He slipped from cedar to cedar, keeping them between him and the open valley.  As he progressed, the belt of trees widened and he kept to its upper margin.  He passed shady pockets half full of water, and, as he marked the location for possible future need, he reflected that there had been no rain since the winter snows.  From one of these shady holes a rabbit hopped out and squatted down, laying its ears flat.

Venters wanted fresh meat now more than when he had only himself to think of.  But it would not do to fire his rifle there.  So he broke off a cedar branch and threw it.  He crippled the rabbit, which started to flounder up the slope.  Venters did not wish to lose the meat, and he never allowed crippled game to escape, to die lingeringly in some covert.  So after a careful glance below, and back toward the canyon, he began to chase the rabbit.

The fact that rabbits generally ran uphill was not new to him.  But it presently seemed singular why this rabbit, that might have escaped downward, chose to ascend the slope.  Venters knew then that it had a burrow higher up.  More than once he jerked over to seize it, only in vain, for the rabbit by renewed effort eluded his grasp.  Thus the chase continued on up the bare slope.  The farther Venters climbed the more determined he grew to catch his quarry.  At last, panting and sweating, he captured the rabbit at the foot of a steeper grade.  Laying his rifle on the bulge of rising stone, he killed the animal and slung it from his belt.

Before starting down he waited to catch his breath.  He had climbed far up that wonderful smooth slope, and had almost reached the base of yellow cliff that rose skyward, a huge scarred and cracked bulk.  It frowned down upon him as if to forbid further ascent.  Venters bent over for his rifle, and, as he picked it up from where it leaned against the steeper grade, he saw several little nicks cut in the solid stone.

They were only a few inches deep and about a foot apart.  Venters began to count them—­one—­two—­three—­four—­on up to sixteen.  That number carried his glance to the top of his first bulging bench of cliff-base.  Above, after a more level offset, was still steeper slope, and the line of nicks kept on, to wind round a projecting corner of wall.

A casual glance would have passed by these little dents; if Venters had not known what they signified he would never have bestowed upon them the second glance.  But he knew they had been cut there by hand, and, though age-worn, he recognized them as steps cut in the rock by the cliff-dwellers.  With a pulse beginning to beat and hammer away his calmness, he eyed that indistinct line of steps, up to where the buttress of wall hid further sight of them.  He knew that behind the corner of stone would be a cave or a crack which could never be suspected from below.  Chance, that had sported with him of late, now directed him to a probable hiding-place.  Again he laid aside his rifle, and, removing boots