Such was the position of the men that Deadshot was on the extreme right, or Western, end of the line, while Pinky, Sandy and the owner of the raided ranch stretched away toward the East, in the order named.
As an hour of daylight went by without the discovery of the track, the cowmen began to realize that the pursuit of the cattlelifters would be no easy task, judging from the manner in which they had managed to conceal the trail of fifty odd steers.
The realization, however, only made them the more determined to pick up their track, and they settled down to the work grimly.
At first they had ridden to and fro, rising now and again in their stirrups to survey the plains about them.
Finding this method of no avail, the ranchman rode over to Sandy and ordered him to begin and systematically ride back and forth, advancing about three hundred yards at each turn, telling him to pass the word to Pinky, who would, in turn, inform the cowboy on the extreme West.
“If we can’t pick up the trail within five miles, we’ll try the same tactics to the West and then to the North and East. A man can’t put fifty steers in his pocket and carry ’em off. The trail’s round here somewhere—and it’s up to us to get busy and find it!” snapped Bowser, as he whirled his pony and started back.
Before the new order could be communicated by Sandy to Deadshot, however, the latter suddenly rose in his stirrups and waved his arms wildly. But, failing to attract the attention of his companions, he whipped out his six-shooters and fired three times.
The barking of the guns produced the desired effect.
Wheeling their ponies, the others beheld their comrade waving his hands to them in signal to ride to him.
“Have you found ’em?”