The Trail of the White Mule

m the coals,-a pot now blackened with the smoke of many campfires to prove how thoroughly a part of the open land it had become. Something nipped at his right sh

ig Barney Oakes scuttled for cover, spill

had directed them. Nearly a week they had spent toiling across the hilly, waterless waste, with two harrowing days when their canteens flopped empty on the burros and big Barney stumble

ey had found the water, else adventure would have turned to tragedy. Near the water they had also found a promising ou

nes. They were eyeing a round hole in the coffeepot from w

et had come from, and very nearly met the fate of the coffeepot. He felt the wind of a secon

out three inches above the middle of his back, and Casey flattened on his stomach and swore. Some one on the peak of the hill had good eyesight, he d

from his covert, and Barney Oakes seemed to have holed up for the season. Unless you have lived for a long while in a land altogether empty

ke t' me," Barney observed belatedly

ot at and missed," Casey retorted peevishly in the lee of the bank. "Sa

"but that ain't sayin' I

AT 'am. An' how we kin do it without him seein' us. Goin' t' be kinda

if it could be did, I wouldn't do it. I ain'

do you good," Casey suggested harshly. "Migh

urface as what your vitals be. I ain't so fat-I'm big. An' I got

they would a cottontail, mebbe? We got a hull night to work in, an' Casey's eyes is as good as anybody's in

tte. He could see no possible gain in climbing to meet an enemy or enemies who could hear the

anteen, emptied a box of cartridges into his pocket, stuck his old, Colt six-shooter

nd dig himself in there, so that the only approach would be

ppen. So you put the hull outfit outa sight down there an' stand guard over it. If we'd 'a' run when they

the cartridges and disappeared, climbing the side of the g

de as what you claim," Casey had said impatiently, "an' you don't want any punctures in 'em, git to

oriously in the darkness a bluff he had not attempted to climb by daylight. It was hard work and slow, for

into small gulches and out again, trying to find some crevice through which he might climb to the top. Now he was just about where he had been several hours before, an

kept to bait them into camp. The lead burro was within easy flinging distance of a rock, from camp, when the thin, unmistakable crack of a rifle-shot came from the right, high up on the ri

. But he couldn't outgallop the bullet that sent him in a complete somersault down the slop

os. 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 tha

while had Casey been cautious in his behavior, and the necessity galled him. If the hidden marksman had missed that last burro, Casey would pr

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 r

en he craned up it, but which nearly broke his neck when he had climbed halfway up. Never before had he been compelled to measure so exactly his breadth and thickness. It was drawing matters down rather fine when he was compel

es scattered here and there. Far away stood other barren hills with deep canyons between. He knew now that the black-capped butte was less a butte than the uptilted nose of a high

had dwindled so with the distance. He had small hope of seeing Barney. After that last leaden bee had buzzed through hi

examined his surroundings carefully, his pale, straight-lidded eyes moving slowly as the white, pointing finger of a searchlig

, sloping slab of the granite outcropping it seemed, scaly with gray-green fungus in the cracks where moisture longest remained; granite ledge banked with low junipers warped and st

ing was wrong. He waited for a time-a long time indeed for Casey Ryan to wait. Th

g, heard nothing but the wind sweeping through branches and bush. Casey Ryan was never frightened in his life. But he was Irish

ons. For this is what befell Casey Ryan, an

retively. One small window, with two panes of glass was set high under the eaves on the side toward Casey. Cleverly concealed it was, built to resemble the ledge. Visible from one side only, and that was the side w

consciously he reached for his gun. This, he told himself, must be the secret habitation of the

or a pot shot at him and Barney, and that there was nothing whatever to indicate the presence of only one man in the camp below. Had he been

ked along the ledge to the cabin, flattened himself against the corner next the gray boulder and waited there for a minute. He felt the flesh stiffening on

his mind at first failed to grasp what he saw. Gradually a dimly sensed dread took hold of him, and grew while he

fter above it slightly blackened to show how long the lantern had hung there lighted. A door opposite the tiny window was closed, and there was no latch or fastening on the inner side. An India

under her eyes that were fixed upon the pattern of the Indian rug. Her hair was white. Her thin, white hands rested limply on the a

e was not so old, though it was lined and without color. There was a terrible quiet in her features, but he felt, somehow, that her thoug

d point on the rug. Never once did her fingers move on the arm of the chair. Her mouth remained immobile as the lips of a dead woman. He had to force himself to leave the window; and when he did, he felt guilty, as if he had someh

did. And Barney was down there, holed up and helpless, though he had grub and water. Casey was up here in a mighty dangerous place without much grub or water but-he hoped-not quite helpless. His immediate, pressing job was not to

description of his progress, I will simply say that Casey Ryan combed the edge of that rampart for two miles before dark, and found himself at last on the s

e and condemnatory of his luck, of the unseen assassin, of the country and his present predicament. He got up, looked all aroun

te, going slowly to lessen his chance of making a noise fo