![]() ![]() “What’s that?” Dirk Ramey loosed a stream of tobacco juice. “ The Ninth marched out with splendid cheer,” Bose sang to himself, a bit of a nervous habit. The covering still appeared new, but there were no signs of any of their horses. It slumped to one side, wheels busted, like a hobbled steer. He ignored their grumblings until he found the wagon they were meant to find. The other cowhands lingered a few lengths behind him, more than a mite cranky-fueled by their rumbling stomachs-but Bose couldn’t be both cook and tracker at the same time. ![]() More than once, Bose feared that the man might lurk in the brush, hiding in the draws and canyons. Whoever he tracked could’ve traveled through thickets so dense that neither man nor horse could see for more than a few yards at a time. He’d followed the tracks across the plains for quite some time. The noon sun beat on him like a whip in a heavy hand.
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