"Got on his horse and pulled out, hey?" said Farwell. "Yes, of course, that's what he did. That's why the track is pressed in so deep. That's all right. Simon, how many men stop last night?"
"Four, five cayuse stop," Simon answered. "Mebbyso four, five, man stop."
"Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow—catchum. Find where they live—their illahee, where they hang out. You get that?"
Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.
"What?" Keeler asked.
"Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin—him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?"
Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed.
"Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed. "This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first."
"So he does," said Keeler.
"So this fellow is a white man," Farwell concluded triumphantly. "We want a white man with a patched moccasin. You kumtuks, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so—left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon."