They jogged on. The darkness was not the thick kind; it never is, in the clear night in the great open. The graded trail loomed blackly, and warned by his glowing eyes they once or twice glimpsed a coyote slip away, like a shadow.
They tried to parallel the railroad survey, until, after they had ridden for an hour, maybe, in the distance ahead they heard a dog barking.
“Graders’ camp, huh!” George grunted.
“Yep. Can’t be Injuns. Injuns wouldn’t camp along the right o’ way. Not when the Pawnees are out after ’em. We’d better branch off and go ’round.”
“Right you are. Edge off, toward the North Star.”
So they veered from the due east and catty-cornered in the direction of the North Star.
“Keep it between chin and shoulder. That’ll take us ’round, I reckon, and we’ll know how far to turn back in,” Terry directed.
“Aw, we couldn’t miss the railroad grades, anyway,” George scoffed.
“A fellow can miss almost anything, at night, unless he’s mighty careful.”
“Couldn’t miss Cheyenne, though.”