It was just such vexatious delays as this which had kept them always a day's
ride or more behind their quarry, and Luck's hand trembled with nervous
irritability when he turned back and banded Applehead one of those small,
shrill police whistles whose sound carries so far, and which are much used by
motion-picture producers for the long-distance direction of scenes.
"I happened to have a couple in my pocket," he explained hurriedly. "You know
the signals, don't you? One long, two short will mean you've picked up the
trail. Three or more short, quick ones is an emergency call, for all hands to
come running."
"Well, they's one thing you want to keep in mind, Luck," Applehead urged from
his superior trail craft. "They might be sharp enough to ride in here a ways
and come out the same side they rode in at. Yuh want to hunt both sides as yuh
go up."
"Sure," said Luck, and hurried away up the arroyo with Pink, Big Medicine,
Andy and the Native Son at his heels, leading the two pack-horses that
belonged to their party. In the opposite direction went Applehead and the
others, their eyes upon the ground watching for the faintest sign of
hoofprints.
That blazing ball of torment, the sun, slid farther and farther down to the
skyline, tempering its heat with the cool promise of dusk.
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