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near silence and bedded down early to escape the chill.
    The next morning, we rode hard, and in about four hours, we arrived at the location in the San Juan basin where the girl was believed to have been snatched. McAllen had already explained that Maggie boarded her horse at her aunt’s ranch, which we had passed an hour previously. Ever since she had finished her schooling, her father would occasionally ride her out in a buckboard so she could stay a week or so at his sister’s place. Maggie loved her aunt, the ranch, and her horse. When the weather was clear, she would often go riding after her chores.
    One of the early posses had found tracks in a broad meadow, and they believed that those tracks indicated the likely place where she had been abducted. We relied on their description and rode directly to the meadow. When we reached the spot, McAllen pulled up and lifted a hand to stop us. He nodded at Red, who dismounted and walked the ground ahead of us.
    I looked around the pleasant field. It was ghostly still. In fact, the meadow seemed so peaceful that it felt like a place of worship. It was hard to believe that an abduction of a young girl had disturbed this tranquility.
    “This may take a bit,” McAllen said. “Unsaddle and let our horses graze free. Picket the packhorses in good grass … don’t unload them.”
    Conversation had been minimal during the ride, and no one grew chatty now that we had stopped. Sharp and I pulled a western-style saddle off Red’s horse, while McAllen kept a careful eye on his friend’s investigation of the scene.
    In less than an hour, Red quick-paced back toward us. “Useless. Too many horses trampled the site.” He pointed. “The last posse headed southwest, along the mesas.”
    McAllen hefted his saddle by the horn. “Let’s go. Without tracks, we follow the posse. Hopefully, their tracker knows what he’s about. Steve, you ride with Red along the south side. Jeff and I will take the packhorses and scout the north. Stay within sight. If anyone sees a trail not left by one of those dunderfooted posses, yell out.”
    “And if we get attacked by Utes?” I asked, meaning it as a joke.
    “Shoot back,” McAllen ordered without humor. With no further ado, McAllen set off.
    As we rode, Red focused on the ground in front of us. I couldn’t tell the difference between posse tracks and a herd of elk, so I watched the cliffs. I thought I spotted something unusual high up in a cliff in one of the side canyons. The natural lines seemed disturbed by a squared pattern that appeared man-made. I couldn’t be sure, because everything along the cliff line was the same color. I dug into my saddlebag and pulled out the field glasses that Sharp had bought. On closer inspection, I had no doubt that men had used rock blocks to build a shelter under a crescent-shaped overhang.
    I pointed and asked Red, “What’s that shelter built into the cliff?”
    He didn’t bother to look where I was pointing. “Ruins.”
    “How old?”
    “Don’t know.” I thought this was all he was going to say, but then he added, “Bigger ones deeper in those canyons.”
    I wanted to go and explore, but I knew better. I’d have to come back after we rescued Maggie and hire a guide. “What’s the name of that place? The bigger ones?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Who lived in those cliff dwellings?”
    “Indians.”
    “What tribe?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “No one knows.”
    I belatedly took the hint and kept my remaining questions to myself. As a writer, I appreciate solitude, but I don’t mind a little conversation on occasion. No wonder Red and McAllen were friends. I could see the two of them regaling each other with silence on those long rides into the wilderness. If either Sharp or I had tracking skills, we could have ridden together and talked as much as we liked. On second thought, Sharp would have harassed me about Jenny. Better to be teamed up with Red and his