Sleepy and Big Medicine went to a store and purchased some rifle cartridges, while Ike, Musical, and Cleve procured a few articles of food, which might be carried in their pockets or tied to a saddle.
They rode out of Pinnacle, as if heading for the Tumbling H, but changed their course toward the south as soon as they left the town. Big Medicine had not complained over his loss, but there was an expression in his eyes which boded no good to the guilty parties.
They crossed the divide and followed the old road to the border, where they struck the trail to the Rancho Sierra. There were plenty of horse tracks in the dusty trail, all pointing to the south.
“Plenty horses goin’ in,” observed Sleepy. “And we’ve got to be danged observin’, gents. I understand that these folks down here get kinda careless when it comes to foolin’ with another man’s life.”
“And I’m one of ’em, if I find the jigger that broke my phonygraft record,” declared Musical. “That’s what yuh might call bein’ rowdyish, ain’t it?”
“Aw, yuh can get another record,” growled Ike.
“Thasso? Not jist like that, Ike. That singer’s dead now.”
“I’d ’a’ bet on that,” said Cleve. “No danged human could sing thataway and live.”
Musical grumbled to himself something about some folks not having an ear for music, but finally dropped the subject. The trail wound in and out of the rocky, brush-covered hills, where an army could hide.
Ike had ridden almost to the ranch one day, looking for stolen cattle, and had viewed the place from a rocky point, so he was elected to guide the party to this place.