“No, it ain’t Jim’s. I don’t rightly savez this thing at all,” the old man muttered, troubled at this mystery which seemed to point to his household.
“By Moses, I’ve got it! The guy who did the holding up had his horse down here. He loaded the sack on its back and drove off up the ditch. All we got to do is follow the ditch up or down till we come to the place where he climbed out and struck across country.”
“That’s right, Phil. He must have had a pardner up at the head-gates. They had some kind of signal arranged, and when Mr. Hold-up was ready down come the water and washed out his tracks. It’s a blame’ smooth piece of business if you ask me.”
“The fellow made two bad breaks, though. That piece of shirt is one. This foot-print is another. They may land him in the pen yet.”
“I don’t think it,” returned the old man with composure, and as he spoke his foot erased the telltale 92 print. “I ’low there won’t anybody go to the pen for he’pin himself to Mr. Morse’s gold dust. I don’t give a cuss who it was.”
Norris laughed in his low, easy way. “I’m with you, Mr. Lee. We’ll make a thorough job while we’re at it and mess up these other tracks. After that we’ll follow the ditch up and see if there’s anything doing.”
They remounted their broncos and rode them across the tracks several times, then followed the lateral up, one on either side of the ditch, their eyes fastened to the ground to see any evidence of a horse having clambered over the bank. They drew in sight of the ranch house without discovering what they were looking for. Lee’s heart was in his mouth, for he knew that he would see presently what his eye sought.
“I reckon the fellow went down instead of up,” suggested Norris.
“No, he came up.”
Lee had stopped and was studying wheel tracks that ran up from the ditch to his ranch house. His face was very white and set. He pointed to them with a shaking finger.