Chapter 34
Clint yanked his hat off his head, slapped it against his thigh twice, then stuffed it back on. "That's the fourth time we've followed tracks that went nowhere. Where'd that slime-sucker go?"
Max peered around him at the tracks. "I don't understand how he could have evaded us again. He was never that cunning."
"There's a box canyon over the next rise. We should look there," Pete said.
Clint led the men to the top of the ridge, but when he summited, he reined in hard at what he saw.
Max stood in his stirrups beside him. "What in the world—"
Clint let out a string of curses. "That scoundrel's been stealing from us!"
"I count about two dozen head of our best Herefords," Pete said.
"He must've been gleaning a little at a time, since we haven't missed them," Clint said. "And, it's a good guess he didn't do it alone." His temples throbbed in beat with his drumming heart.
"Darrell and Randy?" Pete asked.
Clint gave a curt nod. He reined his gelding onto a narrow trail. "You two set up camp in that clearing we saw back a piece. I'll go take a look." He suspected the three men, but couldn't take the chance there may be more. "Max, give me your revolver."
"Clint . . ." Max rode up where they were knee to knee as he handed Clint the gun.
Clint checked the cylinder for bullets, snapped it shut, then looked up.
Max leaned over, squeezed his shoulder. "Don't be a hero."