CHAPTER TEN
From his saddle, Sterling Roose watched as Brown Owl, on hands and knees, studied the land. For all his years of riding with the Army, tracking down renegades and Comanche war-parties, Roose had never developed such a high level of skill as Cole and Brown Owl demonstrated. They were masters of their art, Cole especially. He could tell an escapee’s direction from a single broken blade of grass. Now, watching Brown Owl, he was filled with the same sense of wonder as the scout stood, dusting off his buckskin trousers. “They ride fast, but here,” he waved his hand over a broken up piece of hard, dry ground, “another is behind them. Not so fast. Perhaps his horse is old, or he is sick, maybe wounded.”
“That would tie in with what happened back at the bank. The one who escaped thro
