The sheriff swore under his breath. He had no logical answer ready.
“How much farther have we got to go from the forks?” demanded Phelps of the scout.
“About a mile.”
“Ride on, Hank,” urged the doctor. “The quicker we ride, the quicker we’ll be going back to the H-P ranch and Jake. Don’t waste time like this.”
Phelps rattled his spurs and made off. Bloom rushed on beside him.
“Waugh!” yelled the old trapper, waving his hat as those from the H-P ranch came up; “blamed ef ye didn’t do ther trick. Got Sawbones, too, an’ our friend, the sheriff. Whoop!”
There were no greetings exchanged between Phelps, Bloom and the other party. The doctor was gay and civil with all, and especially with Mrs. Dunbar.
“Now, then, amigos,” called the scout, “follow my lead. It won’t be long before you get developments.”
The scout set the pace, and behind him came the strangely assorted party. The course carried the riders along that part of the trail which the scout and the trapper had covered on the preceding day when riding to Hackamore. They galloped around the base of the hill, on for a hundred yards, then swerved to pass into a gully between two uplifts.
“I wonder whatever we’re comin’ in hyar fer?” muttered Nomad. “Ef I had ther sense of er locoed steer, mebbyso I could figger out which way the wind lies. But I kain’t. I’ll hev ter wait till somebody drors a diagram, an’ explains in words o’ one syllable.”