Across the water Sam saw the rumps of a small herd of elk move away into the growth of pine and juniper mantling the rock chasm still running alongside the trail. Odd, he thought, elk, mountain lion, and bear, all watering within less then thirty feet of one another. Yet odder still was that all three species had cut short sating their thirst at the glimpse of man. The only animals to remain as the ranger rode closer were birds of all sizes and varieties. They sat along the water’s rocky edge, preening themselves of the smell of smoke, and drinking fearlessly, as if knowing that in an instant they could be up and gone should man try any of his dark shenanigans.
A few of the smaller birds fluttered up and away as the ranger and the horse filed past them at less than fifteen feet. But the larger birds only stared and squawked and continued attending themselves.
“Don’t mind us,” he murmured, riding past.
When he had looked all around the water hole and satisfied himself that he and the horse were the only ones there representing their species, he swung down from the saddle, rifle in hand. The larger birds sidestepped away from him, making room, but giving up no more of their spot than they had to.
As he stepped down from his saddle he saw the hoofprints of the four horses in the sandy dirt among the rocks. On one of the half-sunken rocks he saw spots of dark blood, and he stooped, took off his glove, and touched his fingertips to it while the horse lowered its muzzle and drank.
All right, Cheyenne Kid, how far ahead are you? he asked, rubbing his fingertips on the spots, then examining them for any sign of red moisture.
“Bone dry…,” he murmured aloud, as if any of the creatures of the wilds were interested. He stood and looked back and forth along the trail, first at the smoky distant trail behind, then along the rocky winding trail ahead. Now to the earlier question he’d asked himself: Why had they ridden into the fire?
Because they had laid out their escape route before ever riding into Phoebe, he realized. Somewhere up ahead, they had fresh horses waiting for them. That was all it could be. When he worked out the miles from here to Phoebe in his head, he knew that they wouldn’t have attempted to make it as far as Bagley’s Trading Post without a change of horses. The trading post was still a twenty-six-mile ride from here, most of it over dry, rocky, leg-breaking terrain.
Fresh horses? Good enough… He’d stick with that notion until something proved otherwise, he decided, staring up along the rocky, winding trail. He had their tracks. He’d catch up to them and take them down. He only hoped none of the fire had jumped across the chasm and rekindled among the pine woodlands in front of him. It was the season for wildfires, he thought. Dry, hot, deadly. There was nothing he could do about that. His work had to go on, wildfires or no. He cradled the rifle in his arm while the horse stood drawing water beside him.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA