With spurs clinking the riders ran and trooped behind him.
"More hosses back," said Holley, quietly.
"Thar's Plume!" exclaimed Farlane.
"An' Two Face!" added Van.
"Dusty Ben!" said another.
"RIDERLESS!" finished Bostil.
Then all were intensely quiet, watching the racers come trotting in single file down the ridge. Sarchedon's shrill neigh, like a whistle-blast, pealed in from the sage. From, fields and corrals clamored the answer attended by the clattering of hundreds of hoofs.
Sarchedon and his followers broke from trot to canter—canter to gallop—and soon were cracking their hard hoofs on the stony court. Like a swarm of bees the riders swooped down upon the racers, caught them, and led them up to Bostil.
On Sarchedon's neck showed a dry, dust-caked stain of reddish tinge. Holley, the old hawk-eyed rider, had precedence in the examination.
"Wal, thet's a bullet-mark, plain as day," said Holley.