“I wish I'd a-knowed you was atter him. I'm sheriff over thar.”
Now they were without warrant or requisition, and Hale, pulling in, said sharply:
“We want that fellow. He killed a man at the Gap. If we catch him over the line, we want you to hold him for us. Come along!” The red-headed sheriff sprang on his horse and grinned eagerly:
“I'm your man.”
“Who was that fellow?” asked Hale as they galloped. The sheriff denied knowledge with a shake of his head.
“What's your name?” The sheriff looked sharply at him for the effect of his answer.
“Jim Falin.” And Hale looked sharply back at him. He was one of the Falins who long, long ago had gone to the Gap for young Dave Tolliver, and now the Falin grinned at Hale.
“I know you—all right.” No wonder the Falin chuckled at this Heaven-born chance to get a Tolliver into trouble.
At the Lonesome Pine the traces of the fugitive's horse swerved along the mountain top—the shoe of the right forefoot being broken in half. That swerve was a blind and the sheriff knew it, but he knew where Rufe Tolliver would go and that there would be plenty of time to get him. Moreover, he had a purpose of his own and a secret fear that it might be thwarted, so, without a word, he followed the trail till darkness hid it and they had to wait until the moon rose. Then as they started again, the sheriff said:
“Wait a minute,” and plunged down the mountain side on foot. A few minutes later he hallooed for Hale, and down there showed him the tracks doubling backward along a foot-path.