“Nels, whoever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met somebody. An’ they hauled up a bit, but didn’t git down.”
“Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin’,” replied the cowboy.
Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for some rods, halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced his steps. He looked at the imperturbable cowboy.
“Nels, I don’t like this a little,” he growled. “Them tracks make straight fer the Peloncillo trail.”
“Shore,” replied Nels.
“Wal?” went on Stillwell, impatiently.
“I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?”
“I’m thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure.”
“It was Danny Mains’s bronc.”
“How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply. “Bill, the left front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked. Any of the boys can tell you. I’d know thet track if I was blind.”