In the graying dusk of twilight, he rode slowly along the dusty trail, a solitary, graceful figure as he sat his horse with a careless ease, a cigaret drooping from the corner of his straight lips. Not a trace of weariness was perceptible, in spite of the fact that he had been in the saddle since dawn. He had the appearance of some cowpuncher bent on a careless mission and time was a minor factor. Yet his keen eyes constantly swept the rolling hills with a restless gaze. Always, that gaze came back to focus on the moving speck far ahead on the trail.
“Looks like he was headin’ straight fer town, Yaller Hammer,” he said softly to the twitching, dun colored ears of his horse. “Mebbeso I’m havin’ this here ride fer nothin’, I dunno.”
From his chaps pocket he produced a weatherbeaten square of plug tobacco, gnawed to a ragged edge at one end. He surveyed it critically; wiped it carefully on the sleeve of his jumper and bit off a generous piece.
“Nothin’ like chawin’ tuh keep down the hungry feelin’s,” he mused aloud. “Ain’t smelt grub since daylight. Mebbeso won’t sniff none till mornin’, neither. It’s —— but it’s honest, pony, if yuh want tuh figger it thataway.”
Darkness slowly gathered and Tad and Yellow Hammer closed the gap that separated them from Joe Kipp. Tad grinned his thanks to the full moon that rose majestically from beyond the skyline.
He rode more alertly now, eyes and ears strained to catch any sign of the man he followed. Also, he watched the wagging ears of his horse. When those furry points stiffened, pointed forward, Tad would halt. Twice, when he thus stopped, he was rewarded by the sounds of a traveling horse, ahead on the trail. Once, Kipp’s horse had nickered and Tad’s big hands closed over Yellow Hammer’s black muzzle just in time to prevent an answering nicker. He allowed Kipp a bigger lead from that point on.
The hours dragged. Tad dared not risk lighting a cigaret now. The plug of tobacco was gradually being gnawed to smaller size. Then, silhouetted against the skyline, showed the lone cottonwood that marked Hank Basset’s border line. Tad could make out the form of a horseman, halted beneath the wide branches. The waiting man lighted a cigaret and Tad recognized the features of Joe Kipp.
Nodding sagely to himself, Tad dismounted and led Yellow Hammer into the tall greasewood.
“Hate tuh treat yuh so or’nary,” he whispered as he slipped a burlap sack across Yellow Hammer’s muzzle and fastened it to the cheek bands of his bridle, “but I jest can’t have yuh makin’ no hoss howdy’s, sabe? This ain’t the fust time I’ve cluttered yuh up with one uh these contraptions, so don’t act spooky. That’s the good hoss. I wisht Shorty had half yore sense, dang his or’nary li’l hide. I bet he’s in the saddle this minute, streakin’ it fer the river. Playin’ hookey like a school kid and worryin’ a man plumb ga’nt.”
With the caution of an Indian, Tad, devoid of spurs and chaps which were hung to his saddle horn, crept through the brush toward the cottonwood. Two horses stood beneath the lone tree now. The glowing ash of two cigarets showed where the dismounted horsemen squatted against the wide tree trunk.