McAllister and Snoots stared at poor Shorty, but Allen’s eyes were on the men’s faces as they told their story.
“Why don’t yuh go track them killers?” Allen said, with apparent excitement, to McAllister.
“Reckon I will.”
The two riders headed toward the ranch. McAllister ordered Snoots to stay with the remuda until he returned, and then he and Allen headed toward Sunk Creek.
“What did yuh want me to come out here for?” McAllister asked after they had ridden in silence for a time.
“’Cause Shorty wasn’t killed where they found him,” Allen explained. “There was blood on his off-stirrup leather, and he was tied on with his head on the near side, so I figger he was packed twice. Reckon he got too curious—he tells me the other night he was plumb curious naturally.”
A short time later, they were in the wash near the big white stones where Shorty’s body had been found. Allen circled around and found the tracks of three horses. He followed them with the sureness and cunning of the desert wolf, up the wash, across the range, and twisting among the brush. There were times when Bill McAllister could see no sign at all and believed that the outlaw had lost the trail. Then, after they had twisted about for a mile, he would see bent blades of grass or scuffled stones, proving that Allen had been following the trail with the sureness of death itself.
The trail twisted this way and that, but always came nearer and nearer to the Hard Pan country.
“Yep, Shorty was tellin’ me he was plumb curious to visit over there. Reckon he did an’ gets cashed,” Allen said. “Reckon if they kills a gent for gettin’ curious about this here Hard Pan country, I figgers I better amble in there myself.”
He warned Bill McAllister to say nothing about their having followed the trail, and then he swung Honeyboy about and headed toward the wooded country that lay to the left of the Hard Pan. His companion rode soberly back to the Double R Ranch.