“Well, don’t sit there on your pony, arguing,” cut in the ranchman. “Get down and search the ground for horse-hoof tracks. Deadshot, you’ve always been bragging how all-fired clever you were at picking out trails, now show us if you can produce.”
This calling upon their comrade to “make good” in the matter which formed his favorite topic for bragging, brought smiles to the faces of the other cowboys, and they sat back in their saddles preparatory to awaiting the result of Deadshot’s scouting.
But their delight in the situation was rudely banished.
“Don’t sit there like a bunch of tenderfeet waiting for a guide to drum up some game,” snapped Bowser. “Get down and see if you can’t beat Deadshot to it. You want to remember there’s such critturs as the Injuns call ‘heap talk’ men.”
The owner of the raided ranch was not the one, however, to leave all the work to his men, and even as he spoke, he slipped from his saddle and was soon crawling about on his hands and knees, peering at the trampled grass, now and then pushing it aside as he scanned the ground intently.
Spurred to action by the stinging words of their boss, the three cowpunchers were doing the same thing, and for several minutes the only sound audible was the panting of the ponies as they strove to recover their wind after their hard run.
“Must have been a shoeless broncho,” grumbled Pinky, as no imprints of a horse’s hoof rewarded his search.
“What did you expect, cavalry horses?” grunted Deadshot, contemptuously. “You mark my word, before we round up this gang of cowlifters, we’ll know we’ve been on the trail!”
“For once, you’re talking sense,” grinned Sandy.
And chafing one another good-naturedly, the cowboys continued their careful examination.