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"Well s**t," Hap said. He and Scout were on the ground, looking at a third set of tracks.
“You think it’s the Indian?” I asked.
“Only one not accounted for,” Hap said.
“Could be someone we don’t even know,” I suggested. “Could be some Comanche that got lost from the group.
“No,” Scout said, spitting into the dirt. Spitting into the dirt in disgust was a trait he had clearly inherited from Frank.
“Our horses need rest,” Hap said.
“There’s a creek about a half hour from here on the other side of this ridge,” Scout said.
Hap shook his head. “We stay on the tracks. The horses will just have to manage for now. I don’t like this.”
