They were following no trail, but were cutting as near a bee-line as possible over mountains, through gulches, and along washes. McCoy led them with the sure instinct of the hillsman. The night was dark, and the hill pockets they traversed were like one another as peas in a pod. But there was never a moment when he hesitated as to direction.
The time was half-past two when Rogers struck a match and looked at his watch.
“Bald Knob is less than a mile from here,” said McCoy. “We’ll mask now in case we should bump into the camp sooner than we expect. Think we’d better cut out talking. We’ve got to surprise them. If we don’t, Tait will fight and that isn’t what we want.”
He drew from his pocket half a dozen bandannas. Each man made and fitted his own mask from a handkerchief.
“The wind is from the north. That’s lucky, because we’ve got to get at the camp from the south. The dogs couldn’t scent us even if they are close to the wagons,” Rowan explained.
“The dogs will be with the sheep. I ain’t worried about them,” answered Rogers.
They rode cautiously now, one after the other in single file. From a ridge McCoy pointed out the sheep camp at the foot of Bald Knob.
“We’ll leave our horses in that clump of pines and creep forward to the wagons,” he gave directions. “Remember, boys. No shooting. We’re going to get the drop on Tait and take him prisoner. If we can’t do that, the raid is off. We’re not killing human beings. Get that, Hal.”
Falkner nodded sulkily. “I told you I was taking orders from you to-night, Mac.”
Under cover of a hill they rode into the pines and tied their horses. McCoy deployed his men in such a way that they could move toward the camp in a half circle. He put Cole on the extreme left, and next to him Yerby, Rogers, Silcott, and Falkner in the order named. Rowan chose the place on the right for himself, because it was nearest the wagons. He stationed Falkner next to him so that he could keep an eye on him.