"The canvasman, of course," said the young motorist, looking around at Burton, "couldn't tell you which fork the monkey wagon would take."
"Here's a go!" muttered Burton. "If we take one fork, we may be hustling off on the wrong scent. At a guess, I should say take the right-hand branch."
"Let's not do any guessing until we have to," Matt returned. "My cowboy chum here is a good hand at picking up trails. Show us how they do it in Arizona, Joe."
McGlory was out of the car in a flash and giving his attention to the surface of the road.
"You might as well try to hunt for the print of a rabbit's foot in the trail of a herd of stampeded steers," said McGlory, after five precious minutes spent in fruitless examination.
"What sort of a cowboy are you, anyhow?" scoffed Burton.
"Well, look," answered McGlory. "The ground is all cut up with people coming to the show, and it's none too soft. I couldn't pick out the tread of a traction thrashing machine in all this jumble of prints."
"Any one coming on either road?" queried Burton, standing up and looking. "If there is, we could inquire as to whether they'd passed the monkey wagon."
"See any one?" asked Matt.