Part 13 (1/2)

CHAPTER XVII.

A MASTER-STROKE OF VILLAINY.

Piegan shortly proved that he made no vain boast when he a.s.serted his ability to follow their track. A lifetime on the plains, and a natural fitness for the life, had made him own brother to the Indian in the matter of nosing out dim trails. The crus.h.i.+ng of a tuft of gra.s.s, a broken twig, all the half-hidden signs that the feet of horses and men leave behind, held a message for him; nothing, however slight, escaped his eagle eye. And he did it subconsciously, without perceptible effort.

The surpa.s.sing skill of his tracking did not strike me forcibly at first, for I can read an open trail as well as the average cowman, and the mark of their pa.s.sing lay plain before us; the veriest pilgrim, new come from graded roads and fenced pastures, could have counted the number of their steps--each hoof had stamped its impression in the soft loam as clearly as a steel die-cut in soaked leather. But that was where they had ridden while the land was still plastic from the rain. Farther, wind and sun had dried the ridge-turf to its normal firmness and baked the dobe flats till in places they were of their old flinty hardness.

Yet Piegan crossed at a lope places where neither MacRae nor I could glimpse a sign--and when we would come again to soft ground the trail of the three would rise up to confront us, and bid us marvel at the keenness of his vision. He had a gift that we lacked.

We followed in the wake of Piegan Smith with what speed the coulee-gashed prairie permitted, and about three o'clock halted for half an hour to let our horses graze; we had been riding steadily over four hours, and it behooved us to have some thought for our mounts. Within ten minutes of starting again we dipped into a wide-bottomed coulee and came on the place where the three had made their first night-camp--a patch of dead ashes, a few half-burned sticks, and the close-cropped gra.s.s-plots where each horse had circled a picket-pin.

Beyond these obvious signs, there was nothing to see. Nothing, at least, that I could see except faint tracks leading away from the spot. These we had followed but a short distance when Piegan, who was scrutinizing the ground with more care than he had before shown, pulled up with an exclamation.

”Blamed if they ain't got company, from the look uh things,” he grunted, squinting down. ”I thought that was considerable of a trail for them t'

make. You fellers wait here a minute. I want t' find out which way them tracks come in.”

He loped back, swinging in north of the campground. While he was gone, MacRae and I leaned over in our saddles and scanned closely the gra.s.s-carpeted bottom-land. That the hoofs of pa.s.sing horses had pressed down the rank growth of gra.s.s was plain enough, but whether the hoofs of six or a dozen we could only guess. Piegan turned, rode to where they had built their fire, circled the place, then came back to us.

”All right,” he said. ”I was sure there was more livestock left that campin'-place than we followed in. They come from the north--four hosses, two uh them rode an' the other two led, I think, from the way they heaved around a-crossin' a washout back yonder.”

A mile or so farther we crossed a bare sandy stretch on the flat bottom of another coulee, and on its receptive surface the trail lay like a printed page--nine distinct, separate horse-tracks.

”Five riders an' four extra hosses, if I ain't read the sign wrong,”

Piegan casually remarked. ”Say, we'll have our hands full if we b.u.mp into this bunch unexpected, eh?”

”They'll make short work of us if they get half a chance,” Mac agreed.

”But we'll make it a surprise party if we can.”

From there on Piegan set a pace that taxed our horses' mettle--that was one consolation--we were well mounted. All three of us were good for a straightaway chase of a hundred miles if it came to a showdown. Piegan knew that we must do our trailing in daylight, and rode accordingly. He kept their trail with little effort, head c.o.c.ked on one side like a saucy meadowlark, and whistled s.n.a.t.c.hes of ”h.e.l.l Among the Yearlin's,”

as though the prospect of a sanguinary brush with thieves was pleasing in the extreme.

The afternoon was on its last lap when we came in sight of Stony Crossing. The trail we followed wound along the crest of a ridge midway between the Crossing and Ten Mile Spring, where we had left Baker's outfit that rainy morning. The freighters had moved camp, but the mud and high water had held them, for we could see the white-sheeted wagons and a blur of cattle by the cottonwood grove where Hank Rowan had made his last stand. Presently we crossed the trail made by the string of wagons; it was fresh; made that morning, I judged. A little farther, on a line between the Crossing and the Spring, Piegan pulled up again, and this time the cause of his halting needed no explanation. The bunch had stopped and tarried there a few minutes, as the jumbled hoof-marks bore witness, and the track of two horses led away toward Ten Mile Spring.

”Darn it all!” Piegan grumbled. ”Now, what d'yuh reckon's the meanin' uh that? Them two has lit straight for where Baker's layout was camped this mornin'. What for? Are they pullin' out uh the country with the coin? Or are they lookin' for you fellers?”

”Well”--MacRae thought a moment--”considering the care they've taken to cover up their movements, I don't see what other object they could have in view but making a smooth getaway. They've worked it nicely all around. You know that if there was anything they wanted they weren't taking any risk by going to any freight camp. We're the only men in the country that know why they are pulling out this way--and _they_ know that we daren't go in and report it, because they've managed to put us on the dodge. They have reason to be sure that headquarters wouldn't for a minute listen to a yarn like we'd have to tell--they'd have time to ride to Mexico, while we sucked our thumbs in the guardhouse waiting for the rest of the Police to get wise by degrees.”

”Then I tell yuh what let's do,” Piegan abruptly decided. ”I like t'

know what's liable t' happen when I'm on a jaunt uh this kind. One of us better head in for the Crossin' an' find out for sure if any uh them fellers come t' the camp, an' what he wanted there. An' seein' n.o.body outside uh Horner knows I'm in on this play, I reckon I better go m'self. If there should happen t' be a stray trooper hangin' round there, the same would be mighty awkward for you fellers. So I'll go. You poke along the trail slow, an' I'll overhaul yuh.”

”All right,” MacRae agreed, and Piegan forthwith departed for the Crossing.

After Piegan left us we rode at a walk, and even then it was something of a task to follow the faint impression. In the course of an hour a cl.u.s.ter of dark objects appeared on the bench, coming rapidly toward us.

MacRae brought the gla.s.ses to bear on them at once, for there was always the unpleasant possibility of Mounted Policemen cutting in on our trail; the riders of every post along the line were undoubtedly on the watch for us.

”It's Piegan and another fellow,” Mac announced shortly. ”They're leading two extra horses, and Piegan has changed mounts himself. I wonder what's up--they seem to be in a d.i.c.kens of a hurry.”