"Looks to me like their horses is playin' out," Rennie agreed. "Well, let's get goin'."
They rode on down the valley. The trail was plain, and the tracks of horses in the vanishing light snow. They strung along at a steady jog.
From the left, clean and sharp came the vibrant crash of a rifle shot. Instantly the hills took it up, flinging it in echoes back and forth. But with the echoes came other shots, not clear but blunt, muffled, multiplying the riot of sound. They jerked their horses to a standstill.
"Not more 'n a mile away," said Rennie. "Them boys is further ahead. It can't be them."
"We'll darn soon see," said Bush.
They turned in the direction of the shots, spreading out riding slowly. And presently they came upon a pony standing with dropped reins.
"Why," Turkey exclaimed, "it's Paul Sam's! I'd know that cayuse anywhere."
There was no mistaking the calico pony. Angus, too recognized it. If Paul Sam were there it could be but for one purpose.
"Ride slow," Bush advised. "We don't want to overlook anything."
But in less than five hundred yards they came upon tragedy. Paul Sam and Blake lay as they had fallen. In the background a gaunt horse raised his head for a moment from his browsing.