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"Wildfire made that track yesterday, before sun-up."
Thereupon Slone remounted and put Nagger to a trot. The pack-horse followed
with an alacrity that showed he had no desire for loneliness.
As straight as a bee-line Wildfire had left a trail down into the floor of the
valley. He had not stopped to graze, and he had not looked for water. Slone
had hoped to find a water-hole in one of the deep washes in the red earth, but
if there had been any water there Wildfire would have scented it. He had not
had a drink for three days that Slone knew of. And Nagger had not drunk for
forty hours. Slone had a canvas water-bag hanging over the pommel, but it was
a habit of his to deny himself, as far as possible, till his horse could drink
also. Like an Indian, Slone ate and drank but little.
It took four hours of steady trotting to reach the middle and bottom of that
wide, flat valley. A network of washes cut up the whole center of it, and they
were all as dry as bleached bone. To cross these Slone had only to keep
Wildfire's trail.


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