“Since the rain!” he exclaimed. “That's not two days yet.” He came and examined the footprints. “A man and a hawss,” he said, frowning. “Going the same way we are. How did he come to pass us, and us not see him?”
“One of the other trails,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but there's not many that knows them. They are pretty rough trails.”
“Worse than this one we're taking?”
“Not much; only how does he come to know any of them? And why don't he take the Conant trail that's open and easy and not much longer? One man and a hawss. I don't see who he is or what he wants here.”
“Probably a prospector,” I suggested.
“Only one outfit of prospectors has ever been here, and they claimed there was no mineral-bearing rock in these parts.”
We got back into our saddles with the mystery unsolved. To the Virginian it was a greater one, apparently, than to me; why should one have to account for every stray traveller in the mountains?
“That's queer, too,” said the Virginian. He was now riding in front of me, and he stopped, looking down at the trail. “Don't you notice?”
It did not strike me.