“Let's see, this's Friday. It was last Monday.”
“What were they doing over here?”
“Said they were tracking a horse that had broken his hobbles. But they seemed uneasy, and soon rode off.”
“Did either of them ride a horse with one shoe shy?”
“Now I think of it, yes. Zeke noticed the track at the spring.”
“Well, Chance and Culver had been out our way,” declared Dave. “I saw their tracks, and they filled up the Blue Star waterhole—and cost us three thousand sheep.”
Then he related the story of the drive of the sheep, the finding of the plugged waterhole, the scent of the Colorado, and the plunge of the sheep into the canyon.
“We've saved one, Mescal's belled lamb,” he concluded.
Neither Zeke nor George had a word in reply. Hare thought their silence unnatural. Neither did the mask-like stillness of their faces change. But Hare saw in their eyes a pointed clear flame, vibrating like a compass-needle, a mere glimmering spark.
“I'd like to know,” continued Dave, calmly poking the fire, “who hired Dene's men to plug the waterhole. Dene couldn't do that. He loves a horse, and any man who loves a horse couldn't fill a waterhole in this desert.”