“Hello, Jim Fletcher,” called the cowboy.
“Howdy,” replied Fletcher.
At his short, dry response and the way he strode leisurely out before the posse Duane found himself modifying his contempt for Fletcher. The outlaw was different now.
“Fletcher, we've tracked a man to all but three miles of this place. Tracks as plain as the nose on your face. Found his camp. Then he hit into the brush, an' we lost the trail. Didn't have no tracker with us. Think he went into the mountains. But we took a chance an' rid over the rest of the way, seein' Ord was so close. Anybody come in here late last night or early this mornin'?”
“Nope,” replied Fletcher.
His response was what Duane had expected from his manner, and evidently the cowboy took it as a matter of course. He turned to the others of the posse, entering into a low consultation. Evidently there was difference of opinion, if not real dissension, in that posse.
“Didn't I tell ye this was a wild-goose chase, comin' way out here?” protested an old hawk-faced rancher. “Them hoss tracks we follored ain't like any of them we seen at the water-tank where the train was held up.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” replied the leader.
“Wal, Guthrie, I've follored tracks all my life—'
“But you couldn't keep to the trail this feller made in the brush.”