B. M. Bower

“ Because of the view it gave of the fantastic, red-sandstone crags across the valley, Abington had pitched his camp on a smooth hard ledge a few feet above the level with a cliff at his back and a spring of good water hidden away in a tiny cleft in the cañon at his right. It was a cool, sightly spot, free from bothersome ant hills or weedy growth that might harbor rattlesnakes or other venomous creatures. ”

“ He set about supper of a sort, keeping his back to the ledge with a persistence that might have amused Abington if he had not been wholly occupied with the mystery that had impinged upon an otherwise uneventful trip.
“I can't fathom it,” he said at last, speaking half to himself. “It is not a mountain sheep, I'm certain of that. Those slits in the tent and the salt sack ignored—those two details alone place the depredations apart from the work of any such animal.”
“Yeah, there ain't no such animal!” ”

“ True to his word, Bill Jonathan camped apart from Abington. In this particular location he had chosen a cave half a mile up the cañon—and he had immediately set about walling up the entrance so that he must squeeze in between two rocks which he could move across the aperture at night.
“Getting close to the range of that gosh-awful thing, professor,” he had explained. “Better hunt a hole yourself and crawl into it—'specially at night. And you want to keep your eyes peeled, and don't go prowlin' around without your gun or a knife or something.” ”