THE ROCKS FOR THE CONIES 185 



rocks to reappear several feet or several yards 

 away. Here he would pause again to listen, then 

 to call, waiting a moment for the answer, before 

 darting into the crack for another search through 

 the tunnels. 



Under and over the stones, up and down the 

 slide, now close to me, now on the extreme op- 

 posite edge of the pile, he traveled, nervously, 

 anxiously looking for something — for some one, 

 I truly think ; and my heart smote me when I 

 thought that it might be for the dead mate whose 

 little bare foot-pad had left the bloody print upon 

 the rocks. 



Up and down, in and out, he ran, calling, call- 

 ing, but getting no answer back. This was the 

 only cony that showed itself, the only live one I 

 have ever seen ; but I followed this one with my 

 eye and with the field-glasses as it went searching 

 and crying over the steep rock-slide until long 

 past noon — with the whole camp down the 

 canon looking for me. 



They might have known where to look: out 

 of the canon, back to the roof of the world, to 

 the cony slide — if they could not wait for me. 



Higher up than the mountain sheep or the 



