At Guadalajara, Delaney and the sheriff descended from the freight engine.
“Horses now,” declared the sheriff. “He won't go into Bonneville, that's certain. He'll leave the engine between here and there, and strike off into the country. We'll follow after him now in the saddle. Soon as he leaves his engine, HE'S on foot. We've as good as got him now.”
Their horses, including even the buckskin mare that Dyke had ridden, were still at the station. The party swung themselves up, Delaney exclaiming, “Here's MY mount,” as he bestrode the buckskin.
At Guadalajara, the two bloodhounds were picked up again. Urging the jaded horses to a gallop, the party set off along the Upper Road, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left for traces of Dyke's abandonment of the engine.
Three miles beyond the Long Trestle, they found S. Behrman holding his saddle horse by the bridle, and looking attentively at a trail that had been broken through the standing wheat on Quien Sabe. The party drew rein.
“The engine passed me on the tracks further up, and empty,” said S. Behrman. “Boys, I think he left her here.”
But before anyone could answer, the bloodhounds gave tongue again, as they picked up the scent.
“That's him,” cried S. Behrman. “Get on, boys.”
They dashed forward, following the hounds. S. Behrman laboriously climbed to his saddle, panting, perspiring, mopping the roll of fat over his coat collar, and turned in after them, trotting along far in the rear, his great stomach and tremulous jowl shaking with the horse's gait.
“What a day,” he murmured. “What a day.”