He held his breath, listening.
Once again he heard that cracking of hoofs—and this time he knew them for cloven hoofs. A cattle-brute was coming up the trail toward him. There was nothing in that fact to cause undue excitement—except one thing.
Under ordinary conditions that steer would be lying in some snug glade chewing its cud. In no natural case would it be coming up a trail at a smart pace—with a horse behind it!
And there was a horse behind it.
Selwood heard now distinctly the quieter step of a saddle horse.
He leaned forward, gripping his own mount’s nose, and strained his eyes in the illusive half-light. Presently he saw what he knew he would see—a rider, driving one lone steer up the trail to Sky Line.
It was too dark to see anything else—who the man was, or what manner of steer he drove, or what horse he rode.
And though he waited till the cooler breath of the night warned him of coming day he saw nothing more.
He spent half the next day at Cordova, listening, but though several cattlemen came in there was nothing said of a loss among them.
But the day after old man Conlan was in and fit for durance.