If I was nmriing and a tracker was following, what would I do?
I’d loose my tracks with that herd of cattle coming along behind, and when I was well along I’d find some hard surface and cut over where I’d leave no tracks to the other trail.
How long would I stay with that northeast trail?
Not long.
where he would make his decision, as I was making mine, was at the base of a V, and the two sides spread out rapidly. If he stayed long with the right-hand trail he would lose time getting back to the other.
Or would he think it out the way I was thinking, and figure I’d really aim to make it on the left-hand trail?
I took a chance and started up the left-hand trail toward the mountains. And I found no tracks. I scouted right and left, but I still found none. I’d been fairly outguessed, outsmarted, and left miles behind. Nevertheless, I had to think of a night camp, and for some time I’d been seeing the tracks of antelope or wild burros or horses heading toward a blunt brow that thrust out from the main body of the mountains. there was no trail that I could see leading that way, but the chances of water were good, so I followed the next set of tracks.
The late afternoon was still. High overhead a buzzard circled, but he had no interest in me today.
The shadows were long when I found where the tracks converged at Barrel Spring ‘m a corner of the mountain where there was quiet. I heard a few doves . nothing else.
The water was ecdd and good. I filled my canteen first … a man never knew when he might have to ran, and I wanted a riMore canteen. Then I drank, and allowed the grulla to drink. He put his nose deep into the water, pulled it out, shook his head with pleasure, and then he drank.
A dim trail came down along the small stream back of the spring.
Not lilting the look of it, I walked up a short distance, until I found a cove shielded by some brush. I went back and got my horse and picketed it on the grass there, hidden from sight of anything but the buzzard.
Chewing on some jerky, I returned to the spring for another drink, brushed out my tracks in the sand, trying to leave no sign that anyone had been there.
Then I went back behind the brush with my horse and bedded down in the soft sand.
Lying there with my pistol at hand, I considered the situation.
About a day’s ride to the north-perhaps a day and a half-was the stage route to Salt Lake and points east. There was a town up there, and further along the stage route was Eureka, a booming town of mines, theatres, and saloons.
If Pony had gone up the valley he would be heading for Eureka, or cutting back to Austin .
which I thought was the name of the town to the north. If the latter, I had a good chance to cut him off there and get my horse back, and my guns. To say nothing money in my saddlebags.
, of the if he rode east … well, I was going that way, anyway.
And so, if I had guessed right, was Bob Heseltine.
Something prodded me in the stomach, and instantly I was awake. I was angry and started to speak, but the shape of that hat against the night warned me.
It was Pony, and he had me again.
“You just set tight, stranger, until I have a look at you.” I heard a match strike, and my hand beside my blankets closed on a handful of sand.
He was leaning forward, his rifle held in his right hand. He would kill me the moment he recognized me. He was just making sure, and .
My hand shot up and let go with the sand in his eyes.
He gave a low screech and the match went out, and I swept the rifle muzzle up with the other hand. The gun went off and I was on him, punching and striking hard.
Somehow he lost his grip on his rifle, but we came up fighting. I hit him in the mouth and he staggered, reaching for his hip. I went in fast, punching with both hands, and he never got the gun out. He went down, tried to roll aside, and I Ideked, catching him in the belly.
He grunted with pain, but there was no quit in the man. We both were fighting for our lives, ana he came up clawing at my eyes. I leaped back almost tripped over a stone, and suddenly he grabbed up his rifle and was gone into the shadows.
Cursing myself for a foot I pulled back into the brush, careful to make no sound.
His horses! They had to be close by, and on them were my money, my rifle, my gun.
Swiftly, I turned into the brush, caught up the picket rope of the gruua, and swung to its back. Gun in hand, I rode into the trail, saw the shadow of the horses below, and went down the trail at a nm.
The horses stood at the spring, still saddled. I swung into my own saddle on the line-back dun, and leading the other horses, rode up the trail to the north. Behind me I heard a shout, then a shot that missed by yards, and then I was riding away at a good clip.
I now had my own horse back, and I had his horse, saddle, and outfit.
Now his turn had come to walk. He had one advantage. He had his rifle and he was not far from ranches and a town.
All night long I pressed on, switching from horse to horse. I cut across by a dim game trail to Indian Valley, ate a good breakfast from some of Pony’s carefully bought supplies, and then I rode out along the bank of the Reese River, heading north.
He wouldn’t quit, I was sure. I had bested him and he would come after me, and for as murderous a man as he was, he would have no trouble getting a horse.
He would simply shoot the first man he saw with one.
My money was still in the saddlebags, and with it a small poke of gold.
Men took a long look at me when I rode into Austin, but I paid no attention. I wanted to take a little time to get a good meal, and went into a restaurant.
The marshal came in, glanced at me sharply, and jerked his head toward the horses outside.
“Twosaddled horses, mister? You expecting a friend?” “I’m expecting a man, but he’s no friend.
Sit down, Marshal, and have some coffee.” When he was seated I asked him if he had ever heard of Pony Zole.
“I’ve heard of him,” he replied slowly.
“What about him?” “I left him afoot last night after he tried to kill me down near Barrel Spring. He’d robbed me and I was hunting him, but he found me asleep in the dark, and didn’t know who I was.
We had a tussle, and I lit out.
As far as I’m concerned, I’m riding to Colorado as soon as I’ve finished eating.” “I’ll keep an eye out for him, and you’d better, too. If he comes up Big Smoky he might get ahead of you that is, if he can lay hands on a horse.” When I left town at a good clip I headed east. Fifteen miles out I stopped for a breather, put my saddle on the grulla, and started again.
All three horses were good stock, mountain-bred and used to long stretches of travel. I wasted no time. I didn’t want to see Pony again, or so much as hear of him.
When I rode into Eureka it was a town ten or twelve years old, and there were eight or nine thousand people there, making a living from mining the lead and silver deposits.
As a town it was wild and woolly and hard to above the knees, with a hundred and twenty-five saloons and at least twenty gambling houses, all going full blast.
In the past ten years they’d taken about $30,000,000 in silver out of the ground, and a quarter of a miihon tons of lead. Everybody was making money, and most of them were spending it as fast as they made it.
Stabling the three horses, I got them a bait of oats as well as hay, and then leaving my gear with the hostler I went down the street to a restaurant.
At the long table where I helped myself to mashed potatoes, slabs of beef, and several spoons of beans, I ate and listened to the talk.