place. God knows where he is by now!"

But just as we were about to return to the ranch house we were arrested
by a shout from one of the cowboys who had been projecting around the
neighbourhood. He came running to us. In his hand he held a blade of
_sacatone_ on which he pointed out a single dark spot about the size of
the head of a pin. Buck seized it and examined it closely.

"Blood, all right," he said at last. "Where did you get this, son?"

The man, a Chiracahua hand named Curley something-or-other, indicated a
_sacatone_ bottom a hundred yards to the west.

"You got good eyes, son," Buck complimented him. "Think you can make out
the trail?"

"Do'no," said Curley. "Used to do a considerable of tracking."

"Horses!" commanded Buck.

We followed Curley afoot while several men went to saddle up. On the
edge of the two-foot jump-off we grouped ourselves waiting while Curley,
his brows knit tensely, quartered here and there like a setter dog. He
was a good trailer, you could see that in a minute. He went at it right.
After quite a spell he picked up a rock and came back to show it. I
should never have noticed anything--merely another tiny black spot among
other spots--but Buck nodded instantly he saw it.

"It's about ten rods west of whar I found the grass," said Curley.
"Looks like he's headed for that water in Cockeye Basin. From thar he