Slim slept restlessly that night, his mind disturbed by the grief and worry over the loss of his horse. He was awake with the first rosy tint in the sky above the Cajons.

Chuck was still sleeping soundly and Slim, barefooted, walked quietly down to the creek where he washed his face and hands. They had used up the supply of wood gathered the night before and he picked up an armful of dry sticks before returning to the camp.

Chuck was awake and stretching lazily when Slim dropped the wood beside the dead ashes.

“Going to be a great day for walking,” said the Circle Four cowboy as he pulled on his boots.

“Not for my feet after the beating I gave them running around over the rocks in my stocking feet,” said Slim.

While Chuck was at the creek washing, Slim started the fire and checked over their supplies. There was enough bacon for the morning meal and four slices of bread that were so dry they now resembled hardtack. Not much food for a couple of hungry cowpunchers.

“We’re short of grub,” he informed Chuck.

“Just enough bacon for breakfast and a snack of bread.”

“Might just as well start the day on a full stomach. We’ll need it. How’s the coffee?”

“Plenty of coffee, but it’s going to take us at least a day to reach the bottom of this trail.”

“Well, the coffee will help. We can drink that and think we’ve had a meal.”

By the time the sun was up, they had finished breakfast and were about the task of breaking their simple camp.

“What about your saddle?” Chuck asked.

“I’m going to tote it with me as far as I can. If it gets too heavy I’ll cache it along the way. Dad gave it to me and I’m not going to take any unnecessary chances of losing it.”

Slim made up his duffel roll and fastened it to his saddle. Then he paused to look around the camp and make sure nothing had been overlooked. Chuck, rifle in hand, was waiting for him.

Slim swung the heavy saddle on his back and they started down the Sky High trail. It was covered with a fair growth of grass, for in recent years it was used by only an occasional rider and the walking wouldn’t have been half bad in low heeled shoes. But riding boots, with their high heels, were never meant to pound along over a none too smooth trail. Slim knew that he would be in agony before the day was over.

They reached the rock strewn wash where Chuck had been ambushed and stopped while the Circle Four cowboy picked up his saddle. High above them a buzzard was circling. In a few short hours Chuck’s cayuse would be another skeleton along the trail, hinting at an unsolved mystery.

Chuck stuck his rifle into the boot fastened to his saddle and the cowboys resumed their march down the trail. It was tough going over the rocks, but they were soon out of the wash, and the footing was a little better.

It was here that they picked up the trail of the men who had bushwhacked Chuck. Slim recognized Lightning’s hoofprints at once. A little further along they found where two more horses had been tethered for some time.

“They left their horses here while they went up in the draw and used me for a target,” said Chuck bitterly.

“Think you’d be able to recognize them if you saw them again?”

“I doubt it. The distance was too great and the light was poor.”

“I’ll know one of them,” said Slim. “I put my mark on him. Unless I miss my guess he’s got a shattered right elbow. If I ever catch up with him he’ll have something besides an elbow busted all out of shape.”

The sun burned down over the Cajons and the thin air soon warmed. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down Chuck’s back and his shirt was soon soaked. Slim, not quite so heavy, felt the heat less.

They pounded along for better than an hour when Chuck called a halt. “Let’s stop in the shade of these scrub oaks. This saddle is digging its way right into the middle of my back.”

Slim welcomed the suggestion and they flopped down in the shade.

Chuck looked up speculatively at the clear blue of the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the breeze had died down to a whisper.

“How many more miles to the bottom of the trail?” he asked.

“I don’t know exactly. I’d say we’ve covered about four miles since leaving camp. It must be 23 or 24 more.”

“I’ll never make it.”

“I’ve got to be at the foot of the trail tonight,” said Slim.

“I’m supposed to be,” admitted Chuck, “but I’ve serious doubts if my ‘dogs’ will hold out for better than 20 miles.”

“We’d better keep pounding along. Another hour and we’ll stop and make a pot of coffee and find a creek where we can soak our feet for awhile.”

“Good idea. Mine feel like they’re burning up right now.”

Shouldering their saddles, they set off down the trail. The grade was easing now. There was more timber but the grass was still scarce.

“Not much grazing land here,” commented Chuck.

“No. That’s up in the Creeping Shadows country. I’ve never been there but I’ve heard there’s some of the best grass in Wyoming in that valley.”

“Wouldn’t have to be very good to be that,” said Chuck. “We almost burned out this summer. No rain for weeks.”

“There’s been little or no rain here, but the Creeping Shadows always seem to get water.”

They were silent for a time and Slim wondered why Chuck, too, was anxious to get to the bottom of the trail that night. He couldn’t help thinking about the letter which had fallen from his companion’s pocket the night before and there was still the unanswered question on why Chuck had been set upon by the two gunmen.

The sun was well toward its zenith when they made their second stop beside a small stream. There was a little grass and a few trees in the valley, enough at least to provide them with shade.

Slim pulled off his boots and socks and looked at his feet. They were red and swollen. Chuck’s looked to be in even worse condition.

The Circle Four cowboy crawled to the water’s edge on his hands and knees and gratefully thrust his feet into the cool water.

“Oh boy! What a relief. I didn’t know water could feel so good. I’ve half a mind to spend the rest of the day right here.”

“Then you’ll have to spend it alone. I’m going to push on as soon as my feet feel a little better and we have some coffee.”

“Maybe the coffee will pep me up,” agreed Chuck. “I’ll rustle up the wood in a little bit.”

The cool water reduced the swelling of their feet and a few minutes later they donned their socks and boots and picked up enough dry wood for a fire. Slim filled the coffee pot and shortly before noon they had two cups of the steaming beverage apiece.

“Not much of a meal,” said Slim, “but it puts a little more stiffening in my back.”

Chuck nodded, looking thoughtfully at his saddle.

“Tell you what. I’m going to cache my saddle. I don’t think we’ll make it to the bottom of the trail tonight if we don’t. Once rid of the saddles we’ll be able to walk a lot faster and it will ease the strain on our feet.”

Slim looked down at his boots. The morning’s walk over the uneven ground had done them little good. The soles had been gouged by sharp rocks and the heels were wearing off at a crazy angle. By the end of the day he would have to discard his expensive boots for he doubted if even the most expert cobbler would possess the skill to repair them.

“Guess you’re right,” he agreed. “I hate to leave my saddle, but I know I can’t carry it to the bottom of the trail tonight.”

Chuck looked at Slim sharply, each perplexed, perhaps a little alarmed, at the insistence of the other upon reaching the trail’s end by sundown.

Slim washed the coffee grounds out of the pot and then placed the battered tin pot and the remaining coffee in his blanket roll.

“There’s a little draw off to the left and across the creek that ought to be a good place to leave our saddles,” said Chuck.

They tossed the saddles across the creek and then jumped after them. A thicket in the draw which Chuck had pointed out proved ideal for a cache. They returned to the other side of the creek and slung their blanket rolls over their shoulders.

Both cowboys had unfastened their rifle scabbards from their saddles, and they carried these in their right hands, the butts of the guns protruding from the leather case.

With the burden of their saddles gone and their feet rested, they set out down the trail again. The blinding heat of midday was upon them, but they dared not tarry longer beside the creek.

Heads down and shoulders hunched, they plodded along the trail. Hoofprints of three horses were still plainly visible for the men who had stolen Lightning had ridden down the trail at a fast pace.

“Makes me boil inside every time I think of my being set afoot,” snorted Chuck. “Maybe I’ll take a little time off and hunt around for the boys who did me dirt. With the souvenir you left on that one chap’s arm, they shouldn’t be so hard to find.”

They swung around a bend in the trail and came upon the ashes of a recent campfire. Slim placed his hand in the ashes. They were cold.

“The horses were staked out and hobbled over here,” called out Chuck. “Too bad we didn’t slip down the trail last night and take them by surprise.”

“It’s easy to think of those things now,” grinned Slim as he picked up a handkerchief which was covered with brown stains. “I don’t imagine one of them passed a very comfortable night.”

In midafternoon they paused beside another mountain stream to rest and bathe their weary feet.

“My ‘dogs’ look like they are going to explode,” said Chuck as he wiggled his toes in the cool water.

Slim, stretched on the bank beside him, nodded. He was wondering if they would be able to maintain their pace and make the bottom of the trail that night. He didn’t want to disappoint Bill Needham, for the old cattleman had written that he was counting on him.

“My stomach and backbone are so close together I’m afraid they’ll form a union and strike on me,” grumbled Chuck, “unless I put some food inside me quick.”

“There’s a little coffee left.”

“Then coffee it is,” said Chuck. He built a fire and brewed a bitter pot of beverage.

“What did you drop in this? The heel of one of your boots?” asked Slim as he sipped the black stuff.

“Don’t complain. It’s hot and it’s filling, which is the main thing.”

In spite of its poor taste, they downed the coffee, drew on their boots, picked up the rifles, and resumed the painful downward trip.

The sun was swinging well along toward the horizon and the country was flattening out. They had reached the foothills, but there was still no sign of human habitation. Coming out of a patch of timber, they looked down a long, broad valley, the grass of which had been burned out by the sun.

“I pity cattle trying to live off this stuff,” said Slim.

“Better pity us. If we don’t find something real to eat, we may have to take to grass.”

Chuck started down the trail again when Slim’s call stopped him.

“Wait a minute. There’s a horseman riding into the lower end of the valley.”

Chuck halted and scanned the far end of the valley.

“Can’t see a thing. Maybe you’re going daffy.”

“I’m not daffy,” retorted Slim sharply. “Just stand still a minute. The fellow’s coming in from the right and he’s leading another horse.”

Chuck shaded his eyes and peered intently in the direction Slim had indicated.

“You’re right. What now?”

“Let’s drop back in the timber along the trail and wait for him to come up where we can get a good look.”

They found shelter in a tangle of brush that had grown up around a fallen tree. Slim pulled his rifle from the scabbard and threw open the magazine. The weapon was ready for action.

“Not taking any chances?” Chuck asked.

“Nary a chance. I took one last night and lost Lightning.”

The rider advanced rapidly but the sun blazed in the eyes of the cowboys and they found it difficult to see clearly.

The oncoming horseman was less than 400 yards away when Slim recognized the horse.

“He’s riding Lightning!” he cried. “Chuck do you hear? That’s Lightning coming up the trail!”

“Sure I hear and unless you pipe down that rider will hear you and then Lightning may be forced to go the other way in a hurry.”

Slim, who had stood up in his moment of wild elation, crouched down behind the tree trunk and cradled the butt of his rifle against his cheek. The lines of his jaw snapped into straight, tense lines and his finger crooked around the trigger. A little further and the unknown rider of Lightning would be out of the angle of the Sun’s protecting rays.