Eagerly the others awaited his verdict as to the time the animal had been lying there.
But Deadshot spoke never a word.
“Well?” snapped his master, unable to restrain his impatience when several minutes had passed and the cowboy had not voiced his opinion.
“The body’s cold, Sam. But it ain’t stone cold.”
“Which means we’ve got some tall riding to do if we expect to overhaul the ornery cusses before they lose themselves in the swamp,” commented Pinky.
“That shows how much you know,” retorted the ranchman. “We’re a good twenty mile from the home corral, which is about half way to the bottoms, according to Deadshot, and the steer is cold. Consequently, the rest of the bunch must have passed here a good six hours ago. No man, unless he had wings, could overtake the cowlifters before they reached Sangammon, eh, Sandy?”
“Reckon you’ve got it about right, Sam,” returned his foreman. “The raiders had all of six hours start, and judging from the condition of this steer, here, they’re running the critturs to the limit. If that animal ain’t thirty pound poorer than when he left the corral, I don’t know anything about cattle.”
“Then you think we haven’t gained on them?” demanded Bowser, anxiously.
“None to speak of.”
“And, what’s more, we won’t be able to cut down enough of their lead to make it worth while to kill our ponies trying to,” interposed Deadshot. “Sandy’s telling it straight when he says the devils are running the steers for all they can. If we don’t come across more than half of them before we get to the swamps, I’ll miss my guess.”