"
"Grub pile!" shouted Stevenson, and the two made haste to obey.
"Charley, gimme a chaw of yore tobacker," and Old John, biting off a
generous chunk, quietly slipped it into his pocket, there to lay until
after he had eaten his breakfast.
All talk was tabled while the three men gulped down a cold and
uninviting meal. Ten minutes later they had finished and separated to
find horses and spread the news; in fifteen more they had them and were
riding along the plain trail at top speed, with three other men close at
their heels. Three hundred yards from the corral they pounded out of
an arroyo, and Charley, who was leading, stood up in his stirrups and
looked keenly ahead. Another trail joined the one they were following
and ran with and on top of it. This, he reasoned, had been made by one
of the strays and would turn away soon. He kept his eyes looking
well ahead and soon saw that he was right in his surmise, and without
checking the speed of his horse in the slightest degree he went ahead
on the trail of the smaller hoof-prints. In a moment Old John spurred
forward and gained his side and began to argue hot-headedly.
"Hey! Charley!" he cried. "Why are you follering this track?" he
demanded.
"Because it's his; that's why."
"Well, here, wait a minute!" and Old John was getting red from
excitement.
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