He saw how a rabbit had scurried,
running hard, for the prints of the hind feet planted far ahead of those on
the forepaws. There was reason in her haste, for here the pads of a racing
coyote had dug deeply into a bit of soft ground. The sign of both rabbit
and coyote veered suddenly, and again the trail told the reason clearly--
the big print of a lobo's paw, that gray ghost which haunts the ranges with
the wisest brain and the swiftest feet in the West. Vic Gregg grinned with
excitement; fifty dollars' bounty if that scalp were his! But the story of
the trail called him back with the sign of some small animal which must
have traveled very slowly, for in spite of the tiny size of the prints,
each was distinct. The man sniffed with instinctive aversion and distrust
for this was the trail of the skunk, and if the last of the seven sleepers
was out, it was spring indeed. He raised his cudgel and thwacked the burro
joyously.
"Get on, Marne," he cried. "We're overdue in Alder."
Marne switched her tail impatiently and canted back a long ear to listen,
but she did not increase her pace; for Marne had only one gait, and if Vic
occasionally thumped her, it was rather by way of conversation than in any
hope of hurrying their journey.
Pages:
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32