It proved surprisingly easy to pick up the tracks. Perhaps too easy. The three chosen men in his squad chewed on grass, breathed hard, and waited with a distinct lack of patience as Cole, down on his knees, studied the ground.
“Cole, they is close,” said one of the men, crossing his leg to rest behind the saddle pommel as he rolled himself a cigarette. “All we need do is swing wide and fast, come at them from the flank, and blow them the hell away.”
“That’s right, Cole,” said another. “What in the hell are we waitin’ for?”
“Christmas,” said the third, and they all laughed.
Standing up, Cole fixed his gaze at the distant horizon. “Something’s not right.”
“Ah, damn it, Cole,” said the one with the cigarette. He lit it, drew in a lungful of smoke, “it’s as easy as easy is.”
“That’s just
