The bare ledge told Blake nothing, but from a crevice nearby he picked out two long thirty-eight caliber rifle shells. He put them into his pocket and went over to scan the mesa from the top of his lookout crag. He could see no sign of the fugitive murderer. Down below the mesa side of the hill, however, he saw a man riding up the bank of Dry Fork, and recognized him as Knowles. Trained to alert observation by years of life on the range, the cowman had already perceived Blake. He wheeled aside and rode towards the hill when the engineer waved his hat and began to descend. The two met at the foot of the rugged slope. "Howdy, Mr. Blake," greeted the cowman, "I thought I'd just ride up to see how things are coming along." "Not so fast as they might, Mr. Knowles. We have stopped for repairs." "Haven't broken your level?" "No. Ashton is laid up for the day with a scalp wound. We were shot at this morning from up there--other side of the crest." "Shot at, and Lafe hit?" "Not seriously, though it could not well have been a closer shave. He says he will be all right by tomorrow," said Blake, and he gave the bald details of the occurrence in a few words. Knowles listened without comment, his leathery face stolid, but his eyes glinting. When Blake had finished, he remarked shortly: "Must be the same man. Let's see those shells." Blake handed over the two empty cartridge shells. "Thirty-eight," confirmed Knowles. "Same as were fired at Lafe before. Kid and Chuckie showed me how a thirty-eight fitted the hole in Lafe's silver flask. About where did the snake crawl down the hill?" "Not far from here. He could not have gone any considerable distance along the top or side. He was down and riding away when I reached the crags, and I had not lost much time coming up the other side." "It'll take an Indian to make out his tracks on this dry ground," remarked the cowman. "We'll try a look, though, at his hawss's hoof prints. Just keep behind, if you don't mind." He threw the reins over the head of his horse, and dismounted, to walk slowly along the more level ground at the foot of the slope. Blake followed, as he had requested, but scrutinizing the ground with a gaze no less keenly observant than that of his companion. "Mighty queer," said Knowles, after they had carried their examination over a hundred yards. "Either he came down more slanting or else--" "What do you make of this?" Blake interrupted, bending over a blurred round print in the dust between two grass tufts. "_Sho!_" exclaimed the cowman as he peered at the mark. "That's why, of course." "Indian shoes," said Blake. "You've seen a thing or two. You're no tenderfoot," remarked Knowles. "I have myself shrunk rawhide shoes on horses' hoofs when short of iron shoes," Blake explained. "This would make a hard trail to run down without hounds." The cowman straightened and looked at his companion, his weather-beaten face set in quiet resolve.