“Mighty queer,” said Knowles, after they had carried their examination over a hundred yards. “Either he came down more slanting or else––”
“What do you make of this?” Blake interrupted, bending over a blurred round print in the dust between two grass tufts.
“Sho!” exclaimed the cowman as he peered at the mark. “That’s why, of course.”
“Indian shoes,” said Blake.
“You’ve seen a thing or two. You’re no tenderfoot,” remarked Knowles.
“I have myself shrunk rawhide shoes on horses’ hoofs when short of iron shoes,” Blake explained. “This would make a hard trail to run down without hounds.”
The cowman straightened and looked at his companion, his weather-beaten face set in quiet resolve.
“I know what’s better than hounds,” he said. “This is one badman who has played his game once too often. I’m going to run him down if it takes all year and all the men in the county. There’s a couple of Ute bucks being held in the jail at Stockchute, to be tried for hunting deer. I’m going to get the loan of them. The sheriff will turn out with a posse, and we’ll trail that snake, if it takes us clear over into Utah.” 237
“We’ll have a fair chance to get him with Ute trackers,” agreed Blake.
Knowles shook his head. “Unless you’re particular to come along, Mr. Blake, I’d like you and Lafe to keep on with this survey. I’ve been worrying over the chance of losing my range, till it’s got on my nerves.”