of the shelving walls.  In a little cluster of silver spruces he found a spring.  This inclosed nook seemed an ideal place to leave his horse and to camp at night, and from which to make stealthy trips on foot.  The thick grass hid his trail; the dense growth of oaks in the opening would serve as a barrier to keep Wrangle in, if, indeed, the luxuriant browse would not suffice for that.  So Venters, leaving Whitie with the horse, called Ring to his side, and, rifle in hand, worked his way out to the open.  A careful photographing in mind of the formation of the bold outlines of rimrock assured him he would be able to return to his retreat even in the dark.

Bunches of scattered sage covered the center of the canyon, and among these Venters threaded his way with the step of an Indian.  At intervals he put his hand on the dog and stopped to listen.  There was a drowsy hum of insects, but no other sound disturbed the warm midday stillness.  Venters saw ahead a turn, more abrupt than any yet.  Warily he rounded this corner, once again to halt bewildered.

The canyon opened fan-shaped into a great oval of green and gray growths.  It was the hub of an oblong wheel, and from it, at regular distances, like spokes, ran the outgoing canyons.  Here a dull red color predominated over the fading yellow.  The corners of wall bluntly rose, scarred and scrawled, to taper into towers and serrated peaks and pinnacled domes.

Venters pushed on more heedfully than ever.  Toward the center of this circle the sage-brush grew smaller and farther apart He was about to sheer off to the right, where thickets and jumbles of fallen rock would afford him cover, when he ran right upon a broad cattle trail.  Like a road it was, more than a trail, and the cattle tracks were fresh.  What surprised him more, they were wet!  He pondered over this feature.  It had not rained.  The only solution to this puzzle was that the cattle had been driven through water, and water deep enough to wet their legs.

Suddenly Ring growled low.  Venters rose cautiously and looked over the sage.  A band of straggling horsemen were riding across the oval.  He sank down, startled and trembling.  “Rustlers!” he muttered.  Hurriedly he glanced about for a place to hide.  Near at hand there was nothing but sage-brush.  He dared not risk crossing the open patches to reach the rocks.  Again he peeped over the sage.  The rustlers—­four—­five—­seven—­eight in all, were approaching, but not directly in line with him.  That was relief for a cold deadness which seemed to be creeping inward along his veins.  He crouched down with bated breath and held the bristling dog.