“Search me.”
“It must have been—looks like the hold-up was somebody—my God, man, we left this rag at the ranch when we started!” the rancher whispered.
“That’s right.”
“We planned this thing right under the nigger’s room. He must ’a’ heard and—— But it don’t look like Jim Budd to do a thing like that.”
Norris had crossed the road again and was standing on the edge of the lateral.
“Hello! This ditch is full of water. When we passed down it was empty,” he said.
Lee crossed over and stood by his side, a puzzled frown on his face. “There hadn’t ought to be water running hyer now,” he said, as if to himself. “I don’t see how it could ’a’ come hyer, for Bill Weston—he’s 91 the ditch rider—went to Mesa this mo’ning, and couldn’t ’a’ got back to turn it in.”
The younger man stooped and examined a foot-print at the edge of the ditch. It was the one Melissy had made just as she stepped into the rig.
“Here’s something new, Lee. We haven’t seen this gentleman’s track before. Looks like a boy’s. It’s right firm and deep in this soft ground. I’ll bet a cooky your nigger never made that track.”
The Southerner crouched down beside him, and they looked at it together, head to head.