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
grass-carpeted bottom-land. That the hoofs of passing horses had pressed
down the rank growth of grass 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.
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