Late that afternoon and close to the edge of the foothills, Cheyenne
lost the tracks. He spent over an hour finding them again. Bartley could
discern nothing definite, even when Cheyenne pointed to a queer, blurred
patch in some loose earth.

"It looks like the imprint of some coarse cloth," said Bartley.

"Gunnysack. They pulled the shoes off my hosses and sacked their feet."

"How about their own horses?"

"They been ridin' hard ground, and the tracks don't show, plain.
Panhandle figured, when I seen that only the tracks of three horses
showed, I'd think he had turned my hosses loose on the big mesa. He
stops, pulls their shoes, sacks their feet, and leads 'em over there.
Whoever done it was afoot, and steppin' careful. Hell, I could learn
that yella-bellied hoss-thief how to steal hosses right, if I was in the
business."

"Looks like a pretty stiff drill up those hills," remarked Bartley.

"That's why he turned, right here. 'Tain't just the stealin' of my
hosses that's interestin' him. He's takin' trouble to run a whizzer on
me--get me guessin'. Here is where we quit trailin' him. I got my plan
workin' like a hen draggin' fence rails. We ain't goin' to trail
Panhandle. We're goin' to ride 'round and meet him."

"Not a bad idea," said Bartley.