CHAPTER IX
FOUR MOUNTED MEN AND A PACKHORSETwenty-four hours later, four mounted men, leading a packed horse, rode slowly through the brushy, broken hills near the border. They traveled in single file, the front rider leading the pack animal, with no sound except the soft creak of leather, or the faint rip of brush against boot and chap.
The feet of the horses were muffled with sacking, which left no tracks and also deadened their footfalls. It was as if a phantom caravan passed through the dimly lighted hills. There was no trail, but the leader picked his way unerringly, heading for the dark mass of hills to the north, which separated them from Hawk Hole.
Somewhere a coyote sent up his plaintive cry, an eery sound in the silent hills. To the left of the leader a stick snapped and he je
