Half an hour later its yellow, sandy surface lay beneath their feet, an open book for the reading.
All three leaped from the saddle and began a close examination of it, while their sweating horses promptly regaled themselves with the ripe, tufty grass at the trail side.
Sergeant McBain narrowly scrutinized the wheel tracks, estimating the speed at which the last vehicle to pass had been traveling. The blurred hoofmarks of the horses warned him they had been driven hard.
“We’re behind ’em, boys,” he declared promptly, “an’ their gait says they’re taking no chances.”
Further down the trail one of the troopers answered him:
“There’s four saddle horses with ’em,” he said thoughtfully. “Two shod, and two shod on the forefeet only. Guess, with the teamster, that makes five men. Prairie toughs, I’d guess.”
The sergeant concurred, while they continued their examination.
Then the third man exclaimed sharply—
“Here!” he cried, picking something up at the side of the trail.
The others joined him at once.