"Well?" There was almost impatience in Jeff's monosyllable.
For answer Bud pointed at a number of rough fences, uneven, crude, makeshift, some distance away.
"See them? Oh, yes, I guess they're corrals sure. But it don't take a feller who's lived all his life among cattle more'n five seconds to locate their meanin'. They're corrals set up in an a'mighty hurry by folks who hate work o' that sort anyway. An' I'd say, Jeff, cattlemen—real cattlemen—don't dump a range down in the heart of the Cathills, not even fer this sweet-grass you can see around, when ther's the prairie jest outside. That is cattlemen who got no sort o' reason fer keepin' quit of the—open plains. Then ther's bin a big drive away north from here. Mebbe they wer' gettin' clear of this fire."
Under the influence of Bud's clear convictions all Jeff's fears vanished. He accepted the other's admittedly better understanding of these things all the more readily that he desired earnestly to dispel the last shadows of his momentary doubt.
"That's so," he agreed. Then he added: "But anyway, our camp's gone."
"Yes. We'll make camp some'ere else. Meanwhiles——"
"Yes?"
"We must follow up the trail."
There was irrevocable decision in the older cattleman's tone. And his words had the effect of startling the other.
"But—I don't see——"