Remember that and do
not imagine that I am trying to take you back into the untamed days of the
pioneers.
Luck and the Happy Family--so well had the squaws done their work--passed
unsuspectingly over the wiped-out trail, circled at fault on the far side of
the rocky gulch for an hour or so and then found the false trail just as the
Indian decoys had intended that they should do. And from a farther flat topped
ridge a group of Indians with Dutch hair-cuts and Stetson hats and moccasins
(the two hall-marks of two races) watched them take the false trail, and
looked at one another and grinned sourly.
The false trail forked, showing that the six had separated into two parties of
three riders, each aiming to pass--so the hoofprints would lead one to
believe--around the two ends of a lone hill that sat squarely down on the mesa
like a stone treasure chest dropped there by the gods when the world was
young.
The Happy Family drew rein and eyed the parting of the ways dubiously.
"Wonder what they did that for?" Andy Green grumbled, mopping his red face
irritatedly. "We've got trouble enough without having them split up on us."
"From the looks, I should say we're overhauling the bunch," Luck hazarded.
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