“Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell.  “Florence, you jest hit the nail on the haid.  Cowboys are all plumb flirts.  I was wonderin’ why them boys nooned hyar.  This ain’t no place to noon.  Ain’t no grazin’ or wood wuth burnin’ or nuthin’.  Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs, an’ waited fer us.  It ain’t so surprisin’ fer Booly an’ Ned—­they’re young an’ coltish—­but Nels there, why, he’s old enough to be the paw of both you girls.  It sure is amazin’ strange.”

A silence ensued.  The white-haired cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over the camp-fire, and then straightened up with a very red face.

“Bill, you’re a dog-gone liar,” he said.  “I reckon I won’t stand to be classed with Booly an’ Ned.  There ain’t no cowboy on this range thet’s more appreciatin’ of the ladies than me, but I shore ain’t ridin’ out of my way.  I reckon I hev enough ridin’ to do.  Now, Bill, if you’ve sich dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’ on the way out?”

“Nels, I hevn’t seen nothin’,” he replied, bluntly.  His levity disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed round his searching eyes.

“Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks,” said Nels, and he drew Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large hoofprints in the dust.  “I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?”

“Gene Stewart’s roan, or I’m a son-of-a-gun!” exclaimed Stillwell, and he dropped heavily to his knees and began to scrutinize the tracks.  “My eyes are sure pore; but, Nels, they ain’t fresh.”

“I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday mornin’.”

“Wal, what if they was?” Stillwell looked at his cowboy.  “It’s sure as thet red nose of yourn Gene wasn’t ridin’ the roan.”

“Who’s sayin’ he was?  Bill, its more ‘n your eyes thet’s gettin’ old.  Jest foller them tracks.  Come on.”

Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering to himself.  Some thirty paces or more from the camp-fire he stopped short and again flopped to his knees.  Then he crawled about, evidently examining horse tracks.

“Nels, whoever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met somebody.  An’ they hauled up a bit, but didn’t git down.”

“Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin’,” replied the cowboy.

Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for some rods, halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced his steps.  He looked at the imperturbable cowboy.

“Nels, I don’t like this a little,” he growled.  “Them tracks make straight fer the Peloncillo trail.”

“Shore,” replied Nels.

“Wal?” went on Stillwell, impatiently.

“I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?”

“I’m thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure”

“It was Danny Mains’s bronc.”

“How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply.  “Bill, the left front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked.  Any of the boys can tell you.  I’d know thet track if I was blind.”