“Haven’t you any idea?” asked Sam.
“No.”
“I have—a pretty sure one,” replied Jack.
“What is it?”
“You know Apache Jack told me the other day, at Comanche Creek, that thirty Apaches chased him thirty miles or more?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he said Red-Knife was the chief of the band. Now the skunk had only fourteen here besides himself—fifteen in all. That shows there has been a division for some reason or other. Now he’s bound south to fetch the bulk of the band to help him. He will be back in twenty hours, depend upon it—then look out.”
“I think you are wrong,” said Burt Scranton. “If Red-Knife was goin’ ter fetch the rest of his gang, he’d leave some one hyar ter keep an eye on us.”
“Jest whar you’re wrong,” declared Simpson. “We leave a big trail behind us—I tell you. It’ll be mighty easy fur him ter foller it. He takes his hull gang ter make us b’lieve he’s gone fur good—the old badger. But I b’lieve we kin outwit him yet.”
“How?” was the general question.