The Nine-Mile Hold-Up 



ahead, with a lead-line through the rawhide halters of 

 ten heavily laden pack-horses. Mat brought up in the 

 rear or rode alongside the ponies, snapping the end of his 

 rope at the lazy ones or pricking them in the side with 

 an outward kick of his spurred heel. The men seemed 

 to be in a hurry. 



" No water till we get to the Hole," said Butch, jerk- 

 ing the lead-line. 



" That's the place, isn't it ?" asked Mat. 



" Yep," from Butch, and he dug the spurs into his 

 horse's sides. On they jogged for hours. The white 

 alkali dust slowly drifted along in their wake and gradu- 

 ally covered them with a thin greyish coat. Once while 

 stopping to tighten cinches and pack-ropes, Mat said: 



" Let's see, to-day is Monday; we're due in Nine Mile 

 Saturday noon, ain't we, Butch ?" 



" Yep." 



" Got the batteries ?" 



" Yep." 



" Powder ?" 



" Yep." 



" Machines ?" 



" Yep." 



" Didn't forget the tanks ?" 



" Naw. Say, Mat, you're nervous. Shut up, will you!" 



Mat shrugged his big shoulders and " shut up." 



That night they got to Green River, watered, and, 

 without resting, trotted up along the eastern bank by 

 a narrow trail and disappeared in a " box " canyon, or 

 " hole." There was no outlet to the canyon except 

 the trail they went in by, and the sides were several 

 hundred feet high. They pitched camp, and in a few 

 minutes were hard at work unpacking queer cylindrical 

 bundles from the pack-horses. The surrounding country 

 was totally uninhabited. 



189 



