“No, sir,” said the other. “When I engage to drive a man round, I’ve got to make good. If I didn’t, it would soon ruin my trade.”
Seeing he was not to be moved, Prescott asked:
“How do you strike the south trail?”
“Go straight through the town. It forks in about three miles, and you can take either branch. They’re both pretty bad, but the west one’s the shorter and the worse.”
“What’s between the forks?”
“A big patch of broken country—sandhills and bluffs. About eight miles on, the other trail runs in again.”
“Are there any homesteads on the way?”
“Nothing near the trail. There’s a shack where two fellows cutting cordwood camp.”
Prescott considered when he had thanked the man. He was tired and his horse was far from fresh, but he understood that Wandle’s team was in a worse condition. There was a possibility of his overtaking him, if he pushed on at once. Leaving the stable, he meant to walk a short distance to ease his aching limbs, but he saw a mounted man trotting up the street and called out as he recognized Stanton.
“I thought I might get news of you here,” said the trooper, pulling up. “Have you found out anything?”