That night of the storm Greyhound had been within their reach, but had escaped, wounded as he was. Gus had told them of a man who had been shot in a barroom fracas, and, by the description, it was Greyhound.
This, then, was how the situation stood. The boys had but slender clues to go by—the gun, the wounded man, the fact that they believed Greyhound to be still in the vicinity. Yet with these clues they determined to search for and find Greyhound and Allen.
By four o’clock they were ready for the start. Each man carried both a revolver and a rifle, with much ammunition. Food, a canteen of water, a blanket and a rubber poncho apiece completed their packs.
Bug Eye stood before the tent as they mounted.
“You fellows are goin’ on a long journey,” he said quietly. “Good luck to you!”
Something besides the usual expression of a wish was in that sentence; something that showed a realization of the dangers of the journey. These men were not starting out on a jaunt. They were on the trail of a desperate criminal.
“So long, Bug Eye,” Roy called. His voice was low, even. “Take care of One Eleven.”
“Have a big nugget ready for you,” the puncher promised. “Well, so long!”
“So long!”
Four riders trotted down the street, past the long line of tents, and out upon the brown turf, heading toward the mountains. Greyhound would not be in the open. The home of bandits was among the hills.