"Not at this time of year. The Indians use it in the fall. They hunt across the range."
"These horses is shod," the sheriff remarked. "I sh'd say there's been half a dozen of 'em. Not less. Maybe more. I've knowed men that could tell exact."
"Not many of them left now."
"That's so. There ain't much need for trailin' these days. Too many telegraph wires."
They held to the pass, as did the hoofprints, eventually dropping down into the valley of the Klimminchuck, where they camped for the night beside the ford, cooked supper, unrolled their blankets, and lay by the fire, smoking.
"This bunch of hosses," the sheriff observed, "seems to have split up here. Two or three of 'em crossed over, but the most went down the valley. What's down there?"
"Just valley. It's partly open and part heavy timber. There was a pack trail cut through once, but it's mostly grown up."
"Nobody lives down there?"
"Not a soul. Now and then somebody traps in winter."
"Um." The sheriff was thoughtful for some moments. "Does McHale know the country hereabouts?"