Hobby stared.
“How did you know that? Uncle Pete was all worked up over it. I never heard him so powerful before, on any subject.”
“You’re tired out, so you can’t see straight,” said Johnny. “Also, I know that when I came down Redgate there were no fresh tracks heading this way. If those three men killed Forbes and want to saw it off on me—then they confused that trail on purpose. If they didn’t kill Forbes, and muddled the tracks that way, they’re half-wits. And they’re not half-wits. Go on.”
“They found poor old Adam and your fire. They pushed on ahead to read all the sign they could before dark. Up in the park there’d been a heap of riding back and forth. Just at dark they found where a bunch of cattle had been headed and had gone over the divide into Deadman and gone on down. Then the rain came—and the rest is mud.”
“Yes. It rained. There was a little low gap to the north from where I branded my calf. If anybody had been there making tracks—those cattle would blot ’em out.” Johnny began to laugh. “Look, amigo—all this dope seems fairly reasonable and nightmareish, turn about, as we see it across thirty miles and twenty-four hours—but it is a safe guess that some folks didn’t sleep much last night. They know all about it, and I reckon when they got to thinking it over it seemed to them like the whole story was printed in letters a mile high. Scared? I guess yes. I’d hate to trade places with ’em right now. And before it rained—oh, mamma! I bet they was tickled to see that rain! Well, go on. Proceed. Give us some more.”
“The further I go the less you’ll like it,” said Lull. “Pete and his hand-picked posse stayed up there and scattered out at daylight, for general results. They found one of Adam’s cows with a big fresh-branded calf—branded yesterday. Dines, you’re up against it—hard! It’s going to look black to any jury. That calf carried your brand—T-Tumble-T!”
“’Hellfire and damnation—make my bed soon!’” said Johnny. “The boy stood on the burning deck, With neither high nor low! The Sons of Zeruiah!... Ho, warder! Pull up the drawstring! Let the portcrayon fall! Melt down the largess, fling out the pendulum to the breeze, and howl the battle cry of Dines!”
Hobby’s gaunt features relaxed to a laugh.
“You silly ass! And the rope on your very neck! And what is the battle cry of Dines, if I may ask?”
“Only two out!” said Johnny Dines. He flung up his head; his hawk’s face was beautiful.