The sun was just beginning to turn a deep orange at their backs when Hank finally called the weary riders to a halt and pointed out the faint, echoing chorus of dogs in the distance.
“How do they know we’re coming?” Sandy wondered. “Can they hear us so far away?”
“They’ve caught our scent,” Hank explained. “They have a very keen sense of smell.”
“How many dogs do you have?” Mike asked.
“About twenty. Real scrappers, every one.”
“I guess they have to be,” Sandy said, “to tangle with mountain lions.”
“Say!” Mike said. “That’s right. We’re in mountain-lion country now.” He turned in his saddle and peered up at the bluffs of raw rock above him.
Hank nodded. “Yep,” he said. “They’re thick as fleas around here. You’ll be close enough to shake hands with one before the week’s out.”
Hank’s prediction, it turned out later, was almost too close for comfort.