"Huh-huh," said Johnson, pulling up. "Sure. He's back of me again, the rascal."
In spite of an effort by Moffatt to disguise his imprint at the junction, the trail lay plain to Lafe. It was too old a game for him to be deceived; had he not once, on a previous hunt, detected Moffatt's ruse in changing his horse's shoes so that the corks were in front? Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and got down in the dust on his hands and knees. There was a second trail, and it was following Moffatt's.
It came from beyond the rock, and then changed direction and now overlapped the outlaw's. Had the two met? It was probable that Moffatt had come upon a confederate, for this was the region of the Jug, the rendezvous for fugitives. But why, then, had the two not come to meet him?
"That ain't Steve's way," Johnson reflected. "It's like they're laying for me up the trail a piece."
Neither did this solution satisfy him. One thing alone about the look of the two tracks seemed to make the notion of two confederates riding peacefully in single file untenable. The last rider was going faster than the other. Then he must be in pursuit.
Debating these possibilities, the sheriff advanced with caution. Limestone cliffs soon hemmed him in. He came upon a steer as he crossed a tiny mountain stream. The animal dashed away, wild as an antelope. Just before he made the next turn, Johnson glanced back. The steer had stopped to gaze after him. It would not willingly leave the vicinity of the water it had come six miles to get.
The going became so rough that his horse faltered and the sheriff feared that he might maim himself any moment on the rocks. The way was nothing but a succession of narrow gorges, leading one into the other and cluttered with bowlders; ever ascending, the light became more subdued as the cañon's walls grew steeper and higher. He calculated that he must be nearing the summits of Lost Springs.
A shot reverberated among the cliffs in front of him; then another. The echoes rolled and multiplied. The abrupt detonations startled his mount, which sprang under the quick, nervous grasp of the knee. A stone gave under foot, and down came horse and rider with a jolt like a trunk being dumped from a baggage car.
The sheriff instantly cheeked his horse, holding his head down by main strength lest the beast rise and trample him. His foot hung in the stirrup and the spur was caught in the blanket. There was no need for this precaution. The poor brute lay where he fell, nostrils quivering and his breath coming in tearing gasps. Instantly realizing that he was seriously hurt, Lafe began to extricate himself. He slowly drew his leg from the boot; free, leaped upward and pinned the horse's head with his knee. One look at the right foreleg was sufficient. Johnson stuck his gun to the white star on its forehead and pulled the trigger.
He was now thoroughly angry.