“I should say not, Bob. I give you my word I’ve never set eyes on that blade since I saw you use it the day before yesterday.”
“Oh! where was that, Frank; perhaps you might give me a little clue, and there’s no telling what it might lead to,” demanded the Kentucky boy, eagerly.
“Why, don’t you remember about it?” asked Frank.
“No, I can’t just seem to get a line on it,” Bob answered, gloomily. “Seems to just come to me, and then it slips away. I used the knife, you say; was it when we were eating lunch on that little hunt we took, Frank?”
“No. Have you forgotten that you started in to show me how much you knew about cutting up a deer the right way?” Frank asked, still laughing at his chum.
“Well, I declare, that’s a fact, Frank; of course I had to use my knife when I carved that antelope you ‘tolled’ up with your red handkerchief, and knocked over before he was able to satisfy his curiosity. But, Frank, I’m nearly dead sure I can remember having the knife after that—while we were eating, for instance.”
“Perhaps you did, Bob, but honest, that’s the last time I can remember seeing you use it. Here we are at the place now. And watch how our trailers get busy.”
Two of the cow punchers, who were known to be superior hands at following an obscure trail, were thrown out ahead. The rest kept just a little to the rear, since they did not wish to interfere.
Even one who was known as a greenhorn could have followed the broad trail of fifty head of cattle, leaving that spot. These men were doing more. As they rode back and forth, their keen eyes on the constant watch for signs, they began to pick up facts that would presently tell them just how many of the rustlers there had been in the party.
“Eight all told,” one of the men reported presently; “an’ the pony with the cloven hoof is one Spanish Joe used to ride when he was on our range.”