It was nearly
one by the time the party started down the sandy road to the south,
Hart and his buckboard and a sturdy brace of mules joining them as
they passed the store. "We may need to bring him back in this," said
he, to Corporal Quirk.
"An' what did ye fetch to bring him _to_ wid?" asked the corporal.
Hart touched lightly the breast of his coat, then clucked to his team.
"Faith, there's more than wan way of tappin' it then," said Quirk, but
the cavalcade moved on.
The crescent moon had long since sunk behind the westward range, and
trailing was something far too slow and tedious. They spurred,
therefore, for the nearest ranch, five miles down stream, making their
first inquiry there. The inmates were slow to arise, but quick to
answer. Blakely had neither been seen nor heard of. Downs they didn't
wish to know at all. Indians hadn't been near the lower valley since
the "break" at the post the previous week. One of the inmates declared
he had ridden alone from Camp McDowell within three days, and there
wasn't a 'Patchie west of the Matitzal. Hart did all the questioning.
He was a business man and a brother. Soldiers, the ranchmen didn't
like--soldiers set too much value on government property.
The trail ran but a few hundred yards east of the stream, and close to
the adobe walls of the ranch.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142