CHAPTER 17. HIDDEN VALLEY
Across the desert into the hills, where the sun was setting in a
great splash of crimson in the saddle between two distant peaks,
a bunch of cows trailed heavily. Their tongues hung out and they
panted for water, stretching their necks piteously to low now and
again. For the heat of an Arizona summer was on the baked land
and in the air that palpitated above it.
But the end of the journey was at hand and the cowpuncher in
charge of the drive relaxed in the saddle after the easy fashion
of the vaquero when he is under no tension. He did not any longer
cast swift, anxious glances behind him to make sure no pursuit
was in sight. For he had reached safety. He knew the 'Open
sesame' to that rock wall which rose sheer in front of him.
Straight for it he and his companion took their gather, swinging
the cattle adroitly round a great slab which concealed a gateway
to the secret canon. Half a mile up this defile lay what was
called Hidden Valley, an inaccessible retreat known only to those
who frequented it for nefarious purposes.
It was as the man in charge circled round to head the lead cows
in that a faint voice carried to him.
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