Аннотация
Brady crouched on one knee and frowned, squinting at the smudged and dusty tracks. His eyes lifted slowly, following the sign forward along the ground, and kept on lifting, sweeping the hot yellow-gray rock spires of yonder hills. A hot breath of wind carried gritty dust across his flesh. He turned back to his horse, gathered the reins and swung up to the saddle, at the same time calling across the flats: "Over here, Rubio."
Pete Rubio, scouting the ground for tracks, trotted his horse across the hardpan to stop by him. Brady pointed upward into the hills. "He's gone up there. About an hour ahead of us, as near as I can make out."
"We're gaining on him, then," Rubio said. He settled his squat frame back, stretching bare brown legs against the stirrups, pulling his shoulders together under the faded blue army blouse. The shirttails hung down over his breechclout; a seamed leather belt supported knife and revolver and medicin...
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