“Regular rabbit, ain't he?” chuckled the sheriff, and back they went to the trail again on which two hundred yards below the Pine they saw the tracks pointing again to Lonesome Cove.
On down the trail they went, and at the top of the spur that overlooked Lonesome Cove, the Falin sheriff pulled in suddenly and got off his horse. There the tracks swerved again into the bushes.
“He's goin' to wait till daylight, fer fear somebody's follered him. He'll come in back o' Devil Judd's.”
“How do you know he's going to Devil Judd's?” asked Hale.
“Whar else would he go?” asked the Falin with a sweep of his arm toward the moonlit wilderness. “Thar ain't but one house that way fer ten miles—and nobody lives thar.”
“How do you know that he's going to any house?” asked Hale impatiently. “He may be getting out of the mountains.”
“D'you ever know a feller to leave these mountains jus' because he'd killed a man? How'd you foller him at night? How'd you ever ketch him with his start? What'd he turn that way fer, if he wasn't goin' to Judd's—why d'n't he keep on down the river? If he's gone, he's gone. If he ain't, he'll be at Devil Judd's at daybreak if he ain't thar now.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Go on down with the hosses, hide 'em in the bushes an' wait.”
“Maybe he's already heard us coming down the mountain.”