Jim scrutinized the ground before he answered.
“Horses this time; ain't it? Maybe they are a week old,” but he unslung the long rifle he carried attached to his saddle; seeing which the Missourian laughed.
“Now, what do you allow to use that on, Jim? Don't you see it ain't Indians? Most of these hosses had their forefeet shod. Emigrants, don't you reckon?”
He pushed back his hat, and leaned languidly forward in his saddle.
“They seem to have been doing right smart cavorting about heah, don't they? Some pretty aimless riding for folks who was going anywhere in particular—no—” slowly, “they certainly seemed pushed for time—these hosses was on the jump. Say, Jim, why do you reckon they was on the jump?” He moved forward a step or two, with his mild eyes still fixed on the ground. “Fact is, they seem to have been riding in a sort of a circle about this heah hill—”
A dark shadow slipped across the sandy plain, and the Missourian glanced up quickly. It was another buzzard; but it was winging its way toward the hill. His glance followed it—it flew straight, with large lazy flappings.
“That bird certainly knows where it's going, and it ain't wasting no time in getting there; what do you reckon's on that hill, Jim?”
Jim moved uneasily in his saddle, but he managed to say with tolerable composure.
“If you're so blame curious, why don't you go see?”
“Well, I'm doggone certain if I left it to you we'd never know.”