Tilghman kept the sun between himself and the hoofprints. The trail angled across the plains, the direction east by southeast. He looked for the change of color caused when the dry surface of the earth is disturbed to expose a moister, lower surface. Heat increased the rate at which tracks age, and the sun had been out now for more than a hour. The under-surface of the prints, he noted, was almost restored to the normal color of the ground. All the sign indicated that Doolin was slightly more than two hours ahead.
The tracks took on an irregular zigzag pattern through streams and timbered woods. Whenever possible, Doolin chose rocky terrain or ground baked hard by the summer sun. He clearly suspected he was being pursued, and he’d resorted to evasive tactics. Yet his general direction never deviated, even though he had elected to take a winding route. He was headed for a sanctuary somewhere in the Nations.
By midday, the lawmen had covered better than ten miles. A good part of the time Tilghman was forced to dismount and conduct the search on foot. At several points, particularly on hard ground, the hoofprints simply disappeared. He then had to rely on pebbles and twigs dislodged as horse and rider had passed that way. The direction in which the ground was disturbed, invisible except to a veteran tracker, indicated the line of travel. Slowly, sometimes step by step, he clung to the trail.
Shortly after noonday Tilghman located a troubling sign. Upon crossing the Cimarron, he discovered that Doolin had stopped to watch his backtrail. The spot was located at a bend in the river where a stand of trees bordered the shoreline. Hidden behind the trees, Doolin had dismounted and waited, with an open field of fire across the width of the Cimarron. From there, with a lever-action rifle, he could have ended the chase. Or at the very least, discouraged further pursuit.
On foot, Tilghman inspected the spot. Farther into the trees he found where Doolin had tied his horse sometime before midday. The prints were deep and clear, the ground thoroughly scuffled, indicating a wait of close to an hour. Nearer the river bank, screened by the treeline, he saw where Doolin had selected a vantage point with a field of fire covering the stream and the opposite shoreline. Imprints of his boots were recorded in the soft earth beneath the trees.
“Doolin’s tricky,” Tilghman said. “Glad we didn’t ford the river an hour ago.”
Thomas was still mounted. He’d halted on the river bank and watched the search from a distance. “Hope you’re jokin’,” he replied. “The bastard was gonna bushwhack us?”
“Way I figure it, he would’ve waited till we were in the middle of the river. Then he’d have cut loose.”
“And us stuck out there like sitting ducks. No place to run, no place to take cover.”
“Heck, I just suspect we would’ve been dead ducks. Wouldn’t have taken more than two shots.”
“Goddammit!” Thomas exploded. “If he tried it here, he’s liable to try it somewheres up ahead. We’re gonna have to keep a sharp lookout.”
“No argument there.” Tilghman walked back to his horse, stepped into the saddle. “Maybe he didn’t get us, but he sure as hell slowed us down. Told you he was tricky.”
“What I wouldn’t give to get that sonovabitch in my sights.”
“Count your lucky stars, Heck. An hour ago he would’ve had us in his sights.”
Tilghman led the way. He started at the tree where Doolin had tied his horse and began tracking from there. Yet another element, the prospect of an ambush, had entered into the chase. They both kept a wary eye on the terrain ahead as they moved off through the woods. The hunters, in no small sense, had now become the hunted.
Late that afternoon, Tilghman reined to an abrupt halt. Before him lay a wide stretch of rocky terrain bordering the Cimarron. Not far ahead he spotted sign where Doolin had crossed the river onto soft ground along the opposite bank. A short distance beyond that point the sun had baked the upper shoreline as hard as brick. There, as though Doolin’s horse had taken wings, the tracks disappeared.
By sundown, Tilghman had walked the ground a mile in each direction on both sides of the river. There were no tracks, no upturned pebbles, no disturbed vegetation. Finally, with a grudging sense of admiration, he ended the search. Doolin had once again outfoxed them.
CHAPTER 20
The moon stood like a mallow globe in a starlit sky. Where they’d lost the trail, they made camp along the banks of the Cimarron. Their horses were hobbled, grazing on a nearby patch of grass. The swift rush of water was the only sound in the night.
Their supper consisted of hardtack, jerky, and thick black coffee. Seated around the fire, they stared into the flames, their mood at a low ebb. The chase, ending in yet another stalemate, had left them withdrawn and thoughtful. Neither of them had spoken in a long while.
Thomas cracked a twig, tossed it into the fire. He rubbed his whiskery jaw, suddenly restless with the silence, and finally broached the subject that had them both disturbed. “How you reckon he ditched us?”
“Wish I knew,” Tilghman said dully. “Just a guess, but he might’ve doubled back on that hard ground and taken to the river. He could stick to the shallows a long ways downstream.”
“We could ride both banks in the mornin’. Might just turn up some sign.”
“I’d seriously doubt it. Doolin’s slicker than I thought.”
“You mean the way he gave us the slip?”
Tilghman knuckled his mustache. “Wherever he learned it, he knows every trick in the bag. Probably took lessons from his Indian friends.”
“I hear you right,” Thomas observed, “you’re sayin’
