"I hate to think how we-all stirred theyr peace. Still, Bryant has stroked theyr fur by now," she sighed. "Them visitors rumpled me too, and all my brussles is pointing the wrong way still."
"D'you reckon, Curly," I asked, "that the City Marshal is hoping to trail us by starlight?"
"Not to hurt," she yawned, "'cept maybe he's got smell-dogs guidin' his posse. Yes, I remember a while back the Marshal bought a team of blood-hounds."
She didn't seem to take much interest, so I proposed that we roll our tails.
"I see his lantern," said Curly; "thar it is agin. We got a ten-mile start."
I saw the glimmer then. "Come on," said I.
"Poco tiempo," says Curly. "I'm fearful sorry for them pore ladies yondeh."
I dragged her away, and we rode on, throwing the miles astern. Every two hours or so Curly would give the horses a rest and a taste of grass—a trick she had learned from Indians, which kept them fresh for a trail.
The night was cold, with a little "lazy wind," as Curly called it, too tired to go round, so it went right through us. Just before dawn we crossed a clay flat holding a slough of mud, and found it hard with frost.
"When water goes to sleep with cold," says Curly, "a smell-dog's nose ain't goin' to guide his laigs. This frost is due to send the posse home."