A light film, that was barely detectable against the treetops a hundred yards ahead, showed faintly gray.
“An’ that damn’ axle a-squeakin’ like a dyin’ shote!” snarled the driver. “Reckon they heard us?”
He was furious-faced, glaring at the lacy smoke-film as at sign of an enemy. But the dark, stocky man was on the ground with a snaky wriggle, and he took with him the .44 Winchester carbine that had been hanging in its scabbard from the wagon-seat. He vanished into the bushes, and with an oath the driver flipped the lines in loops about the brake-handle and leaped down to follow.
He was not so good a woodsman as the other, so his progress, to be noiseless, must be slower. He met the dark-haired man coming back grinning. There was something tight-lipped, rather grim, about that smile which showed large, white teeth.
“Soldiers!” he whispered. “They’ve already heard us. We just got to go on and trust to luck. They’re sneakin’ into the brush right now to look us up.”
They went back to the wagon quickly, mounted to the seat again and drove on. Fifty, seventy-five yards forward; then from the brush on each side of the trace burst blue-clad men, afoot. A smart, boyish lieutenant stepped up to the front wheel.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
The driver looked sidelong at his companion, who grinned down at the officer.
“Why,” he drawled, “we’re a couple o’ cowboys a-goin’ home to Santone. Our names wouldn’t mean nothin’, I reckon. Been—” vaguely he waved his arm to indicate the vast spaces behind him—“up north with a trail herd. Charlie Howell’s trail herd.”
Cavalrymen had edged closer to the wagon by this time, glancing in curiously at the jumble of bedding and clothes-bags. The black-haired man who had done the explaining to the lieutenant gave them no heed; still he grinned down, quite frankly and friendly, upon the officer.