to get rid of the loot soon as they can. Oh, hell!"

Dillon's disgust proved justifiable, for the trail had lost
itself in a mountain stream, up or down which the outlaws must
have filed. A month later and the creek would have been dry. But
it was still spring. The mountain rains had not ceased feeding
the brook, and of this the outlaws had taken advantage to wipe
out their trail.

The sheriff looked anxiously at the sky. "It's fixin' to rain,
Jim. Don't that beat the Dutch? If it does, that lets us out
plenty."

The men they were after might have gone either upstream or down.
It was impossible to know definitely which, nor was there time to
follow both. Already big drops of rain were splashing down.

"We'll take a chance, and go up. They're probably up in the hills
somewhere right now," said Collins, with characteristic decision.

He had guessed right. A mile farther upstream horses had
clambered to the bank and struck deeper into the hills. But
already rain was falling in a brisk shower. The posse had not
gone another quarter of a mile before the trail was washed out.
They were now in a rough and rocky country getting every minute
steeper.

"It's going to be like lookin' for a needle in a haystack, Val,"
Dillon growled.