As if to show that this region was not wholly devoid of life, at that moment a band of antelopes broke from a ravine less than a mile away and went gamboling over the short grass, furnishing as pretty a picture as the eye could wish to see. The white patches on their flanks glistened in the sunlight.
“No, Injuns, or other kind of cattle, over there,” commented Wild Bill, when he saw them. “Or, if there are, they’re lying too still for the antelopes to see them.”
The antelopes swept on across the level land and disappeared in another depression a mile or more away.
“The thing we’ll have to do is to separate and look for the trail,” said Buffalo Bill. “We can cover a good deal of country in a couple of hours, and then we can come together and compare notes.” He glanced around again. “You see the mesquite grove straight ahead, with the tall mesquite growing in the center of it like a sentinel? What do you say for that as our rendezvous?”
“Good enough!” assented Wild Bill. “We’ll meet there in two hours and compare notes.”
“And if we strike the trail, either of us, let a pistol shot announce the fact,” said Stevens; “and then the others can join him.”
He was anxious to be in motion again—to be doing something. His haggard face told how he had suffered mentally during the night.
When this was agreed to, the three separated, riding in different directions, each with eyes on the ground, searching for the lost trail.
It was plain that Barlow, in his flight, had not stuck to the direction he had taken in setting out, yet it was likely, or possible, that he had merely deviated from a direct line to baffle pursuit, and was really keeping on in the same general direction.
An hour after this separation Buffalo Bill heard a distant shot.