mountain waves, seemed to roll up to steep bare slopes and
towers.

In this plain of sage Venters flushed birds and rabbits, and when
he had proceeded about a mile he caught sight of the bobbing

white tails of a herd of runningantelope. He rode along the edge
of the stream which wound toward the western end of the slowly

looming mounds of stone. The high slope retreated out of sight
behind the nearer protection. To Venters the valley appeared to

have been filled in by a mountain of melted stone that had
hardened in strange shapes of rounded outline. He followed the

stream till he lost it in a deep cut. Therefore Venters quit the
dark slit which baffled further search in that direction, and

rode out along the curved edge of stone where it met the sage. It
was not long before he came to a low place, and here Wrangle

readily climbed up.
All about him was ridgy roll of wind-smoothed, rain-washed rock

Not a tuft of grass or a bunch of sage colored the dull
rust-yellow. He saw where, to the right, this uneven flow of

stone ended in a blunt wall. Leftward, from the hollow that lay
at his feet, mounted a gradual slow-swelling slope to a great

height topped by leaning, cracked, and ruined crags. Not for some
time did he grasp the wonder of that acclivity. It was no less

than a mountain-side, glistening in the sun like polished
granite, with cedar-trees springing as if by magic out of the

denuded surface. Winds had swept it clear of weathered shale, and
rains had washed it free of dust. Far up the curved slope its

beautiful lines broke to meet the vertical rim-wall, to lose its
grace in a different order and color of rock, a stained yellow

cliff of cracks and caves and seamed crags. And straight before
Venters was a scene less striking but more significant to his

keen survey. For beyond a mile of the bare, hummocky rock began
the valley of sage, and the mouths of canyons, one of which

surely was another gateway into the pass.
He got off his horse, and, giving the bridle to Ring to hold, he

commenced a search for the cleft where the stream ran. He was not
successful and concluded the water dropped into an underground

passage. Then he returned to where he had left Wrangle, and led
him down off the stone to the sage. It was a short ride to the

opening canyons. There was no reason for a choice of which one to
enter. The one he rode into was a clear, sharp shaft in yellow

stone a thousand feet deep, with wonderful wind-worn caves low
down and high above buttressed and turreted ramparts. Farther on

Venters came into a region where deep indentations marked the
line of canyon walls. These were huge, cove-like blind pockets

extending back to a sharp corner with a dense growth of
underbrush and trees.

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 luxuriantbrowse 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 middaystillness. 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.

He heard the click of iron-shod hoofs on stone, the coarse
laughter of men, and then voices gradually dying away. Long

moments passed. Then he rose. The rustlers were riding into a
canyon. Their horses were tired, and they had several pack

animals; evidently they had traveled far. Venters doubted that
they were the rustlers who had driven the red herd. Olding's band

had split. Venters watched these horsemen disappear under a bold
canyon wall.

The rustlers had come from the northwest side of the oval.
Venters kept a steady gaze in that direction, hoping, if there

were more, to see from what canyon they rode. A quarter of an
hour went by. Reward for his vigilance came when he descried

three more mounted men, far over to the north. But out of what
canyon they had ridden it was too late to tell. He watched the

three ride across the oval and round the jutting red corner where
the others had gone.

"Up that canyon!" exclaimed Venters. "Oldring's den! I've found
it!"

A knotty point for Venters was the fact that the cattle tracks
all pointed west. The broad trail came from the direction of the

canyon into which the rustlers had ridden, and undoubtedly the
cattle had been driven out of it across the oval. There were no

tracks pointing the other way. It had been in his mind that
Oldring had driven the red herd toward the rendezvous, and not

from it. Where did that broad trail come down into the pass, and
where did it lead? Venters knew he wasted time in pondering the

question, but it held a fascination not easily dispelled. For
many years Oldring's mysterious entrance and exit to Deception

Pass had been all-absorbing topics to sage-riders.
All at once the dog put an end to Venters's pondering. Ring

sniffed the air, turned slowly in his tracks with a whine, and
then growled. Venters wheeled. Two horsemen were within a hundred

yards, coming straight at him. One, lagging behind the other, was
Oldring's Masked Rider.

Venters cunningly sank, slowly trying to merge into sage-brush.