They rode. The horses no longer pricked up their ears; they plodded with only an occasional shying off from unexpected objects, but otherwise did not take much interest. That was a bad sign. The country under foot seemed to be growing rougher. A deep gully cut the blind trail, and had to be followed for a piece, until the horses plunged in, and out again.
Terry reined, and spoke.
“Either we’re lost or the grade’s lost.”
“Shucks! We’re hefty scouts, to lose a railroad line.”
“Wouldn’t have lost it, if the sky hadn’t clouded over. And we haven’t any compass.”
“Next time we’ll ride right through any graders’ camp and let ’em shoot,” declared George. “What had we better do? Keep going?”
“Seems to me we’re headed nearly right, anyhow,” mused Terry. “I don’t think that gully threw us off, much. These horses are liable to take us somewhere if we give ’em the rein—liable to take us to a camp or into Cheyenne.”
“Maybe they don’t know about Cheyenne.”
“Gwan!” bade Terry, to his mount; and they rode on again, through the stillness and the monotonous dusk.
After what might have been a long time, of plodding and stumbling and rasping through brush and over rocks, the horses halted, of themselves, at the base of a steep slope which slanted up into the night. Their riders peered, and hope died.