“We’d better spread out jest far enough to keep an eye out in both directions. I’ll watch the south for ’em, Sandy, attend to the Circle Bar end; ain’t likely any one will come, but we’d better watch that way, too.”
Sandy Davitt swung off, followed by his companion.
Buck sought a position whence he could obtain a fair view of the valley in the direction of the Shumway ranch. He did not need to have the winding road in view. Even this slightly used trail was deep in dust, and any rider would leave a brown smudge that would rise into a trailing wedge to be discerned afar.
The horses were hidden away from sight among the trees that fringed the river. To the north the great splotch of smoke had lessened into a thin trail; Harper’s place was burned out. It could not be long now before Fisher would come—if he came at all.
“Hey, Buck!” rose the cautious voice of Davitt. “Rider from the north!”
“Comin’,” responded Buck hastily, and ran to join his men.
The north trail was nearly hidden from them, but they could make out a trail of dust, and presently the swiftly moving object which had drawn the attention of Davitt. As this object came closer Davitt uttered an impatient exclamation.
“Ain’t no rider at all! By gosh, it’s a hoss!”
“It’s Jake Harper’s hoss, Celestine,” added Buck, watching the approaching beast.
“He got away from us when we nabbed Jake yestiddy,” said Sandy Davitt. “Git a rope, boys——”