An' he couldn't tell what bronc he took last night--it
was too dark. He must 'a' struck a match an' seen where that Bar-20
cayuse was an' then took the first one nearest that wasn't it. An' now
you tell me how the devil he knowed yourn was the fastest, which it
ain't," he finished, sarcastically, gloating over a chance to rub it
into the man he had always regarded as a windy old nuisance.
"Well, mebby what you said is--"
"Mebby nothing!" snapped Charley. "If he wanted to mix the tracks would
he 'a' hopped like that so we couldn't help telling what cayuse he rode?
He knowed we'd pick his trail quick, an' he knowed that every minute
counted; that's why he hopped--why, yore roan was going like the wind
afore he got in the saddle. If you don't believe it, look at them
toe-prints!"
"H'm; reckon yo're right, Charley. My eyes ain't nigh as good as they
once was. But I heard him say something 'bout Winchester," replied Old
John, glad to change the subject. "Bet he's going over there, too. He
won't get through that town on no critter wearing my brand. Everybody
knows that roan, an'--"
"Quit guessing!" snapped Charley, beginning to lose some of the tattered
remnant of his respect for old age. "He's a whole lot likely to head for
a town on a stolen cayuse, now ain't he! But we don't care where he's
heading; we'll foller the trail.
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