The task, however, of discovering any tracks of ponies in the trampled and cloven-hoof cut ground proved too great for the powers of the plainsmen and at last they abandoned the attempt.
“It’s no use wasting any more time,” declared the ranchman straightening up. “After all, it doesn’t make any difference how many of the sneaks there were. Whether their band numbers two or a dozen, we’re going to get them! We’ve found their trail, that’s the main thing.”
Chagrined to think he had not been able to “make good” on his oft-repeated assertions of his ability to track anything that went on legs, Deadshot was finally obliged to mount his pinto and ride after the others, who had mounted as soon as their boss had called the search off, and were following the well-defined trail through the grass.
“Where do you reckon the cowlifters are headed, Deadshot?” asked Bowser, as the man overtook them.
Determined not to venture another opinion not founded on good grounds, the cowpuncher stood up in his saddle and scanned the horizon ahead and to the right and left.
“Course, there ain’t no way of saying for certain,” he began, “but, from what I know of cowlifters’ little ways and the lay of these here plains——”
“Oh, cut it short! We ain’t no pleasure party being toted round on a ‘rubberneck’ expedition,” growled Pinky. “If you’ve got any idea, out with it.”
“As I was saying, from my knowledge of the tricks of cattle raiders and these plains,” repeated Deadshot, ignoring the interruption of his bunkmate, “I should say the lifters were headed for the Sangammon bottoms. They ain’t more than forty mile away, and there’s swamps in there with grass high enough to hide an elephant.”
With various comments, the others received this suggestion of the destination of the Midnight Raider, but no one ventured an open contradiction.
“I reckon you’ve hit the mark this time, Deadshot,” finally declared the ranch owner. “Though I’d hoped the devils might have headed for the old Indian catacombs, over in the Haunted Valley. It would be an all-fired sight easier to rout them out from the tombs than from the Sangammon swamps—and not so dangerous to us. A man’s liable to strike a mudhole and be sucked under before his pals could find him.”