"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 bump
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 cocked on one side like a
saucy meadowlark, and whistled snatches of "Hell 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.
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