Westcott hurried over to where he stood motionless, staring down at the
track of a wagon-wheel. It had slid along a slight declivity, and left
a mark so deep as not yet to be obliterated. They traced it for thirty
feet before it entirely disappeared.
"Still goin' south," affirmed the marshal, gazing in that direction.
"Don't look like there's nothin' out there, but we might try--what do
you say?"
"I vote we keep moving; that wagon is bound to leave a trail here and
there, and so long as we get the general direction, we can't go far
wrong."
"I reckon you're right. Come on then; let's saddle up."
It was a blind trail, and progress was slow. The men separated, riding
back and forth, leaning forward in the saddles, scanning the sand for
the slightest sign. Again and again they were encouraged by some
discovery which proved they were on the right track--the clear print of
a horse's hoof; a bit of greasy paper which might have been tied round
a lunch, and thrown away; impresses in the sand which bore resemblance
to a man's footprints; a tin can, newly opened, and an emptied
tobacco-pouch.
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