"
"When we get back we ought to round the cattle up and count."
"That's ther only way ter do it. I've got a pretty good eye fer a herd,
an' it's my idee thet we're losers here, an' that ther rustlers is
gittin' rich off'n us."
About noon Bud pulled in his horse, and examined the snowy ground
carefully.
He had struck a trail.
Winding across the prairie in a northeasterly direction was a broad
trail, the tracks of many cattle and horses.
"Here we are," said Bud. "Thar's whar some o' our cattle and several
ponies have passed."
He got down to the ground, and, stooping over the trail, regarded it
carefully.
Suddenly he straightened up.
"This is not an Injun trail," he said.
"It isn't?" asked Stella.
"No. Here are the tracks of cattle, an' on top of them those of horses
ridden by white men."
"How do you know they were not Indians?"
"Here's an impression o' a horseshoe, an' here's another o' a different
size. These were made by animiles ridden by white men."
"I can understand why you should know that they were white men's horses
because Indians do not shoe their ponies, but I'm blessed if I can see
how you know that white men were riding them."
"Easy enough. These horses were ridden straight. An Indian, in spite of
stories to the contrary, is not a good horseman.
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