Chuck stuck his rifle into the boot fastened to his saddle and the cowboys resumed their march down the trail. It was tough going over the rocks, but they were soon out of the wash, and the footing was a little better.
It was here that they picked up the trail of the men who had bushwhacked Chuck. Slim recognized Lightning’s hoofprints at once. A little further along they found where two more horses had been tethered for some time.
“They left their horses here while they went up in the draw and used me for a target,” said Chuck bitterly.
“Think you’d be able to recognize them if you saw them again?”
“I doubt it. The distance was too great and the light was poor.”
“I’ll know one of them,” said Slim. “I put my mark on him. Unless I miss my guess he’s got a shattered right elbow. If I ever catch up with him he’ll have something besides an elbow busted all out of shape.”
The sun burned down over the Cajons and the thin air soon warmed. Rivulets of perspiration streamed down Chuck’s back and his shirt was soon soaked. Slim, not quite so heavy, felt the heat less.
They pounded along for better than an hour when Chuck called a halt. “Let’s stop in the shade of these scrub oaks. This saddle is digging its way right into the middle of my back.”
Slim welcomed the suggestion and they flopped down in the shade.
Chuck looked up speculatively at the clear blue of the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the breeze had died down to a whisper.